WEATHERFORD.
“I come, my Wilwullah!Guide hither our boy!I bring from the forestIts spirit and joy:Why lingereth my soft-eyed?”And dark grew his brow;“Thy hunter returneth—Where, truant, art thou?”He enters his wigwam—What meaneth that cry?His bold form what freezeth?What filmeth his eye?The work of the white men!His mate of the wood,And their fawns, the light-footed,All couched in their blood!Before a cold foemanThe Indian is cold;But his heart in his wild-woodIs like molten gold.The warrior has clasped them—He’s red in their gore!Has raved and wept o’er them—But ne’er will weep more!“Ye snow-brow destroyers!Ye false and ye foul!For this, by Manito!For this shall ye howl!I swear that pale thousandsShall weep for this blow;For each drop here wasted,Red rivers shall flow!“When smoke dims the distance,And shrieks fill the air,Then white lips will whisper,‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’Your warriors shall perish;We’ll laugh at their shame;And the blood of your loved onesShall hiss in the flame!”How was that vow answered?Ask Mimms: it will tell!Where the battle was hottestTherehishatchet fell;Where the shriek was the loudest,Where freest ran blood,Be sure, mid his victims,There Weatherford stood!But feeble the red men,Though fierce in the fray;Like mists in the morning,They melted away.“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;“The white chieftain givesNo peace”—was the answer—“While Weatherford lives.”That lion-souled chieftain’s[1]Alone in his tent:’Tis midnight; still overHis toil he is bent.The drapery is rustled—He turns not his ear:“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,Thy foreman is here!”A dark form stood o’er him,His red arm on high;But quailed not the chieftainBeneath his dark eye.“What art thou, bold savage?Sooth, light the foot fellThat stole through the watchOf my tried sentinel.”“Where Weatherford willeth,Even there will he go;He heeds not thy sentryWhen seeking his foe.”“I fear thee not, boaster!”“Thou needest not fear;For peace for my people,For peace came I here.“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee.And sent to thee bound;But Weatherford dies notThe death of a hound:No recreant, no trembler,No captive am I—I’ve fetterless lived, andWill fetterless die.“To save my crushed peopleI die, but die free—A sacrifice worthyOf them and of thee!”“No—back to thy forest—Bold warrior go!I strike not the headThat is bent to the blow“Aye, go! but rememberWhen meet we again,Thy lot is the gibbet,The cord and the chain.Be strong for the battle!No quarter we yield:No fear and no mercy!Now, back to the field!”“I long have fought with thee,And still would fight on—But my true Seminoles—My warriors are gone!My brave ones I’d rally,And fight at their head;But where is the warriorCan rally the dead!“At red Talledegha,Emuckfaw they stood—Thou knowest that our valleysAre black with their blood.By the wailing SavannahUnburied they lie;Spare, warrior, the remnant,Let Weatherford die!”No longer the soldierThe bold plea could hear,But quick from his bronzed cheekHe hurried a tear.“Devoted and brave! AsThou will’st shall it be;Here’s peace to thy people,And friendship for thee!”
