Farmer and trapper—Tall Grass and his boys—The blow-guns of the Chickasaws—Loony Joe—Little Warrior starts trouble, and punishment follows—Davy dreams of higher things—The Spanish at Pensacola aid the British and the hostile Indians—Hurricane Ned brings news from Alabama—The Red Sticks—The massacre at Fort Mims, and the call to arms—Davy becomes a scout under Jackson—Gets his dander up—The independence of the mountaineer volunteers.

The year of 1811 was a busy one for Davy, who was then coming twenty-five. He was still boyish and rather awkward in some ways; but with the rifle, and in securing pelts of the most valuable sorts, he had few rivals.

Shot-guns, or scatter-guns, were not much used in hunting. Powder and lead were the most precious of all the pioneer’s possessions, and nothing smaller than a wild turkey was considered worth the cost of a shot. For that reason, small game was always abundant and almost fearless in the presence of the hunter.

One autumn morning Davy was talking with Tall Grass, a Chickasaw, who had two of his boys with him. They were from ten to twelve years old, and each carried a reed blow-gun nearly ten feet long. Davy had heard of these weapons of the Chickasaws, and he asked the boys to show him how they were used. They all started for the woods a mile away, where small game was plenty.

In a swampy spot the logs lay here and there across the ground, as the result of a cyclone or wind-storm in the years gone by. In the Northern States such a place would be called a “windfall”; in Tennessee it was called a “harricane.”

The boys went ahead, their reeds at tilt, like spearmen of feudal days. Each carried small darts, tipped with steel, with thistle-down tied at the opposite ends. A rabbit flashed from under a bush as they advanced, and stopped fifty feet away. The older boy slipped a dart into his reed, brought it to a steady aim, filled his lungs and cheeks, and put all his young strength into the puff that sent the twelve-inch arrow on its course. The rabbit leaped from its mound of moss, and fell struggling with the dart in its side. A partridge that perched in the limbs of a hickory came tumbling down when the younger boy tried his skill. With dignified pride, Tall Grass said to Davy:

“Some day big chiefs!”

The boys soon secured all the game they could carry, Tall Grass not offering his aid, and the party started to return. Suddenly a terrifying yell rang through the woods, startling the Indians until they saw a grin on Davy’s face. The noise of feet was heard, and there soon appeared what was intended to represent a warrior in full attire, with paint, turkey-feathers, bow and arrows, scalping-knife, and moccasins. As the strange creature came closer, the Indians saw that it was a white boy, evidently half-witted. He had trailed them all the way, and had sounded his war-cry in what seemed to him the fittest spot for dark and bloody deeds. Tall Grass gave him a disgusted glance and turned away.

“Heap fool!” was all he said.

The boy was allowed to go back with them, and was shown the use of the blow-gun. He afterwards made one, and became of some use in hunting small game, but he never could get rid of the notion that he was an Indian warrior. He was known as Loony Joe.

Some weeks later the Creek chief, Little Warrior, who had gone north with Tecumseh, returned to Alabama with his thirty braves, of the war faction of their nation. In the Chickasaw country, not far north of where Davy lived, they murdered several families of settlers in cold blood. The leaders of the Creek nation, which was at peace with the whites, answered the demands of the United States Government by hunting down and killing the whole party. Justice was satisfied, but the war faction of the Creeks grew fiercer and angrier with each rising sun. The Alabamas, an associated tribe, became especially truculent, and killed one of the mail-carriers employed by the Government. When Big Warrior sent a Creek messenger to the same tribe, inviting their chiefs to a council, they murdered his envoy, and a desultory war began.

The danger of an Indian uprising became imminent during 1812, and after the United States had formally declared war against Great Britain, on June 18th, every pioneer looked to his rifle and supply of ammunition. While Tecumseh’s messengers were distributing the calendars of red sticks to the Creek chieftains, the British warship GuerriÈre was taking New England sailors from the decks of American vessels in sight of New York City. England was landing supplies and agents at Pensacola, for use among the restless Indians, the Spanish acting as go-betweens. Uncle Sam was surrounded by the growling dogs of war, without a friend in the world.

While thus the clash of arms drew near, Davy still hunted and farmed and trapped on Bean’s Creek, adding to his fame as a rifleman, and, as he said when he had become known in Congress, “laying the foundation of all his future greatness.” We should not blame him for his overestimate of his own importance, when the flattering attentions of great men, who were equally great politicians, had been thrust upon him. If he at one time seriously thought that he might become President, only his lack of education made his imaginings unjustifiable in a nation that has so often chosen its leaders from the humble cabins of the poor.

Every day the two parties among the Alabama Indians became more truculent, and frequent encounters ended in bloodshed. In the spring of 1813, the prophet Francis (made to order and ordained by Tecumseh), Peter McQueen, and High-Head Jim began a predatory warfare upon the peaceful Indians and half-breeds, who had good houses and farms. With more than three hundred followers, the hostile leaders set out for Pensacola with their plunder. Under Colonel Caller, assisted by so many lieutenant-colonels, majors, and captains, that his force was like Artemus Ward’s regiment of brigadier-generals, a force of two hundred American volunteers overtook the Indians at Burnt Corn, sent them flying, and proceeded to divide the plunder left by the enemy. Before they had finished this, the Indians attacked them in turn, having rallied when no longer pursued, and the volunteers were driven back and dispersed. As they are not known to have lost more than two of their number, they do not seem to have been very desperate fighters.

