The Battle at Horseshoe Bend Read online

  Published by Boson Books

  An imprint of Bitingduck Press

  Formerly an imprint of C&M Online Media, Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-938463-19-8

  eISBN 978-1-938463-20-4

  © 2014 Michael A. Fowler. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, including mechanical, electric, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  For information contact

  Bitingduck Press, LLC

  Montreal • Altadena

  [email protected]

  http://www.bitingduckpress.com

  Cover art: “Treed,” by David Wright

  www.davidwrightart.com

  The Treaty at Fort Jackson was copied in whole from that at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend National Military Park.

  Author’s note

  This book is a work of fiction with a historical backdrop. I have taken liberties with historical figures, ships, and time frames to blend in with my story. Therefore, this book is not a reflection of actual historical events.

  Books by Michael Aye

  Fiction

  The Fighting Anthony Series

  The Reaper, Book One

  HMS SeaWolf, Book Two

  Barracuda, Book Three

  SeaHorse, Book Four

  Peregrine, Book Five

  War 1812 Trilogy

  Remember the Raisin, Book One

  Non-Fiction

  What’s the Reason for All That Wheezing and Sneezing

  Michael A. Fowler and Nancy McKemie

  This book is dedicated

  to a dear and longtime friend, Stephen Lieupo and his family. Steve is a hunter, fisherman and has not let life’s obstacles slow him down. He is a “man’s man.” Keep your powder dry, Steve!

  * * *

  Prologue

  When I am old and gray I will be

  One of those people that say

  I remember when I did and not someone

  Who say I wish I would have

  —William D. Weatherford

  (Chief Red Eagle)

  Tecumseh’s Speech to the Creek Council

  (as told by Samuel Dale)

  In defiance of the white warriors of Ohio and Kentucky, I have traveled through their settlements, once our favorite hunting grounds. No war-whoop was sounded, but there is blood on our knives. The Pale-faces felt the blow, but knew not whence it came.

  Accursed be the race that has seized on our country and made women of our warriors. Our fathers, from their tombs, reproach us as slaves and cowards. I hear them now in the wailing winds.

  The Muscogee was once a mighty people. The Georgians trembled at your war-whoop, and the maidens of my tribe, on the distant lakes, sung the prowess of your warriors and sighed for their embraces.

  Now your very blood is white; your tomahawks have no edge; your bows and arrows were buried with your fathers. Oh!

  Muscogees, brethren of my mother, brush from your eyelids the sleep of slavery; once more strike for vengeance; once more for your country. The spirits of the mighty dead complain. Their tears drop from the weeping skies. Let the white race perish.

  They seize your land; they corrupt your women; they trample on the ashes of your dead! Back, whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven.

  Back! back, ay, into the great water whose accursed waves brought them to our shores!

  Burn their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The Red Man owns the country, and the Pale-faces must never enjoy it.

  War now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. Our country must give no rest to a white man's bones.

  This is the will of the Great Spirit, revealed

  Burn their dwellings! Destroy their stock! Slay their wives and children! The Red Man owns the country, and the Pale-faces must never enjoy it.

  War now! War forever! War upon the living! War upon the dead! Dig their very corpses from the grave. Our country must give no rest to a white man's bones.

  This is the will of the Great Spirit, revealed to my brother, his familiar, the Prophet of the Lakes. He sends me to you.

  All the tribes of the north are dancing the war-dance. Two mighty warriors across the seas will send us arms.

  Tecumseh will soon return to his country. My prophets shall tarry with you. They will stand between you and the bullets of your enemies. When the white men approach you the yawning earth shall swallow them up.

  Soon shall you see my arm of fire stretched athwart the sky. I will stamp my foot at Tippecanoe, and the very earth shall shake.

  Fort Mims August 30, 1813

  Henry… Henry Parrish. What are you doing riding in here in such a rush for? You’re kicking up a cloud of dust.” The old scout looked at the man addressing him. The soldier seemed to stagger and appeared half drunk as he shaded his eyes to look up at the man on horseback. It was not quite noon yet.

