Red Tears

By N.K. Parten

Prudence Mims flourished as the youngest daughter of a prominent planter in the frontier wilderness of the Tensaw Delta in present-day Alabama. Her father, Samuel Mims, came to the Mississippi Territory as an Indian Trader during the American Revolution acquiring a land grant from the governor of Spanish West Florida. For years the Mims family lived in peace in the ancestral home of Creek Indians. However, everything changed when the United States exerted their territorial claims to the southern region of the American frontier. In time, they would become collateral damage in a game of cat and mouse between the fledgling U.S. Government and the fierce Red Stick Faction of the Creek Indians. Based on family lore, this is the untold story Prudence's harrowing escape when these worlds collided on August 30, 1813, resulting in the worst massacre by Woodland Indians in American history - forever changing the framework of a continent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732390317

Book preview

Chapter One

Stop it, you brute! I snarled at my mischievous younger brother as a glob of mud splattered on the ground next to my feet. Mama will have our heads if you get my dress dirty.

Shading my eyes from the glare of the sunlight dancing on the surface of the muddy Alabama River, I felt the first bead of sweat running down my back beneath my favorite blue gingham frock. The summer sun already peeked through the treetops of the primordial forest. Knowing that it wouldn’t be long before it was midday, I’d started to become anxious, wondering when the ferry would return from its trip across the river. I tried not to show my excitement to my pesky brothers because neither wanted to go on the journey, but secretly I loved to go to town. I tried my best to be patient while we waited, but the longer we waited, the more restless I seemed to become.

It was early in summer in the Tensaw delta region of the Gulf Coast, and my brothers and I were traveling to Mobile to visit our mother’s family. I was fourteen years old, and as the youngest daughter of Samuel and Hannah Mims, I’d never considered that living in an isolated part of the American frontier could be lonely. However, now that my older sisters were married, my mother turned her attentions toward me in an attempt to groom me into a proper southern lady. In a time when females weren’t allowed by law to own property, Mama believed wholeheartedly she needed to find a good husband to take care of me. She claimed that it was to protect the family; however, to me it felt as if she believed I didn’t have enough sense to take care of myself.

Sitting patiently under a tree on a loblolly pine log that had washed up on the riverbank during a flood earlier that year, I looked up at the sun, thinking that it was probably going to be ungodly hot once we were out in the water beyond the reach of the shade. Squinting my eyes, I peered through the leaves of the willow tree at the hazy summer sky and wondered how hot it would get today. Before long, I took my blue-and-yellow bonnet off and wiped the sweat on my forehead. I didn’t want to wear the frumpy-looking thing, but Mama insisted.

You are far too fair skinned. Mother lectured as she tied the bow under my chin with a jerk before we left. You’ll get freckled, and now that you’re getting older, you need to start concerning yourself with such things.

I exhaled, placing the bonnet in my lap and shook out my hair. Shading my eyes with my hand, I stared across the river trying to catch a glimpse of the ferry. Overhead, I heard the unmistakable cheep of a red bird perched on a branch, chirping blissfully in the still breeze. During the summer many birds flocked to the river where food was plentiful. They’d drink and bathe, cooling themselves in the shallow pools along the exposed sandbar at the ferry landing.

In the sky off to the east, I watched a red-tailed hawk circle lazily. Watching the bird most every day, I suspected that the hawk had a mate nearby, even though I’d never seen them together. Periodically the bird called out, announcing to the rest of the wildlife that he was king of the skies and scanning the forest for its next meal. Strangely enough, the sounds of the birds seemed to ease my jittery nerves. The woodland creatures usually knew that something was amiss before humans did. As long as the hawk circled in the sky above me, I felt at ease; it was only when the woods became too quiet that I began to worry about what was wrong.

A few yards away, honeybees tended a sprawling honeysuckle bush. I imagined that they were gathering pollen to take back to their hives in the pine forest behind our house. On the other side of the trees the cattle grazed in a field that was covered with crimson clover during the spring.

The bees loved the clover and I loved the clover-flavored honey Papa extracted from their hives every year. Papa promised that he’d take me with him the next time he robbed honey in the coming winter when the bees weren’t as active.