When Hurricane Ned, an old hunter of Hurricane Fork, brought the news of this to Franklin County, he predicted an attack by the Creek war party, who were being urged by British agents to paint themselves for battle. Red Eagle would have temporized with his chieftains, but they seized his children and his negro slaves as hostages while he was away from home, so he prepared, perforce, to strike a decisive blow at the progress of civilization. The red sticks were thrown away day by day, until but few were left. When the last was gone, and the tom-toms were beating, the frenzied braves smeared themselves with vermilion till their naked bodies were like flames of fire. The white settlers and the friendly Indians flocked to the various forts, hastily built of logs. In Fort Mims three or four hundred men, women, and children, with about two hundred volunteers sent as a garrison by General Claiborne, came together in the middle of August.

About the 27th of the month, a badly scared negro returned to Fort Mims from a hunt for stray cows. He had seen the woods full of Indians, apparently covered with blood. Their red skins being ominous of trouble, Major Beasley, who was in command, sent out scouts to the place where the negro had been. The scouts failed to find Red Eagle and the thousand braves with him, and the negro had a close escape from being flogged for lying. Two days later two other negroes claimed to have seen the Indians, and were whipped. One of them was still triced up when the bell called the people of the fort to dinner. As they went their way, Red Eagle and his savages crept from their hiding-places, and were within a hundred feet of the gates before they were discovered. Then it was found that the gates were blocked by drifted sand and could not be closed. For some hours the battle raged, and before sunset all but twenty or thirty of the people in the fort had been killed and scalped. A few had escaped through the stockade, and some had been spared as slaves. After in vain trying to stop the fury he had fanned to action, Red Eagle rode away from the scene of butchery, and when he returned, on his fine black horse, more than five hundred lay dead and mutilated within the fort. No half-way position was now possible, and until the end of the war he was active and aggressive.

The whole western slope of the mountains now awoke to the danger. Calls for men were answered by North and South Carolina and Georgia, and Tennessee, whose volunteers for the defense of New Orleans had recently been recalled from Natchez, also took up the gage of battle. All her people agreed that Andrew Jackson should be the one to lead the volunteers into Alabama, but he was in bed, suffering from a wound in his left shoulder, caused by two slugs from the pistol of Thomas H. Benton, in a free-for-all fight. The two men were afterwards reconciled and became friends, but Jackson could never wear one of his heavy epaulets for any length of time.

While Jackson is generally spoken of as a great Indian fighter, he was not at this time entitled to such a reputation. A few years before he had been chosen Major-General of Volunteers, but most of his actual fighting had been with his personal and political foes. He had killed Charles Dickinson in a duel for slurs upon Mrs. Jackson, and had ridden full tilt at Governor Sevier with the intention of running over him.

Before Jackson could take the saddle, a rally was held at Winchester, ten miles from Davy Crockett’s. As Davy there enlisted as a volunteer, it will be worth while to hear what he had to say upon the subject.

“I, for one, had often thought about war, and had often heard it described; and I did verily believe that I couldn’t fight in that way at all; but my after experience convinced me that this was all a notion. For, when I heard of the mischief that was done at the Fort, I instantly felt like going, and I had none of the dread of dying that I had expected to feel. In a few days a general meeting of the militia was called, for the purpose of raising volunteers; and when the day arrived for the meeting, my wife, who had heard me say I meant to go to the war, began to beg me not to turn out. She said she was a stranger in the parts where we lived, had no connections living near her, and that she and our little children would be left in a lonesome and unhappy situation if I went away. It was mighty hard to go against arguments like these; but my countrymen had been murdered, and I knew that the next thing the Indians would be scalping the women and children all about there, if we didn’t put a stop to it. I reasoned the case with her as well as I could, and told her that if every man would wait until his wife was willing for him to go to war, we would all be killed in our own houses; that I was as able to go as any man in the world, and that it was a duty I believed I owed to my country. Seeing that I was bent on it, all she did was to cry a little, and turn about to her work. The truth is, my dander was up, and nothing but war could bring it right again.”

When the militia was paraded at Winchester, volunteers were called for, and Davy was one of the first to step forward. In a short time a company was raised, officers were chosen, and they arranged to make a start on the Monday following. The company were all mounted, and when the day came Davy said farewell to his wife and his little boys, and rode away to the rendezvous. From there the command went to Huntsville, Alabama, forty miles south, then on to Beaty’s Spring, where they were joined by other mounted men, until they mustered thirteen hundred. Davy’s company was one that stuck together, under the same leader, Captain Jones, until they returned to Tennessee. Jones was later sent to Congress.

Davy’s experience as a scout now began. Major Gibson, who was about to go into the Coosa country to get information about the Indians, asked Captain Jones to let him have two men who could be relied upon as woodsmen and riflemen. The Captain called Davy, who was now twenty-seven, and strong and healthy, with a full beard. Davy expressed his willingness to join the scouting expedition, if he might choose his own mate. This being granted, he picked out a friend named George Russell. When Gibson saw Russell he said he hadn’t beard enough to suit him; he wanted men, not boys. At this Davy’s dander was up, and he told the Major that by this rule a goat would have the call over a man; that he knew what sort of a man Russell was, and that he was not likely to be left behind on a march. Seeing Davy’s warmth, the Major relented and took them both.

The temper of the Western volunteers recalls Maclay’s story of the backwoodsman who took part, on board of the Hyder Ally, in Cape May Roads, in the fight with the General Monk. He stood near Lieutenant Barney in the action, picking off the enemy with the same deliberation with which he reloaded under a sharp fire. His Buck County blood was up, but his curiosity was not asleep; twice he turned to Barney to ask the same question:

“Say, Cap, who made this gun I’m using?”

Resenting such a breach of naval decorum in a marine, Barney answered him roughly, ignoring the question. But as it was again asked, he sharply inquired his reason for wanting to know.

“W-a-al,” replied the man, with the drawl peculiar to the mountaineers, “this ’ere bit of iron is jes’ the best smoothbore I ever fired in my life.” With the mountaineers’ independence, Andrew Jackson had strenuous dealings before the end of the Creek War.