The Holy Ground was surrounded by a region of loveliness. For seven months in the year the virgin soil of the prairie was carpeted with luxuriant grasses, dashed here and there with patches of pink and crimson bloom, while the wild red strawberry, in occasional beds of native loveliness, lent additional charm. Enclosed by high pickets rudely riven by savage hands, and girdled by the magic circle of the prophets, the Holy Ground was thought to be impregnable. Here Weatherford was attacked by General Claiborne at the head of the Mississippi militia, on December 23, 1813, the day before Christmas eve. To Claiborne’s command was attached a body of friendly Choctaw Indians under Pushmataha.
General Claiborne began the attack with a storm. Weatherford led his troops with consummate skill and unquestioned courage, but to little effect. The fact that he, the notorious leader at Fort Mims, was in command, whetted the desire of the Mississippians not alone to defeat him, but to capture him. In spite of the false security promised the Indian by their prophets, and in spite of the valor of their idol chief, they melted rapidly before the deadly aim of the Mississippi backwoodsmen. Seeing that the battle would be against him, Weatherford with skill worthy any great commander, slipped the women and children across the Alabama, while he still fought with ability, and while his men were piled around him in heaps, he fought to the bitter end, and was the last to quit the field. When all hope was gone, he mounted his noble charger and sped away like an arrow towards the Alabama River.
He was hotly pursued by a detachment of dragoons, who almost surrounded the chieftain before he fled the field. Down the wide path leading toward the river, the hoofs of the horses of the pursued and the pursuers thundered. There was no hope of escape for Weatherford, but to reach the river in advance, and swim across. Hemmed in on every side, he was forced to a summit overlooking the stream at the height of almost one hundred feet of perpendicular bluff. On the precipice the bold leader halted for a moment, like a monument against the distant sky. Splendidly he sat his horse, as his pursuers thundered toward him, and with taunting shouts called to him that he was caught at last. He coolly raised his rifle to his eye, and brought down the foremost horseman, then slowly turning down a deep defile which no one would dare to tread, he slid his horse down the stony surface which broke abruptly off about fifty feet above the river. Putting spurs to the sides of the beautiful animal, it leaped with its brave rider on its back into the seething current below. Just before the water was reached, Weatherford leaped from the horse’s back. The horse went down to rise no more, while Weatherford, still holding his rifle aloft, with one hand, swam to the opposite side and thus escaped with deeper vengeance against the white man than ever before. He was yet to lead his troops in other battles, and to fight while there was hope of success.
The world instinctively honors a brave man. This valorous chief had withstood overpowering numbers during the day, had saved his women and children, and now as a December night came down on that sad day of defeat, he stood on the north bank of the Alabama drenched and cold, but nerved by a spirit as heroic as ever had place in the bosom of man. Though an Indian, Weatherford was an ideal hero. Fear he knew not, and while the most daring of fighters, he was never reckless. His power of collection was simply marvelous.
WEATHERFORD’S OVERTHROW
Weatherford met his downfall at the battle of Tohopeka. This was the last battle ever fought by the Indians in Alabama. In a long succession of engagements, Weatherford, though fighting bravely, had incurred defeat. His warriors slain almost to the last man, he would rally another force, inspire his wild troops with fresh hope and new courage; and again offer battle to General Jackson. The limit of his resources was now in the force which he had summoned on the Tallapoosa, where with unusual desperation the Indians had resolved to make the last stand.
Weatherford had selected his own ground for the final contest, and it was well chosen. In a long loop of the river near the further end of the entrance to which was an Indian village called Tohopeka. Across the entrance, or neck, there was erected a bulwark of heavy, seasoned logs, which fortification extended from bank to bank of the stream the distance of about three hundred yards. This defense was about ten feet high, with a double row of portholes from which the Indians could fire simultaneously, as a part would stand upright, and the other would shoot on their knees. Protected by the river on the flanks and in the rear, they were able to concentrate their fire solely to the front. With a deadly aim, and shielded by their breastworks of logs, they felt that they could pick off the assaulting party, one by one, and thus utterly destroy the army of Jackson.
Behind this formidable bulwark were gathered one thousand two hundred Indian warriors from the towns of Oakfuskee, Hillabee, New Yauka and Eufaula. These were desperate men, well armed, and each confident of dealing a final blow to Jackson’s army. Weatherford had summoned to the occasion the principal prophets of the nation, who inspired the dusky defenders with the belief that it was impossible for them to fall, because in this present emergency the Great Spirit would give them the victory. The more to inspire the troops, the prophets themselves proposed to share in the battle, and arrayed in their blankets of red, with their heads bearing coronets of varied feathers, while about their shoulders were capes of brilliant plumage of red, black, blue, green and yellow, they joined the Indian ranks. About their ankles were tiny bells of different tones, the jingle of which they kept up during the battle, while occasionally they would leap, dance, and howl in inspiration of the warriors. Weatherford was too sensible a man to attach any importance to the sacredness of their claims, but he was solicitous to elicit to the utmost the fighting mettle of his men. To the rude and ridiculous incantations of the prophets he would add his matchless eloquence, in bringing his troops to the highest pitch of desperation.