in the future, we probably need some people on foot and on horseback.”
The major said, “We want to do both of those. We also need to scavenge for food for us and our horses.”
Pa said, “That means taking the village and holding it for an hour or so. I would suggest a sweep through the village with twenty-five men on horseback, followed by twenty-one men on foot. That leaves four men to hold and protect the spare horses. Once through the village, the men on horseback, minus four to move the horses and cattle they gather a little further, would reload and sweep back through to the men on foot.”
The major said, “We’ll do it. We’ll play it by ear from there. I want you people to make it clear to everyone that they are only to shoot fighting people—no women or small kids. Though they kill ours sometimes, I don’t think it’s right. Also, there’s a better reason. If you shoot a noncombatant, you’ll be standing there with an empty gun for someone with a gun to shoot you. We want to make every shot count.”
Pa and I were with the mounted group. It was breaking daylight and we were on the move, seventy-five yards from the first dwelling, when their dogs started barking. We kicked our horses into a run and our men on foot broke into a run toward the village. As we rode into the village, heads started popping out of doors. Further across the village people started running toward the woods. Some tried to mount their horses and ride off. Very few succeeded. We shot some, and took their horses; and took the horses that were staked out or penned. We were almost through the village and my horse was at a full run when an Indian boy, who was younger than I was, stepped out from behind a house and let fly at me with an arrow that missed. I was past him before I could get my horse stopped and pulled around. He was standing there with another arrow almost nocked. Having fired my rifle at a man who had run out of a house, I leveled my short-barreled musket to shoot the boy. Without reason, I held my fire. Dropping his hands to his sides, an arrow in one and his bow in the other, he straightened himself up tall and stared at me. He knew he was going to die. Seconds passed as we each held our pose. Then I pointed at him with my left hand, while still holding my musket on him with my right hand, and pointed to the woods. After only a second’s hesitation he ran for the woods, bow and arrow still in hand. I then heeled my horse and joined the others at the end of the village.
As we were reloading our guns for the return trip through the village, Pa said, “What was that about, Boy?”
I said, “I don’t know, Pa. I just didn’t want to shoot him standing tall like that. He was younger than I am.”
At the time, I could not know this boy, two years my junior, was Osceola. Nor did I know we would meet again and recognize each other. Osceola, a Creek Indian boy, had moved to Florida from Georgia with Peter McQueen when Andrew Jackson and Pa had given the Creeks such a beating in 1814. His family members, like other Indians and many black people who moved to Florida, were to become Seminoles. Seminole means “wild one” or “runaway.”
With our guns reloaded, we raced back through the village shooting at targets of opportunity. We took the village with little damage to our party and held it for most of two hours while we took almost everything of value. Though there was an occasional musket fired at us from the forest, it was ineffective because of the distance. We took horses, cattle, a large number of deerskins and cowhides, eight runaway slaves, and food. Releasing the captive Indian women and children, we then left. I had expected we would burn their houses and destroy everything we didn’t take, but we didn’t. No one even said anything about it. That was fine with me so I held my tongue. We had already done enough damage to those families.
Switching horses periodically, we pushed hard toward the St. Marys River. Sergeant Hunter, with ten men, acted as a rear guard. With no incident and no pursuit in sight, we crossed the St. Marys back into Camden County fifty-four hours later.
July 6, 1817
When Ma saw it was Pa and me returning from the raid, she leaned the musket she was holding against the cabin and stood in the yard while we got the horses and cattle we had brought into pens. Asa, age thirteen, and George, age ten, ran to open and close the pole gates to the pens. Samuel, age six, was with Ma. He was jumping up and down and clapping.
As soon as I swung down from my mare, Ma grabbed and hugged me. The kids also gathered around.
I said, “You all best go take on about Pa. He’s the one who always carries the heavy load around here.”
Using Ma’s name for me, Pa said, “I. J. more than carried his end of the load on this trip. He’ll have lots of tales for you kids.”
Ma said, “That talk can wait. I’ll have the food on the table in a few minutes. You two wash up.”
But the tales couldn’t wait. The kids were dying to know everything. They were asking new questions even before I could start to answer the previous ones. After twenty minutes Ma called us in to eat. When the evening chores were done, the questions and tales started again. We were up that night until almost ten.
Pa then said, “Boys, there’s work to do tomorrow and we’re behind schedule. Everyone get to bed.”
Still, Asa and I whispered in the bed until we went to sleep.
The next two months were quiet compared to our trip to Florida. There’s always enough work to keep everyone busy on a farm, but it being July and August, the farm work slowed some. We then took some time for fishing. Additionally, Pa did some survey work and some property trading. He had some kind of deal going about property all the time.
Pa couldn’t read much English and was only fair with German. There wasn’t much call for reading German in Camden County, Georgia, then. Actually, there wasn’t much call for reading English either. Ma did most of the paperwork for Pa, or he hired it done. Pa was mighty sharp with numbers though, in English and German. I don’t recall anyone ever getting the best of Pa where numbers were concerned.
There was no school to go to and we didn’t have much time for it. Ma taught us about reading English from the Bible, and taught us to write some, too. There wasn’t much to read but the Bible and property-related records. Ma did have a couple of books of her own; one of which only had poetry in it. She let us kids read those books as long as we were careful with them. Ma also encouraged us to read anything else she got her hands on. Due to Pa’s efforts, we also learned to do numbers, using German and English. Since 1776, English was the official language in the United States. Before 1776 almost as many people in the United States spoke German as spoke English. Many of the people in South Carolina, where Pa moved to Georgia from, spoke mostly German.
Pa also taught us lots of other things. He seemed to know everything there was about living in the woods and using the things nature provided. There wasn’t an animal that Pa didn’t know everything about: what it ate, where it slept, its mating habits, the kinds of tracks it left, the kinds of calls it made, and any other peculiarity. An example of the kinds of things Pa knew happened when I was ten years old. It was a dry night, so we had been sleeping without a shelter while away from the house on a hunt. I awoke that morning to Pa’s gentle, but firm, voice.
Pa was saying, “Boy, I want you to remain perfectly still when you wake up. Don’t move a muscle.”
Opening my eyes, I looked at him without otherwise moving. He was sitting in his sleeping roll, a musket in his hands, and was staring just inches over me.
Seeing I was awake, Pa said, “Don’t move a muscle until I say, ‘now.’ Then, roll toward me as quick as you can.”
