I rode up to the head of the train and said to Julius, “You know, ever since our meetin’
yesterday, I’ve been worryin’ ‘bout some ‘a these folks bein’ so concerned ‘bout Indian
trouble. They may take a shot at the first Indian they see, especially since half of ‘em are
hung over from last night’s drinkin’ anyway. Just look around and see for yourself. Some
of ‘em are even ridin’ with their rifles ‘cross their laps with their fingers on the triggers. If
they don’t shoot a friendly Indian, I’m afraid they’re gonna shoot some pore fool on the
horse next to ‘em.” 
   Julius observed the riders for a while and said, “You know, you’re right, Papa. I’ll ride
to the back and talk to all of ‘em. You talk to eva’body up here and try to settle ‘em down
a bit. When we finish, you, me, and Young ought to ride along side each wagon and warn
eva’body not to dare fire a shot less’en they’re fired upon. At our noon rest stop, we’ll
talk to ‘em some more. I’m glad you brought this to my attention. I’d hate for us being
responsible for startin’ another Indian war ‘round here.”
   When we stopped for the night on March the eighth, Young had some of the Negroes
dig four long, shallow pits and place tents over each of them. They were right in the center
of all the wagons. everyone was informed that instead of relieving themselves out in the
woods, they were to use the makeshift outhouses. There was a lot of laughing and
complaining, but everyone wholeheartedly agreed, especially after old Joe Parsons said in
a loud voice, “The last place I eva’ wanta run across a mean wild Indian is out in tha’
woods with my britches down ‘round my ankles.”
   As we lay down in the wagon that night, I asked Becky, “What’d you find out from
Sarah today?” She replied, “Oh, nothin’ much. She’s head over heels in love with that
young captain. Says he’s gonna find her after his hitch is up in ‘bout two years. She don’t
know much about ‘im ‘cept he’s from a place called Albany, New York, and his full name
is Malachi Gilbert. His folks own a sawmill and, accordin’ to what he told Sarah, they’re
pretty well off. He gave Sarah his military address at Fort Wilkinson and promised her
he’d write her regularly onest he got her address.”
   On March the eleventh, our fourth day out of Ft. Hawkins, Elizabeth Andrews started
having labor pains. It was at about noon, so we pulled into the woods by a small creek.
While the women were preparing to help deliver her baby, a small group of Indian women
and children emerged from the woods. They seemed friendly but curious, as they observed
all the goings on. They seemed delighted when Dempsey began to talk to them in their
own language. Turns out they were from a small Indian village ‘bout two miles up the
creek and  were out gathering berries. 
   One of the women seemed very intrigued with the goings on in William and Elizabeth’s
wagon. She stood on the side of the tent covered wagon, peered under and watched
everything. Mary left Harriet and Simpson in the wagon to look after Nancy Jane and
went to help with the birthing. About two hours later, Elizabeth gave birth to a fine baby
girl and named her Frances, after her sister back in Edgefield. 
   A little while after the baby was born, Simpson came running toward us crying and
screaming, “They took Nancy Jane! The Indians took her and run off up the creek. The
just grabbed her outta tha’ wagon and took off.” When he reached us, his pa, William
picked him up and held him, trying to calm him down. Still crying, Simpson said, “Mama,
I tried to stop ‘em, but I couldn’t.” Mary turned to Harriet and asked, “Where were you,
did you see what happened?” At that Harriet burst into tears and said, “Mama, I just
wanted to see the baby, so I left Simpson to look after her for a while.”
   Young said, “We should immediately arm as many men and boys as possible and storm
the village and get her back.” As the men started scrambling for their firearms, Julius
shouted, “Wait a minute! This was no act of war. There were only a few women and
children here, and they weren’t hostile. There has to be a simple answer for their
behavior.” Dempsey strongly supported Julius and said, “Julius, let me, William, and Theo
go up to the village and see what we can do.” Julius agreed and said, “There’ll be ‘bout
twenty-five of us behind you, but we’ll stay back in the woods out of sight. If you run into
trouble, just yell for us.”
