The friendly Indians besieged at Talladega—Jackson sends them help—The attempted ambush—“Painted scarlet, and naked as when they were born”—The battle of Talladega, and the bleaching skulls—Mutiny of the volunteers—Davy goes home when his time is up and reËnlists—The Indian victory at Enotachopco Creek—Davy is in a furious fight—One hundred volunteers killed or wounded—English Intrigue at Pensacola—Davy’s visit to that place—Many stirring adventures in the Escambia River country—Davy is hungry enough to climb a tree after a squirrel—With powder and lead he buys corn from an Indian—Home at last.

Early in November, 1813, Jackson built a fort at Ten Islands, on the north shore of the Coosa River, and many refugees came within its stockades. It was called Fort Strother, after the owner of the place on which it stood. On the 7th of the month an Indian runner arrived with bad news from the friendly town of Talladega, where a small fort had been built. One hundred and fifty peaceable Creeks were besieged by more than a thousand Red Sticks and their allies. The latter had given the fort three days to surrender, and relied on thirst and hunger to bring their intended victims to terms. The runner who came to Jackson is said to have disguised himself as a hog, in order to escape in the woods near-by. Jackson resolved to save the friendly Indians at any risk. Their faithfulness could not be unrewarded. They had refused all attempts to turn their allegiance, and when the enemy tried to induce them to help whip Jackson’s army and secure the booty that might be expected, they were repulsed with scorn. Just after midnight Jackson began crossing the river with two thousand men, of whom eight hundred were mounted. He relied upon the arrival of General White, with his men, to protect Fort Strother.

It was sun-up of the 8th when the little army came in sight of Talladega, and deployed to right and left, for the purpose of surrounding the hostile Creeks. Only through the bravery of the beleaguered Indians were the companies under Major Russell and Captain Evans saved from an ambush. As they drew near to the fort, the friendly Indians within shouted in welcome:

“How do, brother? How do?”

This they kept up till Major Russell had passed the fort and was headed for the brush-covered creek behind it, where the enemy waited to surprise him. The friendly Creeks tried in vain to call him to a halt, and at last two of them leaped from the walls, ran to his horse’s head, and pointed out the danger. At once the hidden warriors fired on them, and, to quote Crockett’s description of the event, “They came forth like a cloud of Egyptian locusts, screaming as if all the young devils had been turned loose, with the old devil of all at their head. They were all painted scarlet, and were as naked as when they were born.”

Leaving their horses, Russell’s men made for the fort. As the cordon of soldiers rushed to enclose them in an ever-narrowing ring of fire, the ill-fated Red Sticks fell in heaps. Many of them were armed only with bows and arrows—futile weapons, even against flintlock guns. Four hundred painted braves fell before the survivors broke through the line of drafted militia and escaped. When Davy returned that way, a year afterward, he saw the bleaching skulls scattered about like gourds upon a winter field.

At Fort Strother, after returning from Talladega, the volunteers, whose sixty days were long elapsed, asked to go home for fresh horses and clothing, but Jackson, who felt that he needed every man, refused permission. White had failed him, following orders from General Cocke, and the situation was a bad one. The volunteers were within their rights, but the General was determined, and as they prepared to leave, he covered with cannon, and the guns of his other troops, a bridge that must be crossed on leaving camp. Of this affair a dramatic account is given in Eggleston’s history of the war. He tells us that behind the cannoneers with matches lit, their general gave the malcontents a few seconds in which to go back, with the promise of shot and shell if they refused; and then, the story runs, the mutineers gave in and asked for terms.

Davy Crockett says that the discontented volunteers, with flints picked and guns primed, marched across the bridge, amid the clicking of the gun-locks of the militia, some of whom had run at the battle of Talladega. He says they were determined to fight their way, or die together. The merits of this affair are in dispute, but Davy and his company returned to Tennessee, where many reËnlisted after a time. It may be set down for certain that from that day Davy was no friend of Jackson.

When Davy returned to the Creek country, he went to serve the balance of six months, although his term of two months had expired. Jackson now had less than a thousand whites, with about two hundred and fifty Cherokees and friendly Creeks. One of the companies was made up of officers whose men had gone home. Major Russell was in command of a body of scouts, of whom Davy was one.

It is strange that such a small force could not be supplied with provisions. It seems to have been in no way backed up by the Government. But in the East matters had not gone well. Perry’s victory and other naval successes had not made the New Englanders any more loyal. Their pockets had suffered, and the prizes won in privateering were only a partial salve for their losses. The war with the Alabama nations was not regarded as a matter of importance on the Atlantic coast.

It was from the ranks of the ill-fed volunteers of Kentucky and Tennessee that victory was to come. The battle of New Orleans was fought after the conclusion of peace, but the capture of that city by Pakenham would have meant more war. Jackson knew the danger of Indian victories, and with his hungry and ragged troops and scouts fought regardless of odds. Davy Crockett was one of the men who learned to know what hunger was, but he was eager to be in the hottest of the trouble, and never had enough.

