Part 31

Suddenly, the calmness is broken by the firing of muskets without, attended by the hideous yells of savages. They are near the entrance, and sure of making good their way into the fort, they make a demonstration of joy. Consternation seizes the inmates. The rushing tramp of the approaching assailants is now heard, and as a squad rushes to take its place in the gateway, the Indians are in full view, only a few yards away. Before Beasley could rally his men, a few Indians have rushed through the gate. The advance of the Indians is shot down, and the voice of Beasley is heard calling to his men to rally at the gate. They seek to close it, but the Indians are now coming rapidly on, and every one is needed to keep them back. If the narrow passage of the gate limits the entrance of the savages, it also hampers the defense of the garrison. A solid mass of savages, half naked and with the glitter of fury in the eyes of each, jam in closeness to force the passage. The defenders in desperation shoot them down, or stab them, one by one with their bayonets. There is no time for order, and confusion is complete. At the gate, it is a hand to hand fight, as officers give orders, and the Indians yell like demons, and press with might to force the entrance. Within the fort, women are shrieking, and children crying in wild confusion. Only the advance of the Indians has as yet appeared, the others approaching in order on the run, under the leadership of Weatherford. Piles of dead bodies, Indians and white, already fill the gateway.

Major Beasley stands at the head of his men, faces the savages, and fights like a demon. He cheers his men, while he bravely leads. He is courage to the core, and every man is doing his utmost. Inspired by the pluck of the men, the women rush to the rescue. Beasley falls, shot through his body. Lying prostrate in the passage, his life ebbing rapidly away, as he sinks in death, he appeals to his men. A brave lieutenant takes his place, is soon covered with blood from his own wounds, but fights on, and from sheer loss of strength, reels and falls. Two brave women rush up, drag his body from the pile of dead, bear it back, give him water, and suddenly he rises, staggers to the gate, and renews the fight. After a half hour's fighting, the gate is closed just as Weatherford appears with eight hundred fresh warriors. Excluded from the gate, the Indians under Weatherford, begin to cut down the pickets about the fort, and as holes are made through the pickets, the firing is continued. The advantage is now on the side of the savages. Blow on blow finally brings down a portion of the walls, and like an overflowing flood the yelling demons rush within. Outside, the dry walls and pickets are set on fire by the savages, the roofs are soon aflame, while the work of destruction goes speedily on. On their knees, women plead for life, while they clasp their children close to them, but they are slain and scalped on the spot. Neither age nor sex is spared. Of the five hundred and fifty within the fort, only a few negroes and half breeds are permitted to live.

In a corner of the fort is seen an Indian holding at bay his companions who are seeking to reach a group of half breeds huddled together, a mother and her children. The Indian defender strikes down any who attempt to reach them. The explanation of this strange scene will appear in the next article. Besides these thus rescued, only nine out of the entire number within the fort are spared. Of the thousand savages who assaulted the fort three hundred and fifty were killed.

It has been said that Weatherford sought to restrain his warriors from the wanton bloodshed, but on the contrary, he was in the thick of the fray, dealing the deadliest blows, and by his example, inspiring his men to the utmost destruction. Than Weatherford, the whites never had a more relentless and bloodthirsty foe. His purpose was the extinction of the whites, and in this, his first battle, he would teach them a lesson of savage warfare that would remind them of that against which they had to contend. He was as merciless a demon as was to be found among the men of the forest. In after years, when Weatherford saw that his cause was lost, and when he surrendered to General Jackson, and went to the lower part of Monroe to live, there was an effort made to create the impression of his proposed gentleness at Fort Mims, but it is utterly without foundation.

The horror of the dreadful scene was added to by the devouring flames. The roofs and the walls falling in on the dead, they were scorched or burned in one common heap, and Weatherford, though he afterward became a good citizen in the same region, gloated over the murderous desolation thus wrought. His delight was fiendish, his glut of revenge was ominous. This was Weatherford on August 12, 1812.

The news of the horrible massacre spread dismay everywhere. It sounded the note of extinction of one or the other of the Indian or white races. Dismay gave place to revenge, and everywhere men flew to arms. From that time forth the battle cry of the whites was, "Remember Fort Mims." From the north marched Jackson from Tennessee, and from the west came Claiborne with his Mississippi militia. Weatherford had raised a storm which he would never be able to quell.

INDIAN GRATITUDE

From the general estimate of Indian character, one would be slow to believe the savage capable of gratitude, but even with the Indian, instances of this virtue are not altogether wanting, one among which was displayed at the horrible massacre of Fort Mims. Of the seventeen who escaped death from that tragedy of blood and fire, was a mother and her eight children.