Bees can sense fear, so you can’t be afraid of getting stung. Papa smiled and patted me on the head while I helped him jar the honey we extracted from the combs that year. Papa always seemed to make time spend with me and make me feel special.

As I watch the bees collect their pollen, I realized that there was no way of knowing if they were from our hives or wild bees, but I certainly hoped that they were harmless. Taking Papa’s advice, I decided to let them go on about their business. Joining the bees at the honeysuckle, a monarch butterfly flitted about from flower to flower. In a flash I saw a pair of bright-green-and-red hummingbirds darting about from among the honeysuckles and the wildflowers scattered along the riverbank. Seemingly out of nowhere, a brightly colored dragonfly caught my eye as it drank from the shallow puddles along the sandy shoal. I watched its flickering iridescent wings in wonder as it zipped up and down, sipping the small pool of water beneath the shade.

Straightaway, a shrill whistle caught my attention. Ewe-Wee! Did you see that, Prue? David shouted, jumping nearly three feet off the ground. Spinning around, pointing at Alex, he pranced in a circle. That one skipped at least seven times! Beat that. I dare you!

You’ve got to be joking! Alex chortled as he shook his head in disbelief. That skipped four, maybe five times at the most.

Are you blind? That one went almost halfway across the Alabama. David squawked before picking up a handful of river mud and tossing it at Alex. You’re a sore loser!

What do you think, Prue? David quizzed me as if it was the most important thing on earth at that moment.

I don’t really know, David. I’m sorry. I really wasn’t watching, I said, as if I’d just been awoken from a beautiful dream. I shifted my weight on the log I was sitting on and wondered how much longer we’d have to linger on the riverbank. My brothers’ childish game bored me. I’d lost interest in their rock-throwing contest as soon as I sat down.

Alex and David were so competitive over even the simplest things. And somehow, I’d made things worse by not watching. I rolled my eyes and looked back at the puddle to find my little dragonfly friend had flown away.

Lucky bug, I thought as I pulled up my stocking.

Ferry traffic had picked up considerably over the last few years, and Mr. Miller left early that morning carrying a load of travelers to the west bank of the Alabama River on their way to Mobile, Natchez, or Biloxi. I assumed that’s where they were headed at least. After all, most of the land around us belonged to the Creek, Choctaw, or Seminole Indian tribes, and there weren’t many places for them to go in the wilderness of the Mississippi Territory in 1813.

I’d stopped wondering who they were a long time ago. I didn’t know where they were headed nor did I care. All I knew was that I was glad to see them leave this place. The new white settlers were disruptive, upsetting most of us who called the Tensaw home.

I jerked when I heard a loud crash behind me startled me. I quickly whirled around and realized that it was only a couple of squirrels scrambling on the limb of a native pecan tree. I was relieved there was nothing to worry about.

I don’t like being so jumpy, I exhaled as I took a deep breath to calm down. Why on earth am I so jumpy? My heart was pounding. I didn’t like feeling ill at ease, but who could blame me the way things were these days?

Once convinced there was nothing to be concerned about, I felt a little silly for being so skittish. I guess I was letting all the rumors about the Red Stick uprising get to me. I turned my attention back to my brothers skipping rocks and hoped that neither had seen me so jumpy. Fortunately, they were too busy arguing about who skipped the rock the farthest to notice. Shrugging my shoulder, I wondered which I was more worried about, the Red Sticks or my brothers’ taunts.

I shaded my eyes from the glare of the midmorning sunlight sparkling on the muddy water and squirmed to get comfortable as my brothers tormented each other at the water’s edge. Usually I’d wear my hair in a braid, but today Mama had fashioned my hair into a smart bun on the top of my head that felt awkward to me.

You have to look presentable when we get to Fort Stoddert, Mama said, tugging at my hair as she brushed it this morning after I got dressed. You never know when you’ll meet some suitable gentlemen who’d be interested in marriage.

Mother, please. I tried to wriggle away and felt my face flush red. I’m still too young to think about such things.