“I come, my Wilwullah!Guide hither our boy!I bring from the forestIts spirit and joy:Why lingereth my soft-eyed?”And dark grew his brow;“Thy hunter returneth—Where, truant, art thou?”He enters his wigwam—What meaneth that cry?His bold form what freezeth?What filmeth his eye?The work of the white men!His mate of the wood,And their fawns, the light-footed,All couched in their blood!Before a cold foemanThe Indian is cold;But his heart in his wild-woodIs like molten gold.The warrior has clasped them—He’s red in their gore!Has raved and wept o’er them—But ne’er will weep more!“Ye snow-brow destroyers!Ye false and ye foul!For this, by Manito!For this shall ye howl!I swear that pale thousandsShall weep for this blow;For each drop here wasted,Red rivers shall flow!“When smoke dims the distance,And shrieks fill the air,Then white lips will whisper,‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’Your warriors shall perish;We’ll laugh at their shame;And the blood of your loved onesShall hiss in the flame!”How was that vow answered?Ask Mimms: it will tell!Where the battle was hottestTherehishatchet fell;Where the shriek was the loudest,Where freest ran blood,Be sure, mid his victims,There Weatherford stood!But feeble the red men,Though fierce in the fray;Like mists in the morning,They melted away.“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;“The white chieftain givesNo peace”—was the answer—“While Weatherford lives.”That lion-souled chieftain’s[1]Alone in his tent:’Tis midnight; still overHis toil he is bent.The drapery is rustled—He turns not his ear:“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,Thy foreman is here!”A dark form stood o’er him,His red arm on high;But quailed not the chieftainBeneath his dark eye.“What art thou, bold savage?Sooth, light the foot fellThat stole through the watchOf my tried sentinel.”“Where Weatherford willeth,Even there will he go;He heeds not thy sentryWhen seeking his foe.”“I fear thee not, boaster!”“Thou needest not fear;For peace for my people,For peace came I here.“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee.And sent to thee bound;But Weatherford dies notThe death of a hound:No recreant, no trembler,No captive am I—I’ve fetterless lived, andWill fetterless die.“To save my crushed peopleI die, but die free—A sacrifice worthyOf them and of thee!”“No—back to thy forest—Bold warrior go!I strike not the headThat is bent to the blow“Aye, go! but rememberWhen meet we again,Thy lot is the gibbet,The cord and the chain.Be strong for the battle!No quarter we yield:No fear and no mercy!Now, back to the field!”“I long have fought with thee,And still would fight on—But my true Seminoles—My warriors are gone!My brave ones I’d rally,And fight at their head;But where is the warriorCan rally the dead!“At red Talledegha,Emuckfaw they stood—Thou knowest that our valleysAre black with their blood.By the wailing SavannahUnburied they lie;Spare, warrior, the remnant,Let Weatherford die!”No longer the soldierThe bold plea could hear,But quick from his bronzed cheekHe hurried a tear.“Devoted and brave! AsThou will’st shall it be;Here’s peace to thy people,And friendship for thee!”
“I come, my Wilwullah!Guide hither our boy!I bring from the forestIts spirit and joy:Why lingereth my soft-eyed?”And dark grew his brow;“Thy hunter returneth—Where, truant, art thou?”
“I come, my Wilwullah!
Guide hither our boy!
I bring from the forest
Its spirit and joy:
Why lingereth my soft-eyed?”
And dark grew his brow;
“Thy hunter returneth—
Where, truant, art thou?”
He enters his wigwam—What meaneth that cry?His bold form what freezeth?What filmeth his eye?The work of the white men!His mate of the wood,And their fawns, the light-footed,All couched in their blood!
He enters his wigwam—
What meaneth that cry?
His bold form what freezeth?
What filmeth his eye?
The work of the white men!
His mate of the wood,
And their fawns, the light-footed,
All couched in their blood!
Before a cold foemanThe Indian is cold;But his heart in his wild-woodIs like molten gold.The warrior has clasped them—He’s red in their gore!Has raved and wept o’er them—But ne’er will weep more!
Before a cold foeman
The Indian is cold;
But his heart in his wild-wood
Is like molten gold.
The warrior has clasped them—
He’s red in their gore!
Has raved and wept o’er them—
But ne’er will weep more!
“Ye snow-brow destroyers!Ye false and ye foul!For this, by Manito!For this shall ye howl!I swear that pale thousandsShall weep for this blow;For each drop here wasted,Red rivers shall flow!
“Ye snow-brow destroyers!
Ye false and ye foul!
For this, by Manito!
For this shall ye howl!
I swear that pale thousands
Shall weep for this blow;
For each drop here wasted,
Red rivers shall flow!
