Land of the Free (44 page)

“Just a moment, please.”
Madison opened a drawer and searched through files, selected one
and opened it on his desk. “Let me see. There was company of sixty
militiamen to defend the island and fifty carpenters, caulkers,
ship-joiners, sawyers and assorted skilled craftsmen awaiting him
at Presque Isle.”

“According to the locals the
militia had no weapons or powder and most of the townspeople had
fled fearing that the shipyard would attract British
attacks.”

Madison closed the file. “My
information all came from Commodore Isaac Chauncey’s report. Is
there some unknown enmity between Percy and Chauncey?”

“I have no information about
that, sir, but I can say that there would be no new ships on Lake
Erie without Commandant Percy.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I’m
very relieved to hear that.”

“I have more cause for
relief, sir.” With a grin, Yank drew a folded sheaf of paper from
his inside coat pocket. “Your orders relieving General Hull.” He
handed them to Madison.

“Well, well,” Madison
said, glancing over the documents. “You have done an excellent job
as usual, Colonel. Excellent.” He refolded the pages and put them
in his top desk drawer where he seemed to discover a thick, bound
report. He took it from the drawer and dropped it on his desk with
a thud. “This is a report that I just received concerning
the
Red Sticks.
What do you think of it, Colonel?”

Yank was not sure what the
President was asking. “It’s very handsome, sir.”

“Fluff with no substance.”
Madison opened the book. “Do you know anything of the Red Sticks,
Colonel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then can you help me
understand them? What I have here is a cultural dissertation more
suited for a classroom than as a basis for decision making. There
are a hundred pages beginning with two full pages speculating about
the derivation of the term ‘red sticks’.”

“I don’t know much beyond
the fact that they’re Creeks primarily from the Upper Towns and
that they are supporters of Tecumseh.”

“This report says that they
have declared war on their own people.”

“Well, in a way that’s true,
sir. The Red Sticks, like Tecumseh, are aggressive supporters of
tradition and they attack other Creeks who herd domesticated
animals, farm, wear clothing of spun cloth or use metal tools and
cooking utensils such as pots and pans.”

Madison nodded. “In one of
your earlier reports to me you made mention of the British in
Pensacola supplying weapons to the Creeks and
Seminoles.”

“Yes, sir. Andrew Jackson
told me it was common.”

“Recent information
indicates that the practice has increased to the point where trains
of packhorses are being employed by a trader named Peter McQueen to
supply the Red Sticks. I’d be grateful if you would investigate
that a little deeper.”

“Yes, sir. But Peter McQueen
is half Scottish, half Creek, and more warrior than
trader.”

Madison made a note. “Do you
know General F. L. Claiborne?”

“Yes, sir. I served with him
under General Wayne. We were close friends.”

“I have a report here from
General Flournoy stating that he has ordered General Claiborne to
march from Baton Rouge to Fort Stoddard, on the Mobile River.
Perhaps you can join him there.”

“Stoddard? Is he
there?”

Madison shook his head. “No.
He’s with Governor Harrison in the Indiana Territory. The fort is
named Stoddard but I cannot say for whom it was so named. Is
General F. L. Claiborne related to Governor W. C. C.
Claiborne?”

“They’re brothers,
sir.”

“The family seems to prefer
initials to names.”

“The general is Ferdinand
Leigh Claiborne and the governor is William Charles Cole Claiborne,
Mr. President.”

“How do you keep track of
all these people?”

“I don’t know, sir. It must
be hereditary. My grandmother seems to know everyone in the entire
country, if not the whole world.”

Madison smiled. “Your
grandmother is a formidable woman. Had she been born male she would
have undoubtedly ruled the whole world.”

Yank chuckled. “If you’ll
forgive me, sir, it would not be a world in which I would choose to
live.”

July 30, 1813

Mt. Vernon, Alabama
Territory

Yank was sitting on his
horse in the midst of running people.

General F. L. Claiborne,
halted his column then trotted his horse forward and reached across
his saddle to shake hands. “What’s going on here, Yank?”

“Panic, General. It seems
that a Colonel named James Caller led a fairly substantial force of
regulars and militia to interdict a trade between a band of Red
Sticks led by Peter McQueen at a place called Burnt Corn Creek. The
results were apparently disastrous. The Red Sticks are now saying
that Caller’s attack constituted a declaration of war and that they
intend to kill every white man, woman and child that remains on
traditional Creek lands.”

“Who is Peter
McQueen?”

“He’s a half Creek, half
Scotsman who calls himself a trader. Most recently he’s been
trading his loyalty to the British for weapons and
powder.”

“I don’t understand what
brought all this on.”

“Brought what
on?”

“Caller’s attack. What was
McQueen doing to warrant it?”

“Well, it appears that
Colonel Caller’s commanding officer received information stating
that McQueen and a small party of Red Sticks had ridden to
Pensacola with a letter from a British officer at Fort Malden and
four hundred dollars to buy muskets and other munitions. Caller was
ordered by his commanding officer to intercept them on the way back
before the merchandise could be distributed.”

“Who is Caller’s commanding
officer and what does he command?”

“I don’t know his name, sir,
but he commands a fort called Mims.”

“Where is Fort
Mims?”

“I don’t know where that is
either.”

“Where is Colonel
Caller?”

“Missing. The stragglers
from his command that I’ve spoken to don’t know if he’s dead or
alive. Apparently most of them joined Caller on the march to battle
and none are from Fort Mims.”

“Do you know where Fort
Stoddard is?”

“Yes. That I do know.” Yank
pointed to a stockade. “That’s it.”