You’re not too young. Both of your sisters were married when they weren’t much older than you, Mama insisted as she began to twist my hair into a bun while I sat at the dressing table in my room and stared at myself in the mirror. All I could see was a skinny, awkward fourteen-year-old girl with red hair and freckles, and I wondered what my mother saw that I didn’t.

You need to stop dressing like a vagabond. Your sisters didn’t dress like rag dolls. If you just learned how to dress presentably and make a man feel special like your older sisters, you won’t have any problem attracting a suitor, Mama harangued when I made a face.

If suitors started calling on me, Papa would probably run them off, I replied with a giggle before Mama accidentally stuck me with a hairpin.

Your father wants to keep you a child as long as possible, Mama said as she found a different spot for the hairpin. Besides, the only reason he thinks you’re too young to marry is because you’re his youngest daughter and he misses your older sisters now that they have families of their own.

Because I took longer than usual to get dressed that morning, we were late to catch the ferry. I could tell that David wasn’t happy when we got to the ferry landing on the river and discovered that the first load of passengers had already left.

If you hadn’t spent all morning primping, we’d have been first across the river. Now we have to wait, David snidely remarked as he reached back to punch me in the shoulder.

Stop it. It’s not Prue’s fault we’re late. Alex said as he caught David’s hand just before he landed the blow, much to my relief. Besides, you’re thirteen and you can’t go hitting girls anymore.

Before long the rough bark of the log began to dig into the back of my legs. As I shifted my weight, I swatted a mosquito that was biting me and looked down to wipe the blood from the dead bug off before retying the laces on my ankle-high walking boots. At my mother’s insistence, I’d packed a pair of stockings and some old slippers that used to belong to one of my big sisters to wear while we were in Mobile. It had taken a bit of arguing but I convinced Mama to allow me to wear my boots until we get to Fort Stoddert.

It would be horrible if I had to wear those uncomfortable shoes all day, I said to myself as I laid my bonnet on the log beside me and pushed my hair up in the back. I was glad my mother knew when to pick her battles; Mama knew that slippers were hardly appropriate to wear in the muck at the ferry crossing.

You may wear your boots while we’re traveling, but I expect you to wear your slippers while we’re in Mobile, Mama conceded, tired of arguing with her youngest daughter while we packed. You are a stubborn, willful child. You’ll have to get past that if you’re ever to get married, she added as she helped me finish dressing before leaving our house.

Once at the ferry landing, Mama warned us not to get dirty before walking back up the wagon road with Papa and my oldest brother, Joseph. By the looks of things, David and Alex either didn’t hear her or weren’t listening because both had rolled up their shirtsleeves and were up to their elbows in river mud.

Mama treats me like a child, and I resent it. If I’m old enough for Mama to discuss marriage with me earlier this morning, then she shouldn’t act like I’m a child now. I stewed while I watched my brothers play in the mud. I envied them—especially Alex. He’s three years older than me and still gets to play in the mud while I watch from a log in the shade. Granted, Papa makes him work on the farm, while David gets to go hunting and fishing, and I have never heard him complain, so I guess it’s good that he gets to blow off steam sometimes.

After bringing us down to the water’s edge to watch for Mr. Miller, my parents and Joseph went back up the road where we’d left our wagon tied off in a meadow under a huge willow-oak tree at the top of the hill above the ferry landing. They hoped to keep our pony calm until Mr. Miller unloaded the wagons he’d brought back on the boat on his return trip. By tying him up on high ground away from the sight of the ferry landing, it made handling things much easier for everyone, including the horse.

Papa and Joseph had decided to stay behind to mind the farm while sending Alex and David along to escort mother and I on our trip to Mobile. Joseph was an enigma to me; of all my siblings, I knew the least about him. He was the oldest son and looked the most like Papa, yet he acted like he was the complete opposite. My oldest brother was only five years older than me, but in his mind, it was more like ten or fifteen.

I wish you were coming with us, I said as I hugged Papa before he walked back up the hill.

I wish I was, too, darling, but someone has to stay behind to make some money for you and your mother to spend at all those shops in Mobile, Papa teased and pulled the brim of my hat down over my eyes. Alex is seventeen and will take good care of you and your mother.