“When smoke dims the distance,And shrieks fill the air,Then white lips will whisper,‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’Your warriors shall perish;We’ll laugh at their shame;And the blood of your loved onesShall hiss in the flame!”
“When smoke dims the distance,
And shrieks fill the air,
Then white lips will whisper,
‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’
Your warriors shall perish;
We’ll laugh at their shame;
And the blood of your loved ones
Shall hiss in the flame!”
How was that vow answered?Ask Mimms: it will tell!Where the battle was hottestTherehishatchet fell;Where the shriek was the loudest,Where freest ran blood,Be sure, mid his victims,There Weatherford stood!
How was that vow answered?
Ask Mimms: it will tell!
Where the battle was hottest
Therehishatchet fell;
Where the shriek was the loudest,
Where freest ran blood,
Be sure, mid his victims,
There Weatherford stood!
But feeble the red men,Though fierce in the fray;Like mists in the morning,They melted away.“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;“The white chieftain givesNo peace”—was the answer—“While Weatherford lives.”
But feeble the red men,
Though fierce in the fray;
Like mists in the morning,
They melted away.
“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;
“The white chieftain gives
No peace”—was the answer—
“While Weatherford lives.”
That lion-souled chieftain’s[1]Alone in his tent:’Tis midnight; still overHis toil he is bent.The drapery is rustled—He turns not his ear:“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,Thy foreman is here!”
That lion-souled chieftain’s[1]
Alone in his tent:
’Tis midnight; still over
His toil he is bent.
The drapery is rustled—
He turns not his ear:
“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,
Thy foreman is here!”
A dark form stood o’er him,His red arm on high;But quailed not the chieftainBeneath his dark eye.“What art thou, bold savage?Sooth, light the foot fellThat stole through the watchOf my tried sentinel.”
A dark form stood o’er him,
His red arm on high;
But quailed not the chieftain
Beneath his dark eye.
“What art thou, bold savage?
Sooth, light the foot fell
That stole through the watch
Of my tried sentinel.”
“Where Weatherford willeth,Even there will he go;He heeds not thy sentryWhen seeking his foe.”“I fear thee not, boaster!”“Thou needest not fear;For peace for my people,For peace came I here.
“Where Weatherford willeth,
Even there will he go;
He heeds not thy sentry
When seeking his foe.”
“I fear thee not, boaster!”
“Thou needest not fear;
For peace for my people,
For peace came I here.
“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee.And sent to thee bound;But Weatherford dies notThe death of a hound:No recreant, no trembler,No captive am I—I’ve fetterless lived, andWill fetterless die.
“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee.
And sent to thee bound;
But Weatherford dies not
The death of a hound:
No recreant, no trembler,
No captive am I—
I’ve fetterless lived, and
Will fetterless die.
“To save my crushed peopleI die, but die free—A sacrifice worthyOf them and of thee!”“No—back to thy forest—Bold warrior go!I strike not the headThat is bent to the blow
“To save my crushed people
I die, but die free—
A sacrifice worthy
Of them and of thee!”
“No—back to thy forest—
Bold warrior go!
I strike not the head
That is bent to the blow
“Aye, go! but rememberWhen meet we again,Thy lot is the gibbet,The cord and the chain.Be strong for the battle!No quarter we yield:No fear and no mercy!Now, back to the field!”
“Aye, go! but remember
When meet we again,
Thy lot is the gibbet,
The cord and the chain.
Be strong for the battle!
No quarter we yield:
No fear and no mercy!
Now, back to the field!”
“I long have fought with thee,And still would fight on—But my true Seminoles—My warriors are gone!My brave ones I’d rally,And fight at their head;But where is the warriorCan rally the dead!
“I long have fought with thee,
And still would fight on—
But my true Seminoles—
My warriors are gone!
My brave ones I’d rally,
And fight at their head;
But where is the warrior
Can rally the dead!
