The edge of the clearing and adjacent woods overflowed with campsites of American soldiers. Two thousand militiamen under the command of Brigadier General Thomas Johnson had arrived at Fort Strother from Nashville. Complementing the two thousand were two thousand more brought by Brigadier General George Doherty from Knoxville two days earlier. With both contingents came sufficient supplies, arms, and rations for a month.
General Jackson was ecstatic. With more than four thousand six hundred soldiers and six hundred Cherokees and friendly Lower Creeks in camp, he felt he could now go after the heart of the Creek Nation.
“Gentlemen,” he announced at an evening staff meeting, “spring will soon arrive. We must be ready. We have little time to settle on correct strategies and join together our units. We will push forward with plans to establish an outpost farther south on the Coosa. We have the manpower to send down a construction crew and protect and supply them.”
“General, have you determined a site?”
“We have. We’ve selected a location about fifty miles down, on the west bank. That will place our forces only another fifty miles, by dead reckoning, from the Creeks’ fortress on the Tallapoosa. That fortress, gentlemen, remains our objective.”
“Why the west bank, sir?”
“Same as for here, General Doherty. The hostiles lie to the east, very few to our west. The river provides a natural defense. Why not place it between us and the enemy? I’ve also selected a name for the outpost. It will be Fort Williams. Colonel Williams and his regiment have been on the field for just a few weeks; they’ve made a difference. The Thirty-Ninth will be at the point of our offensive to the Tallapoosa. It’s fitting that we honor Colonel Williams this way.”
At the far edge of the clearing one soldier, no more than twenty years old, sat alone on a stump, balancing a small writing board on his lap. The stubby quill between his fingers moved with a scratchy sound across the coarse paper pinned to his board.
Dearest Elsa— I cannot help myself but to address you once again. You never leave my thoughts. I know that you forever share my love. I rue the day and the hour that I took leave of your sweet arms. But I felt then as I do now that I must answer the call of our country and our state. General Johnson has brought us to the service of General Jackson. They promise a timely end to this campaign, an adventure that I know we shall be most proud of. But such a promise pales to the promise of returning to you and our life together. Once again I beg your forgiveness for leaving you only a month after our wedding . . . .
“Writing another letter, Virgil Tom?” asked another young militiaman as he strolled up. “That little wife of yours must be awful special. You’re always writing to her.”
“I do miss her, Ethan. Very much.” Private Virgil Tom Ottis instinctively patted the packet of papers in the oilskin wrapper under his jacket. “I wish I had some way to post my letters. The couriers will only carry official dispatches from officers.”
“Never you mind. We’ll be through with this business and away from here soon and back in Nashville. Your lucky lady will be purring in your ear again.”
Virgil Tom smiled at Ethan’s sentiment. He lost himself in a momentary daydream as Ethan walked on, then dipped the quill in his small vial of ink made from blueberry juice and spirits. He resumed writing.
. . . My friend Ethan also thinks we shall quickly finish this war. My love, I pray so daily. This wilderness is a beautiful place but a terrible one without you at my side. I miss you every minute. Be well, dearest, and keep me always in your thoughts. Dream of me each night as I do of you. Your loving husband, Virgil Tom.
The next morning Private Virgil Tom Ottis remained behind as a detachment of several hundred militiamen set off south. They carried tools and equipment to clear land and build a small stockade. Three companies of cavalry accompanied them, dropping off patrols at strategic points to secure the route. A hundred more soldiers were assigned to build flatboats to float supplies down the Coosa to Fort Williams.
Tactical drills with combat troops began in earnest and continued until sunset each day. The tentative scheme called for General Coffee’s cavalry regiment to be used in a reserve or support role, the nature not yet determined. Horsemen, it was supposed, would be of limited value in a direct attack on a river wilderness emplacement. Colonel Williams and the Thirty-Ninth would center any direct assault, with General Doherty’s militia infantry on one flank and General Johnson’s on the other. General Jackson himself, along with his adjutant, Colonel Billy Carroll, would oversee Lieutenant Armstrong’s cannoneers. Officers calculated that the two light artillery pieces could be pulled overland to the battlefield. The cannon offered limited firepower but Jackson hoped they could splinter the Red Stick barricade before he had to send the infantry to the fore.
Jackson’s confidence was tempered only by the lack of sufficient intelligence. Cherokee and friendly Creek scouts would have to be dispatched ahead of the column when the march began. The general thought it imperative that he have the layout of the Creek fortress and the lay of the land and nature of the river adjacent to it. He also needed an assessment of the Creek garrison and their weaponry.
The newly arrived troops, even the disciplined regulars, were anxious to fight. The few that had been on the scene since autumn had sickened of winter and its sparse activity, and they remained bitter about Emuckfau and Enitachopco. They craved revenge and in no small way blamed the newcomer soldiers for not being with them earlier. That’s why they were undermanned, they reasoned. The mixture of men and attitudes stirred a volatile brew. Daily fights, in the evening and even in the midst of training drills, became common.
“You fancy sonofabitch!” snarled a militia ranger sergeant after decking a Thirty-Ninth Infantry enlistee with one punch. The ranger chewed a wad of tobacco, a few strands of which dribbled out the corner of his mouth, floating on a rivulet of juice. “You bring your stuffy uniforms and your high-handed marching drills down here and think that’s gonna scare them Indians. Hell! I’ve killed more of them stinking savages than you’ve ever seen.”
The soldier slowly picked himself up. The sergeant made a run at him to continue the assault, but the other man parried his punch and shoved him off balance. The smaller soldier kicked the big militiaman on the shin, then stepped aside and punched him hard in the head as he stumbled past. The sergeant went down with a thump and skidded across the bare, packed dirt, all foliage having long ago worn away.
