AN INDIAN MESSENGER
At Fort Strother things were going with little smoothness; in spite
of all that General Jackson could do, supplies came very irregularly
through the forests and across the mountains. As things stood, almost
any other commander would have fallen back until arrangements could
be made to feed the army; but Jackson held on grimly. He knew that
this was the time to strike; if he retreated the savages would at once
conclude that it was a sign of fear on the part of the paleface, and so
their ravages would have grown greater than ever.
“The contractors must do better!” declared the haggard commander of
the forces of Tennessee. “No matter what comes or goes, this force
must hold its place. I’ll not retreat!” One gaunt hand was lifted as he
spoke; there was a stain of fever in the hollow cheeks, his deep-set
eyes glowed lion-like from under his bushy brows. “The men who are
risking their lives to protect this border must have food; and if it’s
not sent them, those who have neglected their duty will reckon with me.”
Jack and Frank were seated just outside the flap of Jackson’s tent,
when the commander spoke these words to his officers within. Jack
nodded to his companions.
“I wouldn’t care to be an army contractor and have the general on my
trail,” said he. “He wouldn’t stop at much.”
“Not he,” said a young Nashville lawyer, who was in the scouts.
“Jackson is a man who accomplishes everything he sets out to do. He
does not know what fear is, and has the most resolute will I’ve ever
known.”
“Well, it seems to me he’ll need it all,” said an old hunter who had
been driven in from the forest by the Creeks, and who had enlisted in
the volunteers in an effort to retaliate. “It’s a deal to undertake,
this feeding so many men so far away from any place, where supplies
can’t be had handily. A small party can carry and kill all it needs for
months; but a force like this can’t go further than its supply train
can follow.”
It was this same night that Jack and Frank were visiting in the camp of
the friendly Cherokees just outside the fort. They sat at a camp-fire
with the father of Running Elk, a stately old chief with a hard
Cherokee name and great fame as a warrior and hunter. Running Elk was
also there, as were numerous braves of the tribe. Conversation with
them was most difficult, as everything had to be translated by Running
Elk; and as his knowledge of English was very limited, the boys had to
work hard to make themselves understood.
It was while they were so engaged that a sudden commotion began upon
the outskirts of the camp; loud voices were heard in the Cherokee
tongue, then the rush of moccasined feet in the darkness.
“Hello! What’s all that?” asked Jack Davis, looking around.
The Cherokees about the fire had arisen and were talking excitedly
among themselves in the laconic Creek jargon.
“What’s happened?” demanded Frank Lawrence of Running Elk.
The young Indian hunter, who had been listening intently to the voices
beyond the light circle of the camp-fire, replied:
“Messenger from Talladega. Much hurt.”
In a few moments a group of Cherokees came forward, bearing a burden
between them; they approached the fire and the white boys saw that it
was an Indian brave whom they carried; as Running Elk had said, he
seemed badly wounded.
However, he was strong enough to talk; impressively he began to tell
his story to the Indians, but in the midst of it, catching sight
of the white youths, he broke off. Holding out his hand to them,
appealingly, he said in fairly good English:
“Young paleface, I, Black Bear of the Cherokee people, ask you to carry
my message to your chief.”
“Speak, Black Bear,” said Jack, quietly; “and be sure we will do so.”
The wounded Indian lifted himself upon an elbow and proceeded.
“I am of the village of Talladega; we of that village are friends of
the white man. Four suns ago the Red Sticks attacked us; they had us
ringed about with spears and arrows, and they were as many as the
leaves of the forest in summer. We fought, but we were too few to
drive them away. Then we held a council, and our old men said we must
get a runner through the enemy to bear the news to the white man, our
friends.”
“And you are the chosen one, are you?” asked Frank.
“I am the fourth,” said Black Bear, steadily. “The others were killed
before they got out of sound of the council lodge.”
“How did you get through?” asked Jack Davis.
The brave grimaced; apparently he had no liking for the methods he had
been forced to use.
“The courage of the warrior was no use,” said he. “So another way had
to be thought of. I crept through their line with the skin of a hog
drawn about me. It was not until I had cast it aside and stood upright
that one of their sentinels saw me; and his arrow pierced my shoulder.”
“And yet you made your way here?” cried Frank, wonderingly.
Black Bear nodded, stoically.
“Yes,” said he, “to bring to the white chief the news that his friends
of the Cherokee people are in danger.”
Within a very few minutes the two boys were seeking admission to the
presence of the commander of the army. Upon being admitted, they found
General Jackson seated at a roughly hewn table, writing in the light of
a half dozen candles. He lifted his powerful face, now so drawn by long
lines of suffering, and looked at them.
“What is it?” he asked, patiently enough. “The sentry says you have
news of importance.”
Jack saluted and stepped forward.
“A messenger has just reached the Cherokee camp, general. He’s from
the friendly town of Talladega, and carries the news that the place is
besieged by the Creeks, and is in great danger.”
Instantly Jackson was upon his feet; the officers in the tent looked up
alertly.
“Where is this messenger?” said Jackson. “Let him be brought here, and
with an interpreter.”
“He can speak English very well, general,” now spoke Frank Lawrence.
“But he’s badly hurt.”
“Very well!” The commander reached for his hat, and the officers
prepared to follow him. “Lead the way.”
Seated upon a fallen tree beside the Cherokee fire, General Jackson
listened to the story of Black Bear; and when he had heard it all, he
looked at his officers.
“This appears to be a most grave situation,” said he, “for the town
seems in great danger. From this man’s story the Creeks are in force,
and a blow dealt them now would have a double purpose--it would rescue
the Indians who are our friends, and it would go far toward breaking
the power of the hostiles.”
The opinions of the officers present were that it was an opportunity
not to be lost. At once they returned to Jackson’s tent; others of the
senior officers were summoned and a brief council of war was held.
Before dawn the bugles blew, and the drums rolled; horse and foot, the
army of Tennessee fell into column, and with the graying of the eastern
sky, pushed across the river and toward Talladega.