Few of us have as yet received much in specie, except for the division of the moveable goods taken aboard our thirty-one prizes (to the Navy alone; I have no count for the privateers) and is not being spent to repair the flagship. (Naval stores are terribly dear in France, after so many years of blockade.) All the prize agents in France could not command enough specie to pay what is owed us just for the prizes we sent in, to say nothing of what we burned.
However, we have agreed with the French that they will provide us with a lading of lace, silks, and brandy, sure to fetch a good price in America. They are sending it to America in two of their own
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Thomas Parker to Joshua Parker, somewhere in northern Georgia, December, 1813
Brother, We are very far from any place where a letter can be posted, so for all I know this letter may be found on my body by someone who will burn it. If it's a Red Stick, I hope he thinks it's a curse on him. I wish it was.
But if you read this at all-I did become captain of the First Company in Donelson's Rangers. The Donelsons are close friends, maybe even kin, to Old Hickory, but they don't have any men of the right quality to lead it, so the name is Jackson's way of flattering them. I don't much care about what name I fight under, and the Second Company is under a man of Pennsylvania stock, named Kleinschmidt. He's a fine shot and there are plenty of Duchies in Pennsylvania, but from what I hear about him, his father might have been a Hessian deserter, so Old Hickory would never make him a major. Not having a major doesn't matter much anyway, seeing as how the moon will turn blue before the two companies fight in the same battle.
Anyway, we struck off across country, keeping to the hills to have the high ground but marking routes for larger columns with heavier loads. We probably still left a trail so that any Creeks who followed us got short of breath only by laughing themselves into a fit.
The white settlers had been pretty well burned out or driven into stockades, and the stockades themselves were running short of food. We told people that if they had guns, their best chance was to get as far toward the Ohio as they could, and be ready to eat fish and their last hardtack all the way downriver. They looked at us kind of the way Job must have looked at the people who tried to comfort him after he'd lost everything…
We were two days beyond a place called Presley's Spring when we decided to send out a hunting party, thinking we were clear of hostiles and knowing we were in good deer country. Well, the hostiles-Choctaws, I think-had circled around wide enough that with the rain of the night and the early part of the day we hadn't heard them.
Then half of them came running out of the trees, making as much noise as they could, and the other half sneaked up on us like snakes, on their bellies and just about as quiet. They didn't have more than a single musket and I think their archers must have had wet bowstrings, or they'd have knocked a bunch of us down before rushing us.
We'd made a run for a hillside that would give us high ground with cover, but knew that it was maybe five hundred yards and we'd lose a man every hundred if we were lucky. I said my prayers, particularly thanks for having a tomahawk. It hits harder than a sword and reaches far enough.
Then suddenly we had about fifteen or twenty men running at the Choctaws, and without stopping five of them fired muskets. They shouldn't have hit anything, firing on the run, but the range was so close that they probably could have hit the Choctaws with a thrown pumpkin. Anyway, three Choctaws went down. A sixth man fired a pistol and hit a fourth Choctaw, who let out a terrible scream and grabbed his belly.
Then the newcomers were in among the Choctaws, using knives, tomahawks, and musket butts. We stopped running when the Choctaws got busy with the newcomers, and did the same, except that some of our men had reloaded and some of these had a clear shot. The range was fifty yards at most, and all of us could hit a man at two hundred.
More Choctaws went down. Others ran. Still others charged us while we were reloading. We were fighting them hand to hand in front, and the others were doing them same behind them, with everybody shouting and screaming.
The shouting and the war paint made me sure we had Choctaws against us and Cherokees on our side. I don't speak enough Cherokee to do more than be polite if I meet one of them out hunting. I did shout back what I hoped sounded like thanks.
After a while, there weren't any more live Choctaws, at least on their feet. T Some of them had been close enough to hear the shooting and ran back, coming empty-handed but too late for the fight. I told them to set snares for rabbits. Finally the deer hunters came back, enough to go around, including a great big buck.
When we'd done eating, I handed the buck's hide to the woman, whose name was Caroline Pineraft Bearkiller. She looked at it, and grinned. Her teeth weren't much worse than mine.
"Do you want to court me?" Then she turned to her war party and told them what she'd asked, only she used a much ruder word than "court."
I'd heard that Cherokee women were plain-spoken, but I was glad it was twilight so nobody could see me blushing.
"Well," I said. "There are other ways of sleeping warm, beside that. A good buckskin is one of them." She nodded, took the buckskin, sat down with it across her knees, and began looking at it for holes.
I laughed, and then waved Lieutenant Goble and three of the four sergeants over to me. (The fourth was tending to the cooking, but I didn't worry much about him. He's fifty years old and has nine children and fourteen grandchildren.).
"Nobody even looks strange at Caroline Bearkiller," I told them. "If you do, her warriors might kill you. Or she might decide to change her name to Mankiller. Or I might kill you."
Brother, if you read this after I am gone, find Caroline Pineraft Bearkiller or her family and give them whatever a Cherokee warrior gives a woman he would like to court, in my name. I hope and pray that even if I don't walk out to Georgia, she will.
By my hope of heaven and my fear of hell,
Thomas
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Joshua Parker to Thomas Parker, Nantes, France,
January 12, 1814
Brother,
The English papers assure the world that the Indians are sweeping all before them in Georgia, as Wellington is in Spain and the allies in Germany. I permit myself to hope that if the part about the Indians is true, they have not swept you up.
We have reason to believe that the papers are telling the truth, about the fall of New Orleans. Whether they are also truthful in saying that the French inhabitants of the city would not fight to remain under American rule, is a matter for speculation. Can you add to our knowledge of these circumstances?
Any possession of that city gives the British a military advantage, through holding the mouth of the Mississippi and barring the commerce of the settlers in the great river's valley. They might also be able to carve out their dreamed-of "Indian homeland." Does anyone believe this reflects anything but a desire to use them as catspaws against the United States?
Indeed, by the terms of the original Treaty of San Iledefonso, by which the French gained Louisiana from Spain, the French had no right to sell the territory to President Jefferson and he had no right to buy it! When we were at peace and the Spanish at war with the British, this clearly mattered little. But now that Spain and Britain are allies, with the British using Florida, could the British Crown not find a pretext for «protecting» their allies' territory from the dreadful Yankees and so remain in occupation of New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana in perpetuity?