Scouting in the Cherokee country—The Red Sticks on the move—A scared darky comes into camp on the run—Davy makes a sixty-mile ride—Colonel Coffee shows scant appreciation of Davy’s efforts—Old Hickory in command of a hungry army—Burning Black Warrior’s town—The cane-brake and the hogs—More news of the Red Sticks—The Battle of Tallushatchee—One hundred and eighty-five Indians slain—A squaw kills Lieutenant Moore with an arrow.

Evidently in those days there was no superstition about the number 13, for the party with which Davy set out the next morning was of thirteen men, including Major Gibson. The first day they reached and crossed the Tennessee at Ditto’s Landing, and camped seven miles south, guided by an Indian trader. The next day the Major took seven of the men, giving Davy charge of those remaining, with orders to meet him at night fifteen miles beyond the house of a Cherokee named Brown. On the way Davy induced a half-breed, Jack Thompson, to follow the party and come to the place where the Major was to meet them. They travelled through a rather barren country, sometimes across prairie-like land where wild flowers were abundant and beautiful. In the low places were cane-brakes, often fifteen to twenty feet high. The scouts avoided the open spaces, fearing both Indians and snakes, which sometimes crippled or killed a horse.

Night came on without the Major appearing, and Crockett’s squad camped among the trees, away from the Indian trail. The hoot of an owl came floating through the silence of the evening, and was at once answered by Davy. It was the signal of the half-breed, who soon afterward came into the gleam of their fire. The morning broke, and there was still no news of the other party of scouts. As usual, Davy decided to go ahead, and passed through a Cherokee village, twenty miles farther south, reaching the house of a squaw-man, named Radcliff, in time for dinner. This man they found badly scared. He told them that ten painted Creeks had left the place during the forenoon; if they learned that he had fed the scouts, they would kill his whole family and burn the house. When dinner was over, Davy found that a few of his men wanted to turn back; they said that the party was too small to venture into the Creek country, just before them. But Davy knew that some of the men would stand by him, and he determined to go ahead. When he started on the whole party went along, for the few who wished to go back were afraid to do so alone. Soon after dark they reached a camp of some friendly Creeks. It was a strange condition of affairs, when some of the Indians of this tribe could be trusted, while others were slinking through the woods, smeared from head to foot with vermilion, and fierce for blood.

The moon was at its full, and for a while Davy and his men tried their skill with the bows and arrows of the Indian boys. While they were doing this, a scared negro who had joined them during the day warned them that the Red Sticks were likely to surprise them, but they made light of his fears. They tied their horses ready to mount at a second’s notice, and lay with their guns by their sides. They had scarcely dozed when a cry like that of an angry panther rang through the night. The negro shouted that the Red Sticks were coming, and every one stood at bay. Then an Indian appeared in the bright moonlight, with the news that the war party had been crossing the Coosa all day at the Ten Islands, on their way to fight Jackson’s army, then gathering at Fayetteville, in Tennessee.

In a few minutes every Indian in the camp had fled, while Davy and his men “put out in a long lope” on the back trail, to give notice to the force they had left at the landing, sixty-five miles away. At the Cherokee town they found great fires blazing, but no Indians. Radcliff and his family had disappeared. At daylight they came to Brown’s house, where they ate hurriedly and then pushed on. Having crossed the Tennessee, they reached the volunteers’ camp, and reported to Colonel Coffee. To Davy’s disgust, the Colonel seemed to place little confidence in the story he had to tell, so far as the imminence of danger was involved. The little band of scouts had ridden their tired horses sixty-five miles in eleven hours by moonlight, and had forded the river, and they were disgusted by their reception. Davy said that he was burning inside like a tar-kiln, and wondered that the smoke was not pouring out of him as he withdrew.

The next day the Major came into camp with a similar report, which set Colonel Coffee into what Davy called “a fidget.” He at once threw up breastworks twelve hundred feet long, and dispatched a messenger to hurry up Jackson’s army. It always rankled in Davy’s memory that the word of a common soldier and scout could be so lightly held, while the Major’s report was never doubted for a moment. Davy had much to learn in a world where so many unjustly receive pay and praise for work that is done by obscure toilers. The forty thousand French who lay dead or dying that week before the walls of Leipzig are nameless now, but Napoleon is not forgotten. Davy’s sense of the unfairness of Fame may be the reason for his later enmity towards Andrew Jackson. When, years afterward, he told of the forced march that brought Old Hickory and his troops to the support of Coffee, he called the General “Old Hickory Face.”

Still suffering and weak from his wound, Jackson arrived at Huntsville with his command the next day, October 11, 1813. The men were wearied with the forced march, and their feet were blistered and lame, so they went to their tents while the volunteers kept watch for the enemy. Although now in charge of at least two thousand men, Jackson was without supplies, and at this time Major Reid, of his staff, wrote to a friend:

“At this place [Thompson’s Creek, on the Tennessee] we remain a day to establish a depot for provisions; but where these provisions are to come from, God Almighty only knows. I speak seriously when I declare that we may soon have to eat our horses, which may be the best use we can put a great many of them to.”

