Meanwhile most of the Indians had surrounded Mcintosh's house, and torches of the fat pine were used to set it on fire. The red men danced around the burning building, yelling, and crying out, "Mcintosh, we have come, we have come! We told you if you sold the land to the Georgians we would come. Now we have come!" At the first alarm Mcintosh had barricaded his front door. He stood near it; and when it was broken down, he fired upon his assailants. At that moment, one of his firmest friends, Toma Tustenuggee, who had thrown himself upon the party at the door, fell on the threshold, riddled with bullets. General Mcintosh then retreated to the second story with four guns, which he continued to fire from the windows.
The flames drove him from the second story to the first floor again. He fought bravely to the end, but was soon compelled to expose himself to the fire of his enemies. He fell to the floor, pierced by many bullets, and was dragged into the yard by his heels. He breathed defiance to the last, and was finally stabbed to death. After this savage deed, the Indians plundered the houses, killed such cattle as they could find, and committed other outrages. A small party of the Indians had followed Hawkins the evening before. His house was surrounded about daybreak the next morning, and he was ordered to come out. He refused, and defended himself the best he could; but he was finally taken prisoner and tied, until the fate of Mcintosh was known. Then he was murdered, and his body thrown into the river near where he lived. The Indians marched back to the Tallapoosa country with the scalps of these unfortunate men. Mcintosh's scalp was suspended from a pole in the public square of Ocfuskee, and young and old danced around it with shouts of joy.
General Mcintosh was a cousin of Governor Troup, being the son of Governor Troup's uncle, Captain William Mcintosh, who was frequently on the Chattahoochee before the breaking-out of the Revolution.
REMOVAL OF THE CHEROKEES.
When Georgia had begun to recover its breath, after the difficulties with the Creeks, the people had time to discover that they had a much more serious problem to deal with in the Cherokee nation, which occupied all the northwestern portion of the State. Those who mingled thrift with their benevolence, and had the courage to think about the future of the whites as well as the future of the savages, thought that both ends would be attained by making a permanent settlement for the Indians beyond the Mississippi River. Those whose benevolence was a mixture of sentimentality and romantic misinformation thought the Indians ought to be left where contact with the whites would tend to civilize and Christianize them. Consequently there were two parties to the discussion, and a good deal of practical selfishness at the bottom of it all. There used to be an old song running in this wise,—
"All I want in this creation,
Is a pretty little wife and a big plantation
Away up yonder in the Cherokee nation,"—
and this song no doubt represented the real feeling behind the whole matter. The big plantation was what was really wanted. At the same time it should not be forgotten that it was for the benefit of the Indians as well as the whites that they should be settled in a section where they would remain undisturbed. This policy has been proven by time to be the true one.
Travelers and romancers have done no end of harm by exalting the Indian character, covering up its faults, and exaggerating its merits. Romance has made great heroes of the Indians; but in the whole history of the red men, so far as it has been faithfully chronicled, the names of the Indians of unmixed blood who are worth remembering can be counted on the fingers of two hands.