   Dempsey went to his wagon and came back with a bunch ‘a colorful beads.
Remembering from Young’s letter how the squaws loved bonnets, I said, “All a’ you
women go to the wagons and bring me back one of y’all’s most colorful bonnets.” ‘Fore
you could say bat an eye there must’ve been forty bright colored bonnets piled in mine and
William’s arms.
   Dempsey, with two pockets full a’ beads, led the way into the Indian village, with
William and me right behind. All the Indians were gathered at the center of a group of
about fifteen or twenty crudely built log cabins. Dempsey boldly walked into the group
and, in their own tongue, asked for the chief.
   One of the men quickly went to the largest cabin and emerged with an elderly Indian
wearing an elaborate headdress of brightly colored beads and feathers. The crowd parte
as the chief headed toward a grassy knoll in the center of the cabins. He beckoned us to
follow, which we did. He sat down, crossed his legs in a ceremonial fashion and with his
arms outstretched motioned for us to do the same. Then, to our surprise, in perfect
English with an Irish brogue, said, “My Irish name is McGill, my Indian name is Flying
Eagle. I’ve been expecting you.” Turns out, McGill was one quarter Irish and the
language had passed down through his family.
   I explained to him the circumstances that led up to our visit, and he immediately sent
one of the women to a cabin on the far end of the village. He said, “My daughter, White
Fawn, just last week gave birth to her third stillborn child and has been stricken with an
incurable grief. It seems to have affected her mind. We have to keep a close watch on her
at all times. This morning she seemed well enough to go out with the other women, but
after seeing the birth of the white woman’s child, in her twisted mind she thought it would
be fine if she took one of your babies, since you had a brand new one. I apologize for her
and hope you don’t hold any bad feelings toward our people for her misguided actions.”
   About that time the woman came walking through the crowd holding a happy, smiling
Nancy Jane by the hand. Nancy Jane saw her pa, ran and jumped in his lap, pointed to the
crowd and said, “Pa, look, Injuns!” With that, we all laughed with a great sense of relief.
Only then did Dempsey pull out the beads and offer them to the chief. There was a lot of
“oohing” and “aahing” rumbling through the crowd when they saw the flashy beads.
McGill started passing them out to the Indians. 
   When William and I started pulling bonnets out of our shirts, a puzzled look came
across McGill’s face. He asked, “What are those for?” He was answered when all the
women started reaching for them and placing them carefully on their heads and dancing
around gleefully. To the delight of the whole village, McGill took off his official headdress
and pulled on one of the bright yellow bonnets. He seemed very pleased with it. 
   Dempsey, in a loud voice and in their language, said a few words to the crowd. I only
understood his last two words, “Yellow bonnet.” The crowd then started dancing around
their chief pointing and chanting, “Yellow Bonnet, Yellow Bonnet, Yellow Bonnet.” I
whispered to Dempsey, “I don’t know if he’ll like it or not, but I think you just changed
McGill’s respectable, manly Indian name from Flying Eagle to a sissy Yellow Bonnet.”
Dempsey whispered back, “He likes it. Who cares?”
   As we walked back into the woods, Mary jumped up from inside a bush where she was
hiding, grabbed Nancy Jane and started smothering her with hugs and kisses. Nancy Jane
looked at her and asked, “What’s wrong, Mama? Why you cryin’? Did you see tha’
Injuns?” Mary could not stay with the women and children at the wagons while we were
at the village. She had convinced Julius and Young G. to let her hide in the woods with
them while we were there. Everyone started cheering as we walked back into camp with
Nancy Jane. Some of the men had already pulled the wagons in a circle and watered and
coralled the stock. It was almost sundown, so they decided we would camp there for the
night.
