From the general estimate of Indian character, one would be slow to believe the savage capable of gratitude, but even with the Indian, instances of this virtue are not altogether wanting, one among which was displayed at the horrible massacre of Fort Mims. Of the seventeen who escaped death from that tragedy of blood and fire, was a mother and her eight children.

That they should have been found together by a certain Indian warrior, who was enabled to give full expression to his gratitude, was providential. The story is well worthy a place in our annals. Years before this terrible holocaust at Fort Mims, an Indian boy, an outcast and an orphan, in his friendless wandering, found his way to the home of a Scotchman in the wilds of South Alabama, whose name was McGirth, who had married a half-breed. Touched by the condition of the off-cast Indian waif, the good Mrs. McGirth not only fed and clad him, but took him into the home, cared for him, and reared him as her own son. The Indian boy, Sonata, grew to manhood beneath the McGirth roof, and shared in common with the children of the family, the moderate comforts of the frontier home.

After Sonata became a man, he took leave of the home, and joined himself to the Creek tribe of which he was a member. The McGirths lost sight of Sonata, Sonata of his benefactors. Years with their changes came and went, and Sonata was in the upper counties with his people.When the war began, he was one of the braves who enlisted under Weatherford in the campaign of extermination which led to the slaughter at Fort Mims. He was among the foremost to enter the ill-fated fort, and do deadly execution. In his death-dealing blows, Sonata came suddenly on a woman, somewhat advanced in life, behind whom crouched a number of children. With upraised hands, she pleaded, as did all others, that she and hers might be spared. In the wild tide of death, while the slaughter was at its height, the uplifted hand of Sonata was suddenly stayed. There was something in the voice of the pleading woman that was familiar to the ear of the savage, and his tomahawk was arrested in mid-air. He looked into her face, and while the woman did not recognize him, he did her, and in the excitement of the carnage that was rampant, he dropped his tomahawk and led the woman and her children to a corner of the fort, and took a position of defense in their behalf. Again and again, efforts were made to reach them, but he stood sentinel over the group, and suffered not a hair of their heads to be touched, claiming that they were his slaves, and must not be disturbed. It was his foster mother, Mrs. McGirth.

It so happened that when the alarm was first given to the settlements to repair to the fort, Mr. McGirth was away from home, in another part of the country on business, for he was a trader, and did not return till after the slaughter at the fort. When the horrors of the massacre were over, Sonata mounted his prisoners on horseback and sped them away to his home far up on the Coosa. He feared that should they remain in the neighborhood of the fort, even in the camp of the Indians, he would be unable to restrain the ferocity of the savages, hence their flight to the upper country. Nor did the grateful protege leave his former foster mother and her group, till he saw them comfortable in his own wigwam beside the Coosa. This done, and he hurried back to rejoin his command. When hostilities in the South partly subsided, Sonata sought again his home to see that Mrs. McGirth was cared for.

The seat of war was transferred from the south to the upper counties, and Weatherford was preparing to encounter General Jackson, who was descending from Tennessee to destroy Weatherford and his command. Sonata had been at home for some time, and when he felt that it was his duty to re-enlist against Jackson, he arranged for the flight of Mrs. McGirth and her children, should he fall in battle.

In the bloody conflict of Cholocco Litabixee, where a thousand painted warriors met Jackson in battle, only two hundred survived. Among the slain was the grateful Sonata, the news of whose death reaching Mrs. McGirth, she hastened with her family to the south. All who had previously known her, thought of her only as dead, among whom was her broken-hearted husband, who had long ago given up his family as among those who had perished at Fort Mims. He had settled at Mobile a sad and broken-hearted man, and sought diversion of his sorrow in business. One day, while he was laboring on the wharf at Mobile, there was suddenly ushered into his presence his entire group, still unbroken. He stared at them as though they had strayed from the land of the dead. He stood fixed like a statue, with his face as expressionless as the surface of a lake. He was dumb. This was followed by a nervousness that made him shake as with an ague. He stared till he realized the truth of their deliverance, when he burst into uncontrollable weeping, and wept till he no more had power to weep.

The story following his return to Mobile after the massacre was a sad one. He had gone immediately to the scene of the slaughter, hoping to recognize his loved ones and give them decent burial, but flames had disfigured the faces of all, now lying charred and blackened in death, and the utmost he could do, was to aid in the burial of all, presuming that among them somewhere, were his own loved ones.

To the rescued Mrs. McGirth is history largely indebted for a detailed description of the scenes enacted at Fort Mims. Though an uneducated woman, she was endowed with a remarkable fund of common sense, and without extravagance, gave the fullest account of the dreadful slaughter. Her kindness to the poor Indian boy saved her in the direst extremity of her life. “Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days.”