“At red Talledegha,Emuckfaw they stood—Thou knowest that our valleysAre black with their blood.By the wailing SavannahUnburied they lie;Spare, warrior, the remnant,Let Weatherford die!”
“At red Talledegha,
Emuckfaw they stood—
Thou knowest that our valleys
Are black with their blood.
By the wailing Savannah
Unburied they lie;
Spare, warrior, the remnant,
Let Weatherford die!”
No longer the soldierThe bold plea could hear,But quick from his bronzed cheekHe hurried a tear.“Devoted and brave! AsThou will’st shall it be;Here’s peace to thy people,And friendship for thee!”
No longer the soldier
The bold plea could hear,
But quick from his bronzed cheek
He hurried a tear.
“Devoted and brave! As
Thou will’st shall it be;
Here’s peace to thy people,
And friendship for thee!”
Weatherford’s Revenge.
Weatherford’s Revenge.
Billy Weatherford, the celebrated savage warrior, is, at length, vanquished—the destroyeris conquered—the hand which so profusely dealt death and desolation among the whites, is now paralyzed—it is motionless. He died at his late residence near Montpelier, in this state, on the 9th inst. His deeds of war are well known to the early settlers in South Alabama, and will be remembered by them while they live: and be talked of, with horror, by generations yet unborn. But his dauntless spirit has taken its flight—“he is gone to the land of his fathers.”
Billy Weatherford, denominated ‘The Prophet,’ was about one-fourth Indian (some say a half breed) his ancestry, on the white side, having been Scottish. It has been said, that he boasted of having noYankee(meaning American) blood in his veins.
This ferocious chief led the hostile Indians to the attack of Fort Mimms, at Tensau, on the 30th of August, 1813; which resulted in the indiscriminate massacre of men, women, and children, to the number of near four hundred. He was also a leader associated with the prophets Francis and Sinquister, at the battle fought on the 23d of December following, at Ekchanachaca, or ‘The Holy Ground;’ which had been considered by them inaccessible to their enemies, and the ‘Grave of White Men.’ But it proved a fatal delusion. His party suffered great loss of warriors, and all the provisions, munitions of war, &c., deposited at this place of imaginary security; being, as they supposed, rendered secure by the protecting influence of some supernatural agency.
It is stated, that—after being sated with the blood of Americans, and witnessing the almost total extinction of his warriors—he voluntarily and dauntlessly flung himself into the hands of General Jackson, and demanded his protection. He is said, on surrendering himself, to have made the following speech to the General—which looks very little like claimingprotection. It displays a spirit, which would have done credit to Napoleon, under similar circumstances, after the battle of Waterloo:
“I am in your power: do with me what you please. I am a soldier. I have done the white people all the harm I could. I have fought them, and fought them bravely. If I had an army, I would yet fight, and contend to the last. But I have done—my people are all gone—I can do no more than weep over the misfortunes of my nation. Once I could animate my warriors to battle: but I cannot animate the dead. My warriors can no longer hear my voice—their bones are at Talladega, Tallaschatchee, Emuckfaw, and Tohopeka. I have not surrendered myself thoughtlessly. Whilst there were chances of success, I never left my post, nor supplicated peace. But my people are gone, and I now ask it for my nation, and for myself.
“On the miseries and misfortunes brought upon my country, I look back with the deepest sorrow, and wish to avert still greater calamities. If I had been left to contend with the Georgian army, I would have raised my cornon one bank of the river, and have fought them on the other. But your people have destroyed my nation. You are a brave man. I rely upon your generosity. You will exact no terms of a conquered people, but such as they should accede to. Whatever they may be, it would now be madness and folly to oppose them. If they are opposed, you shall find me among the sternest enforcers of obedience. Those who would still hold out, can be influenced only by a mean spirit of revenge; and, to this, they must not, andshall not, sacrifice the last remnant of their country. You have told us, where we might go, and be safe. This is a good talk, and my nation ought to listen to it.Theyshalllisten to it.”[3]