   After we were back at the wagons for about an hour, McGill and four of his men
walked into camp carrying two freshly killed bucks, strung up by their hooves on sapling
poles. He again apologized to Dempsey, had his men put the deer down, and wished us a
safe journey. He was still proudly wearing his yellow bonnet, now with a big bright red
feather sticking out of the top. That night, as I was washing down my last bite of venison
with big cup of milk, I turned to Elizabeth, nursing her brand new baby and commented,
“Well, Betsy gal, we’ll never forget that youngun’s birthday, will we?” She laughed and
said, “You’re sho’ right ‘bout that, Papa. March 11, 1825. The big Indian episode and
Frances’ birthday.”
   The next morning after breakfast, ole Joe Parsons insisted we all gather round his
wagon for a prayer service. I just hoped it would’t be as long as that sermon on hellfire
and damnation he subjected us all to last Sunday morning while standing on the seat of his
wagon. He and all a’ his following had insisted from the outset that they be allowed to
hold their Sunday morning church services regardless of where we happen to camp. I
don’t know for the life a’ me where that old preacher gets all his energy. He’s got to be
pushing eighty. Every time we make camp he’s got at least twenty grand- and great grand
younguns crowded around him, fascinated with his yarns. To my surprise he only prayed
for ‘bout ten minutes, thanking the Lord for seeing us through yesterday’s ordeal. We
were on the road again before sunrise.
   Around mid-afternoon on March 17th, we reached the town of Cusseta. There were
about a hundred houses and several businesses there. According to the people we talked
with, Cusseta was the main trading center for all the Creek Indians in that area. I’ve never
seen as many Indians as were on the streets of Cusetta. We were at the Chattahoochee
River about an hour later. It took us the rest of the afternoon to get all the wagons across
the river on Joseph Marshall’s ferry. It was full dark when the last wagon pulled into our
campsite right outside of Fort Mitchell. 
   We had been on the road for seventeen days now and finally were able to put our feet
on Alabama soil. The first thing most of the men did was reach down and pick up a
handful of dirt, roll it around in their hands, and smell it. Most seemed surprised and said it
wadn’t much different from that in South Carolina. Of course, they were looking at the
soil around the camp, which was a very sandy mixture of clay.                            
   That night some of our folks celebrated their entry into Alabama at Crowell’s Tavern,
consequently, there were some red-eyed, hung over folks hitching up the teams the next
morning. Julius said, “I sure would like to make it to Fort Bainbridge today since we’re
still in Indian country, but that will be stretchin’ it a bit.” 
   He continued, “I think we’ll just plan on campin’at Kendall Lewis’ tavern this side of
the fort. That’s right at the forks of the Federal Road and the Three Notch Trail.”
   I asked, “Where does that trail lead?” Julius replied, “Farther south. It’s still Indian
land, but with the way settlers are pourin’ in, I got a strong feelin’ that it’ll be a part of the
state in a few years. The trail was just marked by settlers headed that way last year. They
marked it with three notches on trees ever so far apart.” I asked, “How’d you learn all
this? You ain’t been in these parts nigh on to twelve years.” Julius laughed and said, “I
struck up a conversation with one of the officers from the fort last night over at Crowell’s
Tavern. He caught me up on all the recent goings on over here.” We camped at the forks
that night, but Kendall Lewis’ tavern didn’t make a red cent out of our people. They drank
enough last night to carry them for a while. We got an early start the next morning, with
the idea of reaching Fort Hull by nightfall. 
   The Federal Road followed the sand ridges through most of Georgia and Alabama. It
was first built as a military road back in 1811, and the wagon traffic on it had worn the
ruts in some places as deep as the wagon hubs. This stretch from the Chattahoochee to
Fort Hull and the Alabama River was the worst. I understand now why Julius insisted that
every wagon carry a bucket of axle grease. This sand really took it’s toll on the wagon
hubs.
   That night outside of Fort Hull, Becky made sure that all of our children gathered
‘round our wagons to do all their cooking and eating. This could be the last night we
would all be together. It depended on what time tomorrow we reached the fork of the
road where we would head on straight west, and William, Mary, and their family
continued south on the Federal Road to Fort Deposit.