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.