Of Davy’s movements between October 11th and the following month, we have no account, but he could have played only a minor part in the waiting game that took place. But one day in November, Coffee, with eight hundred volunteers, including Davy’s company, went west to Mussel Shoals, where they crossed the Tennessee, losing some of their horses in the dangerous and rocky fording. From there the expedition struck south, crossing the Warrior River, to Black Warrior’s town, near the present site of Tuscaloosa. Here they found some corn and a lot of dried beans, but no Indians. They burned the town, and turned back to meet the main army at the place where Davy and his scouts had waited in vain for Major Gibson, in October. The next day the supply of meat gave out, and Davy went to Coffee and asked permission to hunt while the march progressed. He says Coffee told him he might do so, but to take good care of himself. Within an hour he found a freshly-killed deer, skinned and still warm. He knew that an Indian must have fled at his approach, and, even under the conditions, had scruples against taking the meat. What he tells of this is so typical of his character that it should be repeated:

“Though I was never much in favor of one hunter stealing from another, yet meat was so scarce in camp that I thought I must go in for it. So I just took up the deer on my horse before me, and carried it on till night. I could have sold it for almost any price I would have asked; but this wasn’t my rule, neither in peace nor war. Whenever I had anything, and saw a fellow-being suffering, I was more anxious to relieve him than to benefit myself. And this is one of the secrets of my being a poor man to this day. But it is my way; and while it has often left me with an empty purse, which is as near the devil as anything else I have ever seen, yet it has never left my heart empty of consolations which money couldn’t buy, of having sometimes fed the hungry and covered the naked.”

Davy kept enough of the deer for his own mess, and gave the rest away. Most of the men were living on parched corn.

The day after, they made camp near a large cane-brake. In these brakes, the cane, of which the scientific name is Arundinaria Macrosperma, is an arborescent grass, dying down in the winter, but growing to a height of twenty feet, in some places, during the summer. Into this brake, impassable except for paths made by cattle and swine, Davy went with his rifle after meat. In a short time he found a number of hogs, and as he shot one of them the whole drove started towards camp. The roar of guns and the squealing of the hogs sounded like an Indian massacre. Most of the hogs and a fat cow were the results of his activity, and for these an order on Uncle Sam was given the people of the Cherokee town where they stopped the next day. Before night they met Jackson’s army, and turned south with them. At Radcliff’s place they found his two big half-breed sons, and, having learned that he had sent the runner who had so alarmed the camp with the news of the Red Sticks’ approach, they forced them to serve as soldiers, to repay Radcliff for what was intentionally a false alarm.

At a place named Camp Wills, Coffee was made a General, and other promotions were announced. The next point reached was Ten Islands, on the Coosa River, and here they heard of a gathering of Red Sticks at a town ten miles distant. Jackson sent nine hundred men, under General Coffee, to attack them. Part of the force was made up of friendly Cherokees, under their chief, known as Dick Brown. To prevent being mistaken for the enemy, these Indians wore white feathers and deer-tails on their heads.

At daybreak, Colonel Allcorn, with the cavalry, in which Davy served, went to the right of the line of march, while Coffee and Colonel Cannon kept to the left, soon enclosing the town completely with a cordon of horse and foot. The Indians discovered their approach, and manifested their defiance with yells and frantic beating of their drums. As they refused to come out, Captain Hammond and two companies of rangers advanced to bring on the action. The Indians seem to have believed this small force to be all with whom they had to deal, for, as Davy says, they soon came at them “like so many red devils.” As the rangers fell back, the main army line was reached, and the fight was on. The Creeks fired a volley and ran back to their huts. Slowly the cordon of soldiers closed upon them, and one of the most desperate Indian fights of history took place. The Red Sticks asked no quarter, firing from the shelter of their cabins until they were shot dead by the soldiers who came to their doors, or charging with shrill war-cries between the impassable walls of gleaming rifles that surrounded them. Refusing quarter even from the Cherokees, whom they had known as friends before, they fought till they could no longer lift their guns or draw their knives in a last effort.

According to Crockett’s story of the affair, the squaws rushed through the hail of bullets to ask for mercy. Many of them were accidentally shot in the houses with the men, but that was unavoidable. Every brave was killed, and eighty-four women and children were taken prisoners. General Coffee counted one hundred and eighty-six dead Indians, while of his own force but five were killed and forty wounded.

The difference in the mortality between the two sides is remarkable. The red man never knew how hopeless a battle he fought with the Juggernaut of Civilization. All his savage energy could avail against the pioneer no more than the throne of Hardicanute, on Britain’s shore, could turn the wild and angry waves of the North Sea.

During the fight, many of the Creeks took refuge in one of the houses of the town. As the soldiers closed in, a squaw who sat in the doorway with a bow and arrow put her feet against the bow, placed an arrow, pulled with all her might, and killed Lieutenant Moore, outright. The act so enraged the soldiers that she was riddled with bullets, and the house, with the forty-six Indians in it, was burned. A boy of twelve, who had been wounded, was seen by Davy so near the burning house that he was being scorched by the heat; yet this brave lad made no sound, nor did he ask for help.

Though they had gained a decisive victory, the soldiers were in terrible straits for food, and when everything in sight had been eaten, they learned that “Hunger is sharper than the Sword.”