New Yesterdays by Jim L Wright - HTML preview

Chapter 19

Free land, granted by King Charles of England as well as religious freedom drew settlers from England, Germany, France, and Ireland. These freedom seekers ironically imported slaves from the West Indies to perform their labor. The blending of cultures and ideologies produced a unique population with mellow dispositions and strong curiosity, particularly in the area of religious investigation. Charleston was well known on both sides of the Atlantic for its religious diversity and tolerance.

Fort Moultrie had been established during the Revolution as a defense against attacks from the sea. Despite the large number of people living in Charleston, Tooantuh and the other Chiefs felt certain the city would not be difficult to overwhelm. The fort had fewer than 200 soldiers and the majority population was black slaves. The white population numbered under 10,000 who were mostly shopkeepers, dock workers and other assorted businessmen. When the attack by the Cherokee and Seminole warriors started, the bulk of the slave population fled to the surrounding swamps and forests and the Indians refused to molest them.

The garrison was located on Sullivan's Island, just east of the city proper. The Indian warriors made their way down the narrow spit of land, and around Mount Pleasant, to arrive at the island fortress. The walls were constructed of palmetto logs, giving excellent defense against cannon as the balls tended to merely bounce off the logs.

Cannon fire wasn't on Tooantuh's mind as he formulated the plan for taking Fort Moultrie. With so few soldiers in attendance, he thought the most efficient way to deal with the military defenses was to surprise the soldiers in their sleep. The warriors concealed themselves at the edges of the swamp as four men scaled the walls under cover of darkness. The guards, while walking their sentry posts, were less than alert. Word of the battles to their south had not yet reached them. Even if it had, they would have thought it laughable that the Indians could take the garrison.

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Corporal Robert Larochelle walked the parapet in a slow, mechanical way. He was tired and sleepy and ready for his relief to arrive. Two more hours and he could get a little shuteye and look good for that pretty little Constance McElwee tomorrow night. Constance worked at the Palmetto Inn as a tavern girl. She spent every night of the week trudging back and forth, serving pints to soldiers, sailors and dock workers. Men of quality didn't venture down to this part of town for their drinking. When they closed their shops and offices they retired behind the gates and hand carved doors of their fine houses, enjoying wines and ports from crystal glasses. They enjoyed refined conversations with girls who wouldn't even dare to meet Constance's eyes should they have the misfortune of meeting her in the street.

She tried to pretend to herself that she didn't care, but the one thing Constance wanted from life was a well-to-do husband and a fine house in Charleston. She longed to be a part of the society and attend dances and parties and teas with genteel people who didn't spit tobacco juice in the corners or paw over her as if she were a piece of fresh meat.

Larochelle was sure Constance liked him. She always smiled when she brought his pints and had a second or two to spend the time of day with him. Today for sure, he would invite her to the dance at St Mary's on Saturday. Lost in his reverie, he didn't notice the movement near and behind him, and dancing with Constance was the last thought to ever enter his mind. He wasn't even able to react as the sharp blade sliced across his throat, spilling a shocking amount of blood down the front of his tunic. As he gently lowered the body of Larochelle to the floor, the Indian warrior looked toward the other sentry just in time to see him go down in similar manner.

With both sentries disposed of, the four men dropped silently to the ground and opened the gates of the fortress. A low whistle signaled the main fighting force who came on silent feet to enter the fort. Three hundred men poured through the gates within a matter of seconds and began fanning out across the compound, entering the buildings in search of the barracks. The overwhelming number of Indians, breaking in as the men slept, was able to eliminate every soldier within a minute or two. Only one shot rang out during the operation. One soldier, awakened by the commotion was able to reach his sidearm quickly and squeeze off a round at nearly point-blank range. The force of the bullet spun the Indian around as blood sprayed from the gaping wound just under his left eye. By the time he fell to the floor, the life was gone from him. Before the Private could squeeze off another round a very young Indian warrior turned and sank his blade into his chest.

With the soldiers dispatched, the Indian force quickly moved out the gates to join their comrades inside the city. No one expected the city to fall as easily as the fort.

Following the surprise attack on Fort Moultrie, the Indians used the boats moored nearby to move swiftly across the river to meet Tooantuh and the bulk of the fighting force inside the city proper. Gunfire could be heard as they approached the landing and disembarked. Running down the streets and alleys they were met by men who had hastily jumped into their breeches, grabbed their guns and moved to the streets to begin fighting this unprecedented attack.

The relatively new mayor of Charleston stumbled out of his house in a state of utter terror and confusion. Who in God's name would dare to attack Charleston? One thing he knew for sure was that he would know who it was shortly as well as their reasons. He'd get this business straightened out in three shakes or his name wasn't John Gadsden! The three Indians emerged from the shadows, moving swiftly toward him. Suddenly, his bravado deserted him. He fumbled with the lock of his rifle, unaccustomed to using it in any kind of emergency situation. It seemed to take his violently shaking fingers forever to get the blasted thing to operate correctly. His eyes involuntarily rolled around in their sockets as he attempted to take aim. The recoil of the rifle when he fired it caused him to fall flat on his back. By some miracle, the bullet caught the Indian fighter squarely in the chest and he fell dead instantly. His companions were momentarily shocked, but leaped forward to disarm the man before he could reload. Rather than use a bullet, both warriors attacked with their long knives, stabbing him multiple times. As he lay bleeding, Gadsden asked over and over, "Why are you doing this? This is Charleston, for God's sake!"

