Weatherford repaired southward on a mission of utter extermination. Every
day of the march sharpened his zest for the fray, as well as that of his
fierce followers on the war path. He slid into the south as stealthily as
possible, and on reaching the scene of impending hostility, found that the
whites had betaken themselves into a strong stockade, which had been built
about the residence of one of the settlers named Mims, which name was
given to the fort. Together with his picked warriors, he stealthily
inspected the fort unobserved, studied its weakness and its strength, and
repaired to the deep forest to await the time to attack.
He saw that to undertake to storm the strong barricade meant disaster to
his army, and with genuine genius of generalship, he decided to await the
favorable moment to strike the fatal blow. He hid his warriors in the deep
woods, at a point sufficiently remote from the fort not to be detected,
allowed no camp fires to blaze during the night, and no demonstration that
would occasion alarm at the fort, while he would daily reconnoitre the
situation, and watch how life went inside the stockade.
Within Fort Mims, day after day passed in silence, silence into
inactivity, then into indifference, and this in turn, into negligence. The
growth of this spirit within the fort was a matter of encouragement to
Weatherford on the outside, several miles away, and this, he was
persuaded, would continue to grow. When it should have become a spirit of
lassitude, toward which it was tending, then would Weatherford strike.
Lounging within the walls of the stockade induced exceeding restlessness,
and by degrees, the inmates of the fort would sally forth in quest of
flowers and wild fruits, while within the enclosure, diversions and games
were introduced and gained in favor. In addition still, the great gateway,
which at first had been kept closed, was now suffered to remain open, not
only during the day, but at night. Heavy rains had washed the sand against
the gate, so that if it were desired to close it, it would be with great
difficulty. The inmates had grown indifferent to the situation, and really
had ceased to believe there was any occasion for apprehension.
Of all this Weatherford, lurking in the neighboring forest, was apprised,
and while his warriors chafed yet the more because of the delay, the
inmates of the fort grew increasingly indifferent, both which facts were
conducive to the purpose of the wily Weatherford. It was not easy for the
wary chief to hold in check his warriors, but he would daily persuade them
that the pear was not yet ripe, and that when the set time should come,
the victory would be the easier. Weatherford fully understood that when
the dogs of war were turned loose, he would have to rely entirely on the
force of their frenzy and excitement for success, while he quite
understood the collectable qualities of the whites, who, even when
surprised, would rally and rerally with a growing coolness in the
struggle.
Thus the days became monotonous alike to the inmates of the fort, and the
warriors hid away in the woods, but the effect on each was diametrically
different. This was just as Weatherford wished it, and while he found it
not easy to hold in check his warriors thirsting for blood, he was enabled
to do so till the fatal day arrived.
FORT MIMS MASSACRE
The fatal morning of August 30 dawned on Fort Mims. The weather was hot,
and slowly from sleep the inmates of the fort awoke. Breakfast over, the
day began the usual routine of indifference to conditions, the little
children beginning their play about the block houses, men gathering in
small groups about the enclosure, chatting, smoking, laughing or playing
cards, while later a fiddle was brought into requisition for an old time
reel by a body of youngsters, while the elderly women sat in quiet groups
sewing, talking, and knitting. The matter of attack, so much feared at
first, was now a subject of jocular comment, men joking as to what they
would do, should the Indians appear.
Amidst the scene of merriment, a negro appears fresh from the woods, and
in excitement, tells of having seen a body of Indians rapidly approaching
the fort. Major Beasley, the commander, who is engaged in a game of cards
with other officers, orders the black to be strung up and whipped for
giving a false alarm. The gate still stands wide open with its obstruction
of sand banked against it, and the serenity within the fort remains the
same.
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.