THE BLOW AT TALLUSHATCHEE
Some few miles from the Creek town Colonel Coffee brought his command
to a halt.
“Houston,” said he, to a young ensign who sat his horse near by, “take
a few scouts and make a reconnaissance of the village. Find out, if you
can, how many redskins there are.”
The ensign, who was Sam Houston, years afterward hero of San Jacinto,
and president of the Texan republic, saluted and rode forward; he
signaled to Jack, Frank and Running Elk.
“Come on, boys,” said he, in the rough, hearty fashion for which he was
noted in the little army of Tennessee. “And you, too, Injun. There’s a
little thing or two to be done before daylight grows too strong.”
The four rode on together, while the cavalry dismounted and, with the
foot soldiers, lay upon their arms to await their return.
“I don’t think the colonel’ll attack before daylight, though, will he?”
asked Frank.
Young Houston laughed.
“I guess not,” said he. “Coffee is a first class fighting man, and that
means that he’s going to make sure about the odds--for or against him.
If I were leading this crowd, I’d walk into that nest of redskins with
every gun going and without asking a question.”
The discipline of this hardy backwoods army was none of the strictest,
and the line between officer and private was not very sharply drawn, so
Frank was not at all backward in replying.
“But don’t forget, Houston, that Colonel Coffee has his men’s welfare
to look to as well as the Creeks to beat. Why run risks with other
men’s lives when a little care and prudence will make it unnecessary?”
Again young Houston laughed; and there was a note of recklessness in it
which seemed to rise above everything else. For this young man, almost
boy, was one of the most fearless spirits of the border. The time was
to come, though, when he was to look after the lives of his soldiers
with even greater care than Colonel Coffee, when he was many years
older, and responsibility had tamed his wild nature.
“I don’t think there would be more danger for us than for the
redskins,” stated he, humorously. “Another thing: Here’s a good chance
to make a mark in the war; so why not do it?”
About a half mile from Tallushatchee they drew up and dismounted.
Making their horses fast among some trees, they stole toward the
village with all the secrecy of stalking animals. Through the trees
they caught sight of the fires, neglected, but still glowing redly.
The huts and lodges lifted before them in dense masses; a sentinel
stalked to and fro at intervals around the town; now and then a dog
howled dismally.
Because of the sentinels they could not venture too near. However, they
were able to count the number of fires, and so were able to reckon upon
the number of warriors with a fair degree of accuracy. For a half hour
they prowled about the Indian town, endeavoring to learn all that was
possible; but then the dogs began to get wind of them; their howls were
changed to sharp distrustful barks and the stalking, shadowy sentinels
became alert and suspicious.
“About time to draw off, I’d say,” remarked Jack Davis in a low tone.
“Creek all awake soon,” said the Cherokee hunter.
Houston agreed, reluctantly, that this was very likely so, and that
remaining in the vicinity of the village, now that they had secured
all the information possible, was useless. So they drew off silently
as they had approached; when they reached the spot where their horses
had been tied, they could hear the savage barking of the village dogs
lifted to a higher pitch than ever; and as they mounted and rode away,
the other unmistakable noises from the town showed that the hostiles
had been aroused from their sleep and were even then preparing to meet
the hated paleface.
Houston, a half hour later, had reported the facts they had gathered to
Colonel Coffee; and in a few minutes more the entire command, horse and
foot, was once more upon the march. As quietly as possible the leader
advanced his men toward Tallushatchee and drew a line about it.
Dawn showed itself palely in the eastern sky; the savages caught sight
of their foes with the first slanting rays, and a yell of defiance
and hate went up from them. The same rays showed Colonel Coffee the
strength of the Indian position. In spite of the fact that his force
outnumbered that of the Creek warriors, that leader, knowing the work
ahead before the Creek nation was subdued, and knowing that every man
would be needed, looked troubled.
“They will pick a half hundred off like flies if we rush them as they
are now,” said he.
So, craftily, he began to plan to draw them out; by a feint he
accomplished this. Thinking they saw a chance to strike a deadly blow,
the Creeks rushed forward with exultant yells. But the whites closed
around them like a ring of iron and there began a most desperate
combat. Rifles cracked, pistols exploded vengefully, tomahawks and
hunting knives rose and fell in the mêlée.
It was the first engagement of the sort in which Frank Lawrence had
ever been; but he stood shoulder and shoulder with Jack and fired and
struck with purpose and deliberation. To all intents he was as steady
as a veteran. Jack had taken part in more than one desperate affray
with the red men in his expeditions into their hunting country, and so
he was more or less familiar with their methods.
“Look out for the wounded Creeks,” he advised Frank as he reloaded his
piece. “They are never too weak to strike another blow. And they are
not always dead when they appear to be so. They have a habit of lying
quiet and entangling your legs when you come within reach, and pulling
you down within reach of a knife.”
Colonel Coffee raged among the Indians like an infuriated giant. His
great sword rose and fell; he always had a clear space around him which
his weapon’s sweep constantly made larger. Ensign Houston fought like
a panther. He seemed to glory in the dangers which beset him; wherever
the battle raged thickest he plunged with his shining face and wild
laugh, and the bravest of the Creeks shrank from his crashing blows.
Tighter and tighter closed the steel-like ring about the red men.
“Remember Fort Mims!” was the slogan of the backwoodsmen. “Strike hard!”
Desperation itself was the conduct of the Creeks; they fought like
trapped wolves, ever seeking to break through the circle of their foes.
But at length, when the last rifle had cracked, the last pistol had
spoken its sharp sentence of death, the last hatchet, sword and knife
had ceased to rise and fall, the smoke of the conflict slowly lifted
and drifted away. Of the warriors of Tallushatchee more than a hundred
and sixty were slain, and the remainder were taken prisoners. And when
the white men took their way back to the river through the morning
light they bore upon improvised stretchers six of their own men dead,
and almost a half hundred wounded.