  Trying to control the horse he’d raced into the fort on, and at the same time not get tangled in the lead rope of his pack mule, Henry spoke, “Zach, by gawd, you have to get them gates closed. The woods are full with more Red Devils than fleas on a cat’s ass.”

  “Shh!” Zach replied, placing his fingers to his lips in an exaggerated manner. “The major done had two slaves tied up and the lash put to their hides for telling lies.”

  “Lies… lies, damn it man, this ain’t no tall tale. The woods is busting wid Injuns.”

  “What’s going on, Sergeant? What’s all this shouting about?”

  “It’s one of General Claiborne’s old scouts, Major. Claims he spied a passel of Injuns.”

  “Claim… Damn your soul, man. I don’t claim nothing. It’s a fact. A pure, honest-to-God fact. Major,” Parrish turned his attention to the major, “You don’t get those gates closed, you’re gonna have a bunch of dead folks here about before the sun goes down.”

  Major Beasley snorted and spoke to the sergeant, “More fabrication, sheer fabrication.”

  Parrish shook his head in disgust as he looked over the fort’s grounds. Children were playing, men were working, and a woman was calling her family to eat while another toted a bucket of water. One man walked past him leading a pair of oxen, and a group of soldiers were playing cards on a barrel. How many would survive the day? Seeing two men he recognized, Parrish made to call out, but neither Dr. Osborne nor Captain Middleton heard his call as the cook began clanging the dinner bell. Above the clang of the bell, war whoops filled the air, sending a chill down Parrish’s back. Arrogant ass, the scout thought, now the major and a lot of others were gonna get their briskets full of Injuns for a noon meal.

  Turning in the saddle, a shiver ran through Parrish. Even he was not prepared for what stormed toward the unsuspecting fort. Through the gate not thirty yards away, a thousand warriors charged. Major Beasley gave a startled cry and raced forward to close the gates. It was useless, the gates had been held open by a large pile of dirt on each side. Major Beasley, with sword in hand, made it almost to the gate when he was shot in the stomach by one warrior, then tomahawked by Red Eagle.

  Arrows flew into the open gate and Parrish’s mule brayed loudly. Turning, the wild-eyed mule jerked the lead rope from its owner’s hand, spilling him to the ground. The mule fell dead as multiple arrows impaled its body. Taking a chance to glance back at the gate, Parrish could still see Indians pouring out of the nearby ravine and across the open ground into the fort.

  Soldiers alerted from the war whoops and sounds of gunfire were now trying to make a stand against naked hordes of painted savages. It was useless as they were q
uickly overpowered, the Indians pausing only long enough to scalp their victims.

  Seeing a warrior chase a little girl, Parrish quickly took aim with his long rifle and fired., He hit the warrior in the back, shattering his spine and causing him to fall on the little girl. As she was trying to crawl out from under the Indian, Parrish rushed over and grabbed an arm, pulling the girl from under the dead weight. He’d just gotten the little girl loose when she screamed. Sensing a presence, Parrish ducked and heard a ‘whoosh’ as a tomahawk swept past his head. Having not had time to reload, Parrish used his rifle as a club. He drove the butt plate into the Indian’s throat. The brave sank to his knees, gasping, and Parrish finished him off, crushing his foe’s skull with a powerful swing that hit the man above the ear. Sweeping the little girl up, Parrish ran toward the south wing of the fort where Captain Jack and a company of riflemen were putting up a brave fight. Racing for cover, Parrish was overwhelmed at the carnage already inflicted. He tried to shield the little girl’s eyes as a young boy was seized by the legs and his brain was bashed out, his head slammed against the log wall of a hut. A pregnant woman was dragged out of one of the small houses and held by two braves as another opened up her belly with his knife. Another woman was tomahawked as she tried to pull away braves that were raping her teenage daughter. Men were being scalped at every turn, some before they were dead.