But what about David? Why is he coming? I asked him, looking around to see if anyone else had heard.

Papa laughed. Leaning in close, he whispered, Just between us, I’m sending David along so that your mother can keep an eye on him.

Before we left the house, Alex hitched his favorite horse, Jumper, up to the wagon and packed our belongings in the cart. The horse, a hardy, four-year-old brown gelding, was smart and had been on the ferry so many times that the creature instinctively knew that he was going on a boat ride. That’s why Papa had tied him off away from the ferry, not wanting to spook the animal before time to board the vessel for the crossing.

Restlessly, I stood up from the log and stretched. I was excited about going to Mobile, but not looking forward to the long trip ahead. I had no idea how long we’d be gone, but I figured that the journey would take at least two days. Mama planned on stopping first at Fort Stoddert on the other side of the river where my oldest sister, Henrietta, lived. She was married to the commander of the fort, Major Benjamin Smoot. My sister was pregnant with her third child, and it would take a team of horses to keep Mama from checking in on her on the way.

When my mother first announced that we were going to visit relatives, I thought nothing of it. Mama’d grown up in Mobile, and periodically we’d visit her family. But this time was different. We were going for a bigger reason. Recently Mama noticed a pair of silver candlesticks had gone missing from the fireplace mantel in the parlor and suspected that one of the many ne’er-do-wells that camped on our plantation grounds waiting to cross at the ferry helped themselves.

I’d overheard my parents talking in their bedroom after Mama discovered the candlesticks missing. I suspected that she felt violated, and the intrusion into her home had offended her to no end. Not long afterward, she gathered up most of our valuables and decided to take them to Mobile. It seemed to me like the only logical thing. Papa did a lot of business and banked in Mobile, keeping most the family’s money—made from the ferry or the sale of his crops or goods produced on Mims Plantation—in Grandpa Cornelius’s bank. After all, the plantation was one of the largest in the Tensaw: a very profitable, self-sustaining enterprise that had to be that far from civilization.

Until now Mama insisted on having her creature comforts in our home on the plantation, saying, Living in the wilderness doesn’t mean that we have to live like barbarians.

When Mama discovered that someone had stolen from us, I could tell that it affected her. This is the thanks I get for allowing these people sanctuary while they wait for the ferry, she fumed while I helped her ready for our trip.

It wasn’t the first time something had turned up missing, but until then the stealing had been limited to a few chickens, their eggs, or some meats from the smokehouse. A few of the settlers traveling west on the Federal Road helped themselves to the bounty of food on the Mims Plantation. When the workers complained about food going missing, Papa would shrug his shoulders and say, Price of doing business.

However, this was the first time something of value disappeared from inside our house. I understood how Mama felt and sympathized with her heartache. Our house was more than just four walls and a roof; it was our home. Papa cleared a place in the wilderness and built our house for Mama when they married more than twenty-five years ago, and it was where they’d raised their six children. Now our home was overrun by outsiders who’d neither the compassion nor the depth of character to understand what home meant to the Mims family.

*****

Mama must have told me dozens of times the story of her childhood and how she’d met my father. My parents immigrated to the American Colonies from Great Britain to get away from the religious persecution they’d experienced in England. My parents were devoutly Roman Catholic and came to America so that they could practice their faith without worry. Originally, they settled in North Carolina, but they moved our family to Saint Augustine, Spanish East Florida, before the Revolutionary War because they were British Loyalists and the Carolinas were becoming a dangerous place for anyone loyal to the crown. Mama smiled sweetly as she reminisced about her parents.

A few years later they relocated to the small town of Mobile in Spanish West Florida, where Grandpa Cornelius opened a bank and an export business. That’s where I met my first husband, Thomas Bready. He was young and handsome, and he swept me off my feet. Mama’s eyes twinkled dreamily. He used to say that I was his auburn-haired beauty with milky-white skin that accented my sapphire eyes.

Mama rarely spoke of her first husband, and sometimes when I’d see her staring out the window, I’d sense that maybe she was thinking of him. Once, when I was about eight, I’d asked her what happened to Thomas Bready.