In January, 1814, Jackson’s little army pushed on to the Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River, and camped in a hollow square, with every prospect of being attacked by hostiles, who were in great numbers in the vicinity. Two hours before dawn, the pickets were heard firing. Throwing brush on the camp-fires, the volunteers waited for the attack, expecting to see the Indians by the glare of the flames; but the Creeks kept out of sight, and were themselves aided in aiming by the light in the camp. Four whites were killed and a number wounded, and although several charges were made, Jackson found it necessary to retreat. The dead were burned, to prevent their being scalped, and the force fell back to the Enotachopco Creek. Some historians have called this affair a victory!

When the army was about to cross the creek, the savages fell on the rear guard, which Colonel Carroll was commanding. On the right flank Colonel Perkins was in charge, and on the left Colonel Stump. Carroll did his duty bravely, but the other Colonels fled and their men followed them. As Stump rode frantically past Jackson, the General tried to cut down the coward with his sword, but missed him. Colonel Carroll was thus left with only twenty-five men, and was in danger of being cut to pieces by the yelling and triumphant warriors.

Then the scouts under Russell, with the aid of the artillerymen, who had only one six-pound cannon, sprang to the aid of the rear guard, and Davy had a chance to fight that must have satisfied him. While the artillerymen were dragging the piece up the bank of the creek and loading it with grape, Davy’s company, led by old Major Russell, rushed across the stream and attacked the left flank of the Indians, who outnumbered the whites ten to one. Constantine Perkins and Craven Jackson, of the cannoneers, at last swept the ranks of the savages, huddled in the narrow descent to the creek, with a hail of grape. Then the scouts fell on the demoralized enemy, who took to the woods, and Jackson’s army was saved. One hundred and eighty-nine dead Indians were counted after this fight, and twenty volunteers were killed and seventy-five wounded.

It is worth while to consider the iron tenacity of Old Hickory, in the face of such disastrous losses. Practically without an army, and with no supplies for the friendly Creeks, he renewed his appeals to the people of Tennessee and Kentucky, and hopefully awaited their response. Every day of delay made the danger greater, for the Creeks were constantly securing firearms and powder and lead from the British agents at Pensacola.

The spectacle of the English unloading guns and scalping-knives for the savages at a Spanish port has always been miserable to look upon. But in 1865, after the surrender of Lee had ended the Civil War, twenty-five cases of Colt’s Navy revolvers, received via London, were taken from the warehouse of the Confederate Agent at St. George’s in the Bermuda Islands, sold to an American, and sent to New York on the bark Palo Alto. The Southern army had Hartford revolvers, via England and the blockade, with which to fight the brothers of the men who made them. Until the United States Government prohibited the shipping of beef to Nassau, Bermuda, and Havana, there was a supply sent to the Confederates through the blockade, as best it could be, by New York dealers. There is no use in the pot calling the kettle black.

As the volunteers returned to their homes, they stirred the hearts of their neighbors with the story of Jackson’s bravery and self-sacrifice, and the indifference of the people turned to enthusiasm. Before the end of February, Coffee returned to Alabama with two hundred of his old brigade, and there soon followed him two thousand men from Western Tennessee, and two thousand more from the mountains of Eastern Tennessee. Every man was a rifleman. The Choctaws also offered the stubborn General all the warriors of their tribe to fight the Creeks.

After serving about four months instead of the two for which he at first volunteered, Davy Crockett returned to his home, and for some time he was busy in providing for the comfort of his family. After the battle of Tohopeka, in March, 1814, in which Jackson completely routed the hostile Creeks, the victorious General made plans for an attack on Pensacola, which port the British fleet was using as if it were under the “gridiron” flag. Davy has said of this time: “I determined to go again with them [to Pensacola] as I wanted a small taste of British fighting, and I supposed they would be there.” It was in vain that Polly Crockett begged him to change his mind. Under the command of Major Russell, he crossed the Tennessee at Mussel Shoals, and at the junction of the Alabama and the Tombigbee Rivers, was two days behind the main army of General Jackson. Here they found the horses of the army, and left their own, as forage was not to be had nearer to Pensacola. With their guns, blankets, and provisions, they made the march of nearly eighty miles in two days, and came in sight of the town and of the British fleet, which lay off the port.

It was now November of the year 1814, and as Jackson had made terms with the Indians, and had occupied Pensacola, he marched his army to New Orleans, where the British were defeated in the following January. As Crockett was now at liberty to go home, he did so, but he was a long time getting there.