  Fires were set as shrieks and cries of pain and anguish mingled with the war cries of Indians and curses from soldiers. The Indians’ thirst for blood seemed insatiable, as warriors who had grown up with whites and were their friends only a week ago now butchered them with reckless abandon. On the north side, Captain Dixon Bailey put up a heavy defense as his men repulsed the Indians time and time again. However, the number of savages was so great they had fallen back until they could no longer do so. The pickets and houses that had for a time offered some protection now swarmed with bloody savages, their weapons dripping blood from their butchery. Still the soldiers fought on, in spite of seeing the death and mutilation of their families and hearing the piercing screams continuously fill the air.

  Parrish had fired his long rifle until the barrel was so hot he couldn’t touch it. A soldier next to him fell as an arrow found its mark. He fired the dead man’s musket until he was out of powder and shot. His face blackened and eyes burning from spent powder, Parrish glanced over to where Captain Middleton and his men had been fighting. He felt a lump in his throat as he realized all were dead. Suddenly, there seemed to be a lull in the fighting. Captain Jack looked at his watch; it was a quarter to three. Gathering the few soldiers that remained, they entered a small house at the rear of the fort.

  “Henry.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “You think this is over?” Parrish shook his head no. “Me neither.” Then in a louder voice, the captain continued, “I don’t see none of us surviving. The only chance that little girl clinging to you has got is to get you out of this fort. We ain’t got any axes but we have bayonets and tomahawks. If we can open up a hole big enough for you to get out of here with that child, you hightail it and don’t stop.”

  Parrish was too choked up to answer and just nodded, knowing the soldier was right. They both knew the only chance the little girl had was for them to quickly open an escape route. In ten minutes time, a hole barely big enough for Parrish to squeeze through was completed. Taking a quick last look out of the front window burned a memory in Parrish’s brain he would never forget. Strewn bodies, ground turned dark with blood, buildings burning, and the smell of burnt flesh drifted on the wind. He would never forget the sight. He didn’t want to forget. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord, but Henry Parrish planned to lend a hand if the Almighty spared his life this day.

  Captain Jack was back at the scout’s side, “You’d better go, Henry.”

  Parrish nodded and shook the man’s hand, “I won’t forget, Captain.”

  “You’d better not. Now get that girl and get gone.” Looking at his watch, the captain said, “Its 3 o’clock. Were it five I would stand a tankard.”

  About that time a soldier shouted, “Here the Red Devils come again, Captain.” The man turned to his captain as blood gushed from his neck where he’d been hit by ball. “Oh God! I’m a dead man, Captain.”

  As the braves rushed the remaining resistance, Henry carried the girl out the back wall of the fort. Smoke from the burning buildings helped cover their escape. Tired and out of breath, Parrish paused by a cypress stump and set the girl down. Rising, he found himself face to face with a warrior. Fresh scalps dangled from the Indian’s belt, and his body was blackened from dried blood. Parrish immediately recognized the brave. They had drunk, hunted, chased squaws, and smoked together in the past.

  “Gray Eagle,” Parrish said without thinking.

  “Go,” the Indian said and pointed toward Tensaw Lake. “Go to the lake, after dark go down river. Gray Eagle does not make war on women and children. Parrish, you remember this. We were friends in the past. No more. Weatherford say this. He now Red Eagle, he war chief. You take girl and go. You have no girl, we fight.” Parrish stood silent and only nodded. “We meet again, we fight,” Gray Eagle said and then drifted away through the smoke. As he moved away, Parrish saw the pucker wound in the warrior’s belly; he’d been shot. They might meet again, but Parrish doubted it. Picking up the little girl, he headed through the swamp toward the lake.