Tooantuh lead a group of 25 men down to the docks toward the magazine storage. He knew this area would be well guarded, but must be secured in order to prevent the citizens possibly accessing it for additional ammunition. They surged down the street in the direction of the ammo sheds and found the soldiers on duty there fully alerted by the sounds of gunfire around the city. As they rounded the corner, multiple shots rang out and five Indians fell dying to the ground. With barely a glance backward, Tooantuh called his men to charge the soldiers. As they ran, they fired toward the blue uniforms. Almost immediately, the guard at the front door fell, clutching his chest while another man fell from a loading chute above the main doors. Cherokee were falling all around him when suddenly Tooantuh felt a searing pain in his gut. He instinctively felt the injured area to find it slick with oozing blood. A bullet had pierced his abdomen, just a few inches below his rib cage. He knew he was in trouble. He also knew he would never see the end of this battle, let alone the end of the war.

With more strength than he knew he had, he continued moving, a bit more slowly now, toward the soldiers. This ammunition storage must be taken! Other men would rise to take his place when he joined the spirit world, but right now in this world, nothing else mattered to the old man but taking this magazine and ensuring success of the mission.

By now, the Indians had gained access to the interior of the building. There was far less ordnance in storage there than they had assumed, but still, it would be enough to help the Charlestonians against them. Two men were still in the shadows. The warriors communicated with signs and began to advance through the stacks. Before he could register seeing the muzzle of a rifle, one caught a bullet in his throat. The round tore through, just to the right of his trachea and severed the carotid artery. Blood sprayed from the wound like a fire hose. His knees buckled and suddenly, just before the darkness claimed him, he felt the hard wooden floor as his face fell forward to meet it.

Somehow in the commotion another Indian had managed to maneuver himself to get behind the soldier. As his friend was falling forward in death, he sliced the soldier's throat with his razor-sharp hunting knife. Seeing this, the other soldier took slow aim from his vantage point atop the stacks. The Indian heard the hammer of his revolver clicking back ominously. He looked up toward the sound just in time to see the back of the soldier's head disintegrate under the impact of the shot fired by Tooantuh. That was the last round the Chief would fire. He slumped slowly to the floor and was soon surrounded by Cherokee and Seminole warriors. They bandaged his wound as best they could and moved him near the door so he could get some fresh air. As soon as the battle was finished, he would need a Medicine Man; if he lived long enough. Three of the men agreed to stay with him while the remaining warriors rejoined the battle for the city.

The city's center was a mass of bodies, both Indian and white, lying in the streets and yards. There was less shooting to be heard now. The battle was nearly won. One woman and her two daughters didn't intend to give up Charleston easily, though.

Bertha Watson had been widowed more than thirty years. Her husband had been a ship's captain, bringing slaves into Charleston to be sold at auction. His ship had been caught in a massive storm in the spring of 1794 and sunk. Since that time, Bertha had raised her two daughters and kept herself busy with society and church events. Thanks to her husband’s shameful trade, she had been left a rich widow. Both her daughters were widows, as well. Katherine's husband had died of typhus the year before and Gertrude had been made a widow during the war of 1812.

"Girls, I tell you those wild savages will NOT take this house from us! Get the rifles down Trude, and you run upstairs for more bullets Katie!"

Neither of the younger women had ever fired a weapon of any kind and both were terrified at the proposition.

Bertha stationed her girls at windows on each side of the house. She would take the front. "If it moves, shoot it!" The girls were shocked by their mother's behavior. Their entire lives they had never seen her exhibit any kind of temper or ill will toward any other person. Her genteel personality, and always correct manners, exuded kindness. To see her preparing for a battle was something neither of them ever expected to see.

"Mama, I've never fired a gun in my life!" complained Trude.

"Doesn't matter. Just poke it out the window and shoot in the general direction of anyone you see coming toward this house! They don't know you can't shoot."

With that she positioned herself at the big window in the front parlor and watched for movement. She didn't have to wait long. Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw a crowd of Indians moving toward her house. There must have been 25 of them, or more! She waited until they were abreast of her front door. Glass shattered onto the front porch floor as she pushed her rifle through and began to fire. Miraculously two Indians fell after she had fired five shots. The intruders moved quickly behind shrubs and palmetto trees for cover and began to return fire.

The leader of the group, a slender but well-formed young Seminole no more than 20 years old, signaled for one of his men. After a brief conversation the man left him, chose two more and left the group in a crouch so as not to be observed by the occupants of the house. By this time, gunfire was erupting from three sides of the house. It was evident that whoever was manning the guns inside were no marksmen. Despite that, several more Indians had fallen, dead or wounded