Douglas Watson was about eighteen years of age, six feet in height, and boasted of possessing a well developed muscular frame. His companion, Fitzpatrick, was an orphan boy, who had the temerity common to adventurous youth to follow Watson in these wilds.
Seated by their camp fire Dunlap explained to Watson the invigorating effect the water in the canebrake, at the foot of the hills, had had upon him in his fainting condition the day previous, when the whole party again sought the cooling spring, and, after search, found it. This was Indian Spring, and this was the first party of whites who are known to have drunk of its water. At this gathering Watson admitted to his comrades that about a month previous he had found the spring, but in consequence of its smelling like gunpowder he fled the vicinity.
Watson and Cochran were scouts, sent out by the Government in the Spring of 1792. Fitzpatrick was the shadow of Watson; and Dunlap divulged to his new friends his history and mission while they lingered around the spring.
Dunlap's History.
To be brief: Twelve years previous, during an Indian raid in Bibb County, a little friend—a ward of his father—was stolen and carried away. Then and there, ere the triumphant yells of the foe were silenced, he had registered an oath in Heaven, which was baptized by the falling rain, never again to seek peace until he found it in the rescue of "Bright Eyes"—his lost Nora. Since that hour his home had been between the Towaliga and Ocmulgee, and his whole exertion was to find the lost one and restore her to her friends.
A Battle and Retreat.
In the morning the party left the Spring, traveling down stream, but in a few moments the shoals were reached. Here was another mystery, which to Watson appeared more wonderful than did the gunpowder spring. They had traveled down stream; of this they were certain; yet they encountered an opposite current, and were amazed. Fitzpatrick, however, soon explored the vicinity and discovered the meeting of the waters near the Spring. Here two creeks, running in almost opposite directions, met fraternally and formed the Big Sandy, which then flowed in an easterly direction until it united with the Ocmulgee.
Crossing at the foot of the shoals, the party started down the stream, hunting and traveling leisurely. Noon found them at a little spring near the present site of Tanner's bridge, where they halted, kindled a fire, and prepared to cook the choice bits of game they had secured. Here they were again doomed to be disappointed; for suddenly their foe burst upon them in overwhelming numbers. The odds were fearful, but rather than surrender—which would have been death—the contest was entered upon.
Many heroes whose names emblazon the pages of history never exhibited the coolness and calculating courage of Ben Fitzpatrick in his first battle. He stood fearlessly by the side of his companions, fighting bravely until Cochran fell senseless, having been struck by the war club of an Indian. As the Indian stooped to scalp his victim, Ben plunged his hunting knife to his heart, and, when the brave uttered his death yell, the boy attempted to remove his wounded comrade. At this moment young Watson handed Ben his gun, gathered up Cochran, and crying out "Now is our time, Ben," ran through the creek into the dark swamp beyond.