That they should have been found together by a certain Indian warrior, who was enabled to give full expression to his gratitude, was providential. The story is well worthy a place in our annals. Years before this terrible holocaust at Fort Mims, an Indian boy, an outcast and an orphan, in his friendless wandering, found his way to the home of a Scotchman in the wilds of South Alabama, whose name was McGirth, who had married a half-breed. Touched by the condition of the off-cast Indian waif, the good Mrs. McGirth not only fed and clad him, but took him into the home, cared for him, and reared him as her own son. The Indian boy, Sonata, grew to manhood beneath the McGirth roof, and shared in common with the children of the family, the moderate comforts of the frontier home.

After Sonata became a man, he took leave of the home, and joined himself to the Creek tribe of which he was a member. The McGirths lost sight of Sonata, Sonata of his benefactors. Years with their changes came and went, and Sonata was in the upper counties with his people.

When the war began, he was one of the braves who enlisted under Weatherford in the campaign of extermination which led to the slaughter at Fort Mims. He was among the foremost to enter the ill-fated fort, and do deadly execution. In his death-dealing blows, Sonata came suddenly on a woman, somewhat advanced in life, behind whom crouched a number of children. With upraised hands, she pleaded, as did all others, that she and hers might be spared. In the wild tide of death, while the slaughter was at its height, the uplifted hand of Sonata was suddenly stayed. There was something in the voice of the pleading woman that was familiar to the ear of the savage, and his tomahawk was arrested in mid-air. He looked into her face, and while the woman did not recognize him, he did her, and in the excitement of the carnage that was rampant, he dropped his tomahawk and led the woman and her children to a corner of the fort, and took a position of defense in their behalf. Again and again, efforts were made to reach them, but he stood sentinel over the group, and suffered not a hair of their heads to be touched, claiming that they were his slaves, and must not be disturbed. It was his foster mother, Mrs. McGirth.

It so happened that when the alarm was first given to the settlements to repair to the fort, Mr. McGirth was away from home, in another part of the country on business, for he was a trader, and did not return till after the slaughter at the fort. When the horrors of the massacre were over, Sonata mounted his prisoners on horseback and sped them away to his home far up on the Coosa. He feared that should they remain in the neighborhood of the fort, even in the camp of the Indians, he would be unable to restrain the ferocity of the savages, hence their flight to the upper country. Nor did the grateful protege leave his former foster mother and her group, till he saw them comfortable in his own wigwam beside the Coosa. This done, and he hurried back to rejoin his command. When hostilities in the South partly subsided, Sonata sought again his home to see that Mrs. McGirth was cared for.

The seat of war was transferred from the south to the upper counties, and Weatherford was preparing to encounter General Jackson, who was descending from Tennessee to destroy Weatherford and his command. Sonata had been at home for some time, and when he felt that it was his duty to re-enlist against Jackson, he arranged for the flight of Mrs. McGirth and her children, should he fall in battle.

In the bloody conflict of Cholocco Litabixee, where a thousand painted warriors met Jackson in battle, only two hundred survived. Among the slain was the grateful Sonata, the news of whose death reaching Mrs. McGirth, she hastened with her family to the south. All who had previously known her, thought of her only as dead, among whom was her broken-hearted husband, who had long ago given up his family as among those who had perished at Fort Mims. He had settled at Mobile a sad and broken-hearted man, and sought diversion of his sorrow in business. One day, while he was laboring on the wharf at Mobile, there was suddenly ushered into his presence his entire group, still unbroken. He stared at them as though they had strayed from the land of the dead. He stood fixed like a statue, with his face as expressionless as the surface of a lake. He was dumb. This was followed by a nervousness that made him shake as with an ague. He stared till he realized the truth of their deliverance, when he burst into uncontrollable weeping, and wept till he no more had power to weep.

The story following his return to Mobile after the massacre was a sad one. He had gone immediately to the scene of the slaughter, hoping to recognize his loved ones and give them decent burial, but flames had disfigured the faces of all, now lying charred and blackened in death, and the utmost he could do, was to aid in the burial of all, presuming that among them somewhere, were his own loved ones.

To the rescued Mrs. McGirth is history largely indebted for a detailed description of the scenes enacted at Fort Mims. Though an uneducated woman, she was endowed with a remarkable fund of common sense, and without extravagance, gave the fullest account of the dreadful slaughter. Her kindness to the poor Indian boy saved her in the direst extremity of her life. "Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days."

THE CANOE FIGHT

The Indian was as thoroughly skilled in the use of the oar on the larger streams and inland bays, as he was with the tomahawk, the scalping knife, and the bow. It is believed that the name of one of the Alabama tribes was derived from their adroit use of the oar. In his Creek Migration Legend, Gatschat suggested that Mobilian means "paddling." Certain it is that the early settlers found the Indian an adept in the use of the skiff or canoe.