  Chapter One

  The squawk of snow geese overhead caused the two riders to glance skyward. “Late heading south,” Moses mumbled. Jonah’s nod of agreement was barely perceptible. The eastern skies were heavy with snow, and bitter cold penetrated their heavy blanket coats, causing a constant shiver. The battle of the Thames was not a week past. General Harrison’s army had won a wonderful victory over the British. Jonah and Moses had been part of Colonel Richard Mentor Johnson’s brigade that had gone into the swamp after Tecumseh and the Shawnees. It had been touch and go for a while, with the Americans suffering heavy losses. Colonel Johnson had been shot many times, but the surgeon said he’d live. Now, most of the militia had broken up and were headed home; their part was done. Jonah and Moses had made a lot of good friends with the Kentucky volunteers. They would be missed. Like the Kentucky volunteers, Jonah and Moses had completed their mission for President Madison. As the president’s agent, Jonah had pushed and prodded General Harrison into action, finally putting an end to the British and Shawnee threat in the Northwest Territory.

  A few flurries of snow drifted with the wind. As the men rode down a gentle slope, Jonah spoke loudly to be heard over the wind, “That’s the creek where the Indians tried to ambush us, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Moses replied. “We were lucky that farmer’s wife alerted us.”

  “Wasn’t we though,” Jonah replied. “If this is the creek, the farm is not far away. Maybe they’ll put us up for the night.”

  “They should,” Moses agreed. “They gave shelter to Tecumseh and his bunch.”

  “Man will do a lot when he is scared,” Jonah threw out.

  “Yeah, there’s that.”

  The horses paused to paw at the slushy ice at the creek’s edge. After a quick drink and encouragement from their riders, the animals, under a sky filling with dark clouds, moved on. After a couple of miles, the men topped a rise and there lay the farm they had remembered, not a half a mile away. As the two drew closer, the braying of a mule and lowing of cows could be heard from the barn.

  “Feeding time,” Moses volunteered and then added, “probably milking time too.”

  The men rode up to the house as the snow started to fall in earnest. Before they could dismount, a man opened the door holding a musket in his hand. He looked the pair over, not sure what to make of Moses. Half black, half Creek Indian, with scars on his face from the smallpox, Moses’ features were enough to cause any man to take a second look. It had the opposite effect on the squaws they happened upon however. He seemed to have a certain charm that caused t
hem to flock to the man.

  “We’re part of General Harrison’s army,” Jonah volunteered. “We are headed home.”

  “You beat the Redcoats?” the farmer asked.

  Nodding, Jonah added, “And the Shawnee. Tecumseh is dead.”

  A change came over the man, like a look of relief. The farmer continued to stand in the doorway almost in a trance when his wife opened the door wider and looked at the men. Recognition was instant as was a sudden look of fear. She didn’t want her husband to know she’d warned the soldiers of the Indian ambush.

  Seeing the woman’s fright and thinking quickly, Jonah spoke, “I know it’s not every day strangers ride up, Madame. But we are half-frozen and the weather is getting worse. If it’s not too much of an imposition we’d like to stay over the night.”

  “Even if we have to stay in the barn,” Moses added.

  The man seemed about to say no, so Jonah tried another direction. “We’d be glad to pay for room and board.”

  “In coin?” The farmer asked.

  “In coin,” Jonah stated.

  “Hush,” the woman said. “There will be no talk of money. It’s the only decent thing a person could do on such a night. It’s only Christian.”

  “Thank you,” Jonah and Moses replied. “We’ll just put our horses in the barn if that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “Supper will be ready in half an hour.”

  “It may be the Christian thing to do,” Moses whispered once they were in the barn, “but I bet we don’t get out of here without the husband expecting a generous offering in his plate.”

  -

  Their stay turned into three days and nights. Snow filled the air and covered the ground. Water froze and had to be heated to water the animals. At times it was almost like blizzard conditions and the barn could barely be seen from the house. Jonah and Moses lent a hand caring for the livestock, and after the first day, the farmer and his wife seem grateful to have someone to talk to and help out. Food was limited: carrots, dried beans, potatoes, bacon or ham from the smokehouse, cornbread, and fresh milk. The chickens seemed to be off what they usually laid.