Thomas passed away shortly after we were married in a riding accident. Mama sighed and looked down at her wedding ring, and I wondered if she would have been happier if he’d lived.

But almost like she read my mind, she started to tell me about meeting Papa. A few years later I was introduced to Samuel Mims, by my late husband’s brother, Uncle James. Your papa was in Mobile buying property on the outskirts of town, she went on, patting me reassuringly on the hand as she talked.

Your father was a tall, thin man, whose dark skin was tanned from years of hard work in the southern sun. Mama’s tone brightened as she began to speak of him. At first, I was standoffish. Your father was a rough man with little polish who’d spent twenty-some-odd years as a trader in the Woodland Indian territories. I was only twenty, and his graying temples showed his age as he was twenty-six years my elder, but soon I was smitten with Samuel Mims. Mama seemed to blush as she laid the book she’d been trying to read on the table beside her.

I don’t want to make it sound like I’m bragging, she said, and smoothed her dress. She looked around to see if we were alone as she continued to speak in a soft tone, like she was telling me a secret she hadn’t shared in a long time. The night your father proposed, he told me that he’d fallen in love with me the moment he’d laid eyes on me.

I remember listening intently as if she were telling me a fairy tale. At first, Grandpa Cornelius considered your father beneath his oldest daughter, but once he received a grant of land in the Tensaw from the Spanish governor of West Florida, your grandfather had a change of heart.

Mama laughed as she spoke about her father’s first impression of her husband. I guess he realized that he might have misjudged your father, because the Mims’s land grant was quite impressive. Even to your grandfather.

The way Mama spoke about Papa left me little doubt that she truly loved my father. However, I always felt like Mama really wasn’t cut out for life in the Tensaw wilderness, no matter how much she loved Papa. His land grant from the Spanish governor was some of the most fertile land in the area. Almost thirty-five miles inland from Mobile at the confluence of the Alabama and Tombigbee Rivers, our plantation may as well have been on another planet.

As soon as he could, Papa went to work building our house, Mama continued as she stood and walked over to the window in the parlor where we sat. To start with, Papa brought limestone downriver on the Tombigbee from a quarry near the Tennessee border for use in the piers in the foundation, and all the fireplaces inside the house and the kitchen. Your Papa said that he was modeling our home after an elegant North Carolina plantation house like the one he remembered as a boy.

She told her story with such passion that I felt as if I could close my eyes and envision my father as he laid out our house with two large rooms on either side of a long hallway that opened onto the front and back porches—a grand stairway leading up to the bedrooms on the second floor. The front and back porches ran the entire length of the house, with brick steps leading up to the front of the house from a brick walkway coming from the oyster-shell-and-gravel drive. I could look around me and see the pride and attention to detail he’d put into his work and knew with all my heart that Papa built our house not just with tools but also with love.

Mama paused for a moment and cocked her head as she stared out the window at her rose garden.

After your father and I got married in January of 1788, your papa took me on a honeymoon to New Orleans in the spring. Mama turned away from the window and ran her hand lovingly across the back of the chair next to her as she spoke.

While we were there, your father took me shopping in the finest stores for furnishings for our new home in the Tensaw, including our mahogany dining table and the hand-carved four-poster bed with a feather mattress in our bedroom.

Mama sighed and fussed with her hair as she continued. I must say that I’m surprised to this very day that the rough man I’d met just a year before could transform into a gentleman planter in such a short amount of time.

*****

I crossed my legs and shifted my weight again. Putting my elbow on my knee and my chin in my hand, I leaned forward and exhaled loudly. I was tired; it wasn’t a physical kind of tired. I was emotionally drained. The idea of someone stealing my mother’s candlesticks was quite overwhelming. In my opinion, my mother brought an air of grace to the wilderness of the Tensaw and my childhood. Lately, because of things completely out of our control, our fairytale life had been soiled by one of the low-flung travelers heading west on the ferry.

As I sat there waiting for Mr. Miller, my mind wandered, and I began to think about Christmas and all the other special family occasions that