The faculty with which the Indian could direct his canoe, and the dexterity with which he could divert it suddenly from a given course, was wonderful. He had studied with the utmost accuracy the force or swiftness of the current of a given stream, and could calculate at a glance any point at which he would arrive on the opposite side, when starting from the side of departure. On the land, the whites were generally at an advantage in a contention with the Indians, but on the water the Indians generally excelled.

The bloody massacre at Fort Mims had created a spirit of recklessness on the part of the whites. The warfare was turned into a species of hunting expeditions, and the regions were scoured as though in search of wild beasts. The massacre had put fire into the bones of the whites, and a prolonged revenge was the result. Thereafter they never waited for an Indian to advance, they simply wished to know where the savages could be found. The Indians made no use of the fertile soils save for hunting, and when the whites sought to till them and turn them to practical use, seeking meanwhile to preserve peaceful relations with the red men, the Indians sought their destruction. The morality of the question of depriving the Indian of his possessions turned on this point, and not on that of deliberate robbery, as is so often contended. The white settlers sought to buy the lands for agricultural purposes, but the Indian wanted the virgin forests to remain untouched that he might hunt. Since the red men had raised the cry of extermination, with Weatherford in the lead, and since they had shown at Fort Mims that nothing short of utter extinction was sought, the whites accepted the issue, and under conditions like these the conflict raged. This condition converted every white man into a soldier, a patriot, an exterminator.

Among the most daring and intrepid of Indian fighters, in those early days, was Gen. Sam Dale. A giant in size and in strength, as fearless as a lion, and familiar with the stratagem of the Indian, no one did more valiant service in those early days of Indian warfare than he. More than any other white man, the Indians dreaded Dale, whom they called "Big Sam." His known presence on any occasion would produce among the Indians consternation.

While on a scouting expedition along the banks of the Alabama, Dale discovered a canoe descending the stream with eleven stalwart warriors. Seeing that they were making for a dense canebrake, Dale ordered his men to follow him quickly, and seven reached the canebrake just as the savages were about to land. Dale and his men opened fire on them, but overshot them, when two of the Indians sprang into the water. As they rose, Dale killed one, and Smith the other. The remaining nine began to back the boat so as to reach the current, and escape, three using the oars, while the others lay flat on the bottom of the boat. It seems that Weatherford was within hailing distance, for one of the warriors shouted to him to come to their aid. In order to facilitate the movement of the boat, one of the warriors had jumped overboard, and was directing it toward the current, and as he stood breast deep in the water, he shouted to Dale in derision to shoot, meanwhile baring his bosom. Dale fired and crushed his skull. Soon the boat was well in the current, and was moving down stream.

Being on the side of the river opposite that on which his boats were, Dale called across the river to his men to bring the boats. Six sprang into a boat and started toward Dale, but when they got near enough to see that the canoe was filled with savages lying flat, they sped back. Just below was a free negro named Caesar, with a boat and gun, and Dale shouted to him to bring his boat, and when the negro declined, Dale yelled to him that unless he should come at once, he would cross the river and kill him, when Caesar crossed a hundred yards below the canoe of the Indians. Dale and two of his men sprang into it, and Caesar was ordered to head off the boat of the Indians.

So soon as the boats touched, Dale sprang up and placing one of his feet in each boat, the nearest warrior leveled his gun at him, but it flashed. Quickly clubbing it, he dealt a blow at Dale's head, he dodged, and shivered the head of the Indian with his gun. Austill sprang up, but was knocked down by an Indian, who in a moment more would have killed him, but Dale broke his gun across the warrior's head. Austill grasped the barrel, and renewed the onset. Dale being without a gun, Caesar handed to him his gun with a bayonet attached. The boats drifting apart, Dale leaped into the Indian boat alone, while the other bore away. Smith fired and wounded the Indian nearest Dale, who was now standing like a monument in the boat of the Indians, two of whom lay dead at his feet. At his back the wounded savage snapped his gun at Dale several times, while four powerful warriors were in front. Too close to shoot, the foremost one dealt a blow with his gun at Dale, who parried it with his gun, and then drove the bayonet through him. The next made an onset, but was killed by Austill. The third came, but was thrust through with the bayonet. The last was a giant wrestler, well known to Dale, and as he strided over the prostrate bodies of his companions, he yelled: "Big Sam, I am a man--I am coming--come on!"

With this, the big athlete sprang forward, clubbing Dale with his heavy musket. He struck Dale's shoulder with such violence as to dislocate it, when Dale buried the bayonet into his body. It glanced around the ribs and stuck fast into his backbone. Dale held him down while he was struggling to recover, and when Dale jerked it out, he leaped to his feet and with a wild yell sprang furiously at the big white man, but Dale was ready with the bayonet which he drove through his heart. Within ten minutes eleven Indians had been killed, six of whom died by the hands of Dale.