“Not much of a
fort.”

“There’s a whole chain of
poorly built defensive stockades that’re called forts spread out
between the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers. Most have no military
presence. Not even a squad of militia. Just settlers with
pitchforks, blunderbusses and a few squirrel guns.”

“I asked General Flournoy to
let me march right into the heart of the Creek nation but he says
it’s a matter for Governor Holmes and his territorial
militia.”

“Have you spoken to Governor
Holmes about it?”

“I can’t. I’ve been
expressly forbidden from becoming involved in what General Flournoy
is calling the Creek Civil War.”

“Maybe I can talk to
Holmes.”

“You’ll be putting your neck
in a noose.”

“Possibly.” Yank was looking
at Claiborne’s brigade. “Would it be a violation of your orders to
distribute some of your troops to man the undefended
stockades?”

Claiborne looked around at
the terrified citizens. “Is the threat real?”

“Yes. And imminent, I
think.”

“Well then,” Claiborne said
wearily, “I’m going to say that it would not be a violation of my
orders and hope for the best.” He turned in his saddle and signaled
the bugler forward. “Officers call.” When the bugle sounded, he
raised his hand and circled it above his head to indicate that he
wanted his officers to assemble on him. “You’re going to have to
help me place them, Yank.”

Yank was still sizing up the
force as the officers came forward. “Well, General, I just got here
myself, so the first thing I’d recommend would be to send out your
dragoons to nose around for more information.”

Claiborne didn’t wait for
Yank to continue. “Major Hinds?”

“Sir.”

“We need eyes out
there.”

“Yes, sir.” The major turned
his horse and ran back along the column as other officers were
still coming forward.

“What’s the ground around
here like?” Claiborne asked Yank.

“There’s an old Spanish
blockhouse at St. Stephen’s that would make a reasonably good
lookout post to watch the north. The ground at the confluence of
Tombigbee and Alabama would be a good place to pick a big
fight.”

“Colonel Carson?” Claiborne
shouted.

“Yes, General?”

“Take two hundred men to the
confluence of the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers, find a good
position and start building defenses.”

“Yes, sir.” Carlson wheeled
his horse and rode away.

Claiborne looked expectantly
at Yank who was still counting men.

“If you can spare a
company,” Yank said, “there’s a fort at Okeatapa on the Choctaw
frontier that we should try to keep under our control.”

“Did you hear that, Captain
Dent?” Claiborne asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Carry on.” Claiborne
answered the captain’s salute then turned to his remaining
officers. “Colonel Dorman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take command. That sorry
stockade over there is the Fort Stoddard that we’re supposed to
defend. See what can be done about improving it while I take a ride
with Colonel Van Buskirk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Claiborne
said.

August 31, 1813

Fort Stoddard, Alabama
Territory

“Yank? Are you in here?”
General Claiborne held an oil lamp above his head and stumbled into
the dark barn. “Yank?”

“Here.” Yank sat
up.

“Why are you sleeping in a
corn crib?”

“I get these bad headaches
since Detroit and they make me sick to my stomach. I wanted to be
away from everybody. What’s wrong?”

“Red Sticks attacked Fort
Mims this morning and massacred every man, woman and child, just as
they threatened. The early reports are over five hundred
dead.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Yank climbed
out of the corn crib and groped in the dark for his boots. “Mims
was packed with refugee families from the lower towns.”

Claiborne nodded. “A lot of
them were mixed blood, Creek families. But the report says that
everyone was slaughtered, white, Indian and mixed
blood.”

“Do you want me to go wake
Governor Holmes and put a pistol to his head?”

“Yes. Then I want you to go
ask Governor Blount of Tennessee to send us Andy Jackson and the
Tennessee militia.”

Yank stamped his boot on.
“Do you know Jackson?”

“Yes. From when he marched
his militia to New Orleans. I’ve never seen a finer
leader.”

“It’ll take me a
week.”

“Make it as fast as you
can.”

September 4,
1813

Nashville,
Tennessee

Yank had been in the saddle
almost constantly for nearly five days and had worn out more horses
than he could count. He arrived in Nashville at about 8:00 AM where
he was surprised to find the streets around Court House Square
nearly empty and many of the businesses closed. Fearing that
something terrible had happened, he proceeded to the post office,
tied his horse at the rail and went inside. “Hello. Is anyone
here?”

A clerk appeared behind the
counter but kept very close to the wall as he watched the street
nervously. “Can I help you, Colonel?”

“There’s nobody out there.”
Yank gestured toward the street. “Has something
happened?”

“No, sir, but somethin’s
about to happen. General Jackson’s fixin’ to kill Colonel
Benton.”

“Thomas Benton?” Yank asked
in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thomas Hart Benton?” Yank
clarified.

“Yes, sir. Thomas Hart
Benton.”

“That can’t be. They’re the
best of friends and political allies.”

“It’s the truth, sir. The
Benton brothers is right over there at City Hotel and Jackson’s
coming down from the Hermitage to kill ‘em both.”

“Why, for the love of God?
What happened?”

“When Tom Benton was in
Washington last month, his brother, Jesse, insulted Captain
Carroll. I don’t know Captain Carroll’s first name, do
you?”

Yank shook his
head.

“Anyway, Carroll challenged
Jesse to a duel and named General Jackson as his second. They met;
Carroll got a piece of his thumb shot off and Jesse got grazed in
the ass. When Tom Benton got home and found out about it, he called
the general every kind of low name and swore revenge. They been
insultin’ each other ever since, and it looks like today’s the
showdown.”