The sergeant jumped up, cursing and spitting out mud mixed from a mouthful of dirt and thick brown tobacco saliva. “You bastard, god damn you! I’ll kill you, you mule turd!”
Another man stepped between them, catching the full force of the sergeant’s brawny body. The interloper almost went down himself, but he had stopped the charge. All regained their balance and their composure.
The regular snapped to attention. “Beg your forgiveness, Colonel Carroll. My apologies.”
“What the hell are you idiots doing? Wai . . . Stand at ease, damn it! Wait and kill some Indians, not each other!”
“That sonabitch started it, Colonel. These pretty boys think they can . . . .”
“God dammit, Sergeant Barnes! Always something with you. Can’t you just be a good soldier?”
“I am a good soldier. Damn good!”
“Away from the post, maybe. With someone to shoot at. Hell, you’ve been here all winter, haven’t you?”
Pride flickered across Sergeant Barnes’ face. He pulled himself to full height. “Yessir! I’ve fought some Indians, too.”
“But you didn’t come down from Nashville with General Jackson, as I recall.” Carroll sneered. “You arrived with Cocke’s militia.”
“Yes, sir. General White’s ranger company. We kicked them Indians’ asses before the others left!”
“You raided Creek villages that didn’t want to fight,” Carroll corrected. Barnes gritted his teeth at the insult but didn’t dare argue. “Why didn’t you return to Knoxville with your unit, sergeant?”
“Hell, I come here to fight Indians. I warn’t gonna go back while any of the mangy skunks was still murdering decent Americans. So I stayed and enlisted with General Jackson. Good thing some of us did, too, Colonel, ‘cause these damn pretty soldiers don’t know a Creek Indian from a billy goat.”
Colonel Carroll quickly assessed that the sergeant’s opponent and his regular army buddies had drifted away. Another potential brawl that could have been born from Sergeant Barnes’s insults was thus averted.
“Well, how about saving your fighting for the Creeks, sergeant? Or for the billy goats? Goddammit! We’re having to break up twenty scraps every evening.” Colonel Carroll turned and walked off. “Don’t kill each other,” he called back over his shoulder. “In due time, I assure you, you’ll have your chance again with the Creeks.”
Fifty miles down the Coosa, there was scant time or energy for fist fights or other diversions. The construction detachment worked night and day to build Fort Williams. The outpost’s mission was to serve primarily as a supply depot. Three thousand soldiers would use it as a stopping off point. Upon their return from the Horseshoe, weary and wounded men would rest and recover under the post’s protection.
The site had been selected near a stretch of the river that was wide and shallow and swift. A reasonable ford for horses crossed a half mile downriver. Adjacent to the rising stockade, workers set up a blacksmith shop and a forge.
On the river, craftsmen built a large, flat barge to ferry troops and wagons. The design of the ferry followed closely that of the one spanning the river at Fort Strother. Two thick, strong ropes looped through metal grommets atop the rails running the full length of either side of the barge. With the parallel ropes stretched taut and anchored to either bank of the river, the vessel would maintain a nearly straight course as its grommets slid along the ropes.
Another massive rope was attached to the midpoint of one end of the ferry and ran through a pulley anchored to the trunk of a large tree on one bank. From there it doubled back to pass through two pulleys on the centerline of the barge, one at each end, on to a pulley at the base of a tree on the opposite shore, and finally back to be secured at the midpoint of the other end of the barge. A dozen men on deck would pull on the middle rope to convey the ferry from one side of the Coosa to the other, slowly but effectively. A hundred men or four wagons, less their mules, could ride on each crossing.
As with other phases of the project, the river crossing sparked dozens of mishaps. The cold water claimed several dunking victims each day.
“Aiieee!” The scream signaled another involuntary plunge as one of the ropes unexpectedly snapped tight and propelled a surprised soldier working at one of the barge rails high into the air and over the side. He landed with a dramatic splash and was immediately caught by the current. The canoe that shuttled tools and materials between the river banks pulled alongside.
“You all right there, mate?”
“Hell no, I’m not all right! I’m freezing in this damnable river.” The man shivered and his teeth chattered as he struggled to stay afloat. “Get me in your boat.”
“Nay. You’ll tip us over. Swim for the bank and dry yourself by the fire.”
“Damn you! I’m trying to swim, you fool.”
“Then swim harder.”
He did and finally attained the eastern bank, exhausted, cold, angry, and a quarter mile downstream. He struggled back to the landing and the blazing fire, feeling more dead than alive. He stripped naked and proceeded to dry his clothes and revive his blood circulation. A half hour later he was back on the barge finishing his work on the rail.
On the east bank workers cleared a large staging area, and also the first mile of road leading eastward into the wilderness. Cavalry patrolled both sides. Woodsmen cut and hauled logs for the fort and the ferry. Carpenters and craftsmen fashioned the logs into walls, gates, ramps, huts, and the thick deck of the barge.
Campsites settled in on the west side of the river around the stockade. Generally, two or more tents shared a fire, around which the men cooked their sparse meals and dried their clothes. The uncomfortable tents fostered little sleep, but those few hours were nevertheless precious.
In a little more than a week, the commander of the exhausted construction detachment sent a message to Fort Strother:
“General Jackson, I beg you to accept my compliments and my deepest admiration. It is my satisfying duty to inform you that Fort Williams is fully constructed and ready for the occupancy of your army. We await your good pleasure, sir, and your instructions. With loyalty and devotion, . . . .”
Every piece of General Jackson’s plan had now been assembled. All that remained was for him to fit them together into a devastating, undeniable fighting force.