A LEAP FOR LIFE

There is no more ambitious purpose in this series of unpretentious sketches than to present the striking events, or those of more than ordinary humdrum, that dot the rich history of our state. The sketches are mere snatches, severed here and there, from historical connection only in so far as that connection serves to give a proper setting. Though several articles are devoted to the eventful career of Red Eagle, there is no attempt made here or elsewhere in the series to follow his dashing life, as the idol of his dusky hosts, throughout, but as they are presented, proper regard is had for the chronology of events.

The advent of General Jackson on the scene in Alabama, took Weatherford back to the central region of the state to dispute his advancement. Untrained as Weatherford was in the science of war, he knew it instinctively, as does any other natural military man. He had all the elements of a great soldier, else he could not have withstood so long the forces of his formidable adversaries. His territory was exposed from every quarter, and in order to meet the odds coming against him from Mississippi and Tennessee, he had to concentrate his forces, not only, but had to accumulate supplies with which to support his army on the field.

Weatherford was not slow to realize that to fight organized forces under competent and skilled commanders, demanded more than a desultory warfare on his part, hence he set to work for a long and arduous campaign. The success at Fort Mims, where with unusual skill Weatherford directed the campaign, and outgeneraled all the white commanders, made him the one great chief of the Indians. Under similar conditions, this would have been true of any people and of any man. He was still the Red Eagle, but to that was added by his adoring followers the designation of Tustenuggee, or mighty chief. While the vain warrior was inflated by the adulation of his followers, he knew the feebleness of his numbers and the scantiness of his resources. Because of these conditions, and because he was hailed chief, he appreciated what it meant in its application to him in his difficult condition. For the first time, he was to lead his untrained warriors against drilled troops. It was native valor against courage and skill, native strategy against scientific tactics, the war of the savage against that of the civilized white man.

Within a month, four battles were fought--Tallahatchee, Talladega, Hillabee and Autossee--all fought in November, 1813, one hundred years ago. At Echanachaca, or Holy Ground, were concentrated Weatherford's supplies, and the women and children of his tribe. This point was located on the south bank of the Alabama, between Pintlalla and Big Swamp Creek, in the present region of Lowndes County. To the Indian, the Holy Ground was that which Jerusalem was to the ancient tribes of Israel. In this sylvan retreat, dwelt their chief prophets who had drawn a circle about it, and the deluded savage was persuaded to believe that for a white man to plant his foot on this consecrated ground, would mean instant death.

The Holy Ground was surrounded by a region of loveliness. For seven months in the year the virgin soil of the prairie was carpeted with luxuriant grasses, dashed here and there with patches of pink and crimson bloom, while the wild red strawberry, in occasional beds of native loveliness, lent additional charm. Enclosed by high pickets rudely riven by savage hands, and girdled by the magic circle of the prophets, the Holy Ground was thought to be impregnable. Here Weatherford was attacked by General Claiborne at the head of the Mississippi militia, on December 23, 1813, the day before Christmas eve. To Claiborne's command was attached a body of friendly Choctaw Indians under Pushmataha.

General Claiborne began the attack with a storm. Weatherford led his troops with consummate skill and unquestioned courage, but to little effect. The fact that he, the notorious leader at Fort Mims, was in command, whetted the desire of the Mississippians not alone to defeat him, but to capture him. In spite of the false security promised the Indian by their prophets, and in spite of the valor of their idol chief, they melted rapidly before the deadly aim of the Mississippi backwoodsmen. Seeing that the battle would be against him, Weatherford with skill worthy any great commander, slipped the women and children across the Alabama, while he still fought with ability, and while his men were piled around him in heaps, he fought to the bitter end, and was the last to quit the field. When all hope was gone, he mounted his noble charger and sped away like an arrow towards the Alabama River.

He was hotly pursued by a detachment of dragoons, who almost surrounded the chieftain before he fled the field. Down the wide path leading toward the river, the hoofs of the horses of the pursued and the pursuers thundered. There was no hope of escape for Weatherford, but to reach the river in advance, and swim across. Hemmed in on every side, he was forced to a summit overlooking the stream at the height of almost one hundred feet of perpendicular bluff. On the precipice the bold leader halted for a moment, like a monument against the distant sky. Splendidly he sat his horse, as his pursuers thundered toward him, and with taunting shouts called to him that he was caught at last. He coolly raised his rifle to his eye, and brought down the foremost horseman, then slowly turning down a deep defile which no one would dare to tread, he slid his horse down the stony surface which broke abruptly off about fifty feet above the river. Putting spurs to the sides of the beautiful animal, it leaped with its brave rider on its back into the seething current below. Just before the water was reached, Weatherford leaped from the horse's back. The horse went down to rise no more, while Weatherford, still holding his rifle aloft, with one hand, swam to the opposite side and thus escaped with deeper vengeance against the white man than ever before. He was yet to lead his troops in other battles, and to fight while there was hope of success.