A careless reading of his story of this period of his adventurous life is utterly confusing, but with a better understanding of his meaning, the account is a logical one. Davy called things as he was accustomed to hear them called, and when he speaks of the Scamby River, meaning the Escambia, or calls the Conecuh, the Conaker, he gives the best proof that in his relation he was not indebted to the imagination of an educated and inventive editor. In Eggleston’s intensely interesting history of the Creek War, the author tells us that after his treaty with the Creek nation, August 14, 1814, General Jackson went back to The Hermitage, because his work was done, and that for a year Red Eagle, the vanquished chief, was his guest. But from Hickory Grove, the place of the treaty, Jackson must have gone to Pensacola, which he occupied November 7, 1814; and as he fought the battle of New Orleans in January, 1815, it is a cause for wonder that any historian should make a statement so far from facts known to the ordinary schoolboy.

It was in November that Davy and his regiment set out for Tennessee. Just how long the trip lasted, we do not know, but before it ended they met volunteers from the Tennessee mountains bound to New Orleans. Among them was a younger brother of Davy’s, as well as many of his old neighbors. The regiment to which Davy belonged seems to have gone to Fort Montgomery, near Fort Mims, and then towards Pensacola, and back and forth between the Choctawhatchee and Escambia Rivers, intent, for the most part, on getting something to eat. Some of their adventures are of interest, but must be referred to without any attempt to fix their dates. Davy tells them as they happen to come into his head, and his book was written twenty years after.

On reaching the Escambia, they found a flooded country, and waded a mile and a half in cold water up to their shoulders. Reaching the high land and yellow pine timber, they were drying themselves when their spies came “leaping the brush like so many old bucks,” with the news that they had found a hostile Creek camp. After the braves and Major Russell had been suitably decorated with war-paint they set out for the place, but before they reached it, two of their Choctaw scouts treacherously killed two Creeks whom they had met. The fight was thus prevented, as the firing alarmed the Creek camp, and the hostiles made good their escape. Davy’s party found that the scouts had already cut off the heads of the Creeks, and each warrior in turn walked up to the heads and struck them with a war-club. Davy says that after he had done this, the Choctaws danced about him, struck him on his shoulders, and called him “Warrior! Warrior!”

Soon after this they found a Spaniard and his wife and four children killed and scalped, and Davy says the sight made him feel “ticklish.”

After scouting about between the Escambia and the Choctawhatchee, the regiment divided, a part going to Baton Rouge, where they joined Jackson on his way to New Orleans. From now on, Davy was looking out for his stomach, hunting everything alive along the trail. Hawks, squirrels, small birds, gophers, and even wood-rats, were thrown into one pile each night by the hunters, and then divided.

One evening Davy came in without fur or feather for the pile; but there was a sick man in his mess, and Davy intended to feed him, even if he himself went hungry. He found Captain Cowen, his commander, broiling a turkey gizzard, and was told that the turkey had been killed by Major Smiley, and divided among the sick. Davy went straight to Smiley’s camp-fire, and he, too, was broiling a turkey’s gizzard. Davy told the Major that it was the first time he had heard of a turkey with two gizzards, but it ended with the sick man going hungry.

The next morning, Davy and his mess went on ahead, desperate with hunger. There appears to have been no attempt to preserve military discipline. For three days they went without food, and were ready to “lie down and die.” At last they came to a wide prairie, crossed it, and found a large creek and wooded bottom-lands. Then a squirrel was seen, and Davy shot him, but the stricken animal managed to get into a hole in the tree, thirty feet from the ground. Davy climbed the tree, without a limb to help him, and fished the dead creature out of the hole. He says that showed how hungry he was. Shortly after he and the man with him shot two more squirrels, and also started up a flock of wild turkeys, finally killing two of them. The hunters then raised a shout, and were soon joined by the rest of their party, when they cooked the game and ate it, without salt or bread. The next day a relief corps came back with a small quantity of flour and other food from Fort Decatur, and some bee-trees were also found, the honey making some of the men sick.

Reaching Fort Decatur, the company could get no more than one ration of meat, and no bread. Davy, who never spared himself, crossed the river and went to Black Warrior’s town, where he tried to buy food. Taking off his large hat, he offered an Indian a silver dollar if he would fill it with corn. The Indian had no corn, but he told Davy of another of the tribe, who had some left. When the latter was asked to sell part of his precious store, he refused silver.

“You got some bullet?” he asked.

Davy produced ten bullets, for which he got his hatful of corn.

The Indian weighed the matter in his mind, and asked again, “You got some powder?”

For ten charges of powder another hatful was bought, and tied up in Davy’s hunting-shirt. He said that fifty silver dollars would not have bought it. After much tramping, going out of the way to get rations, and leaving as many as thirteen horses played out in a single day, they reached Fort Strother, on the Tennessee, where there was at last plenty of food. Here it was that the volunteers going to New Orleans were met, among them Davy’s younger brother.

From there Davy went directly home to his family. “I found them all well, and doing well,” he says, “and although I was only a rough backwoodsman, they seemed mighty glad to see me, however little the quality folks might suppose it. For I do reckon we love as hard in the backwoods country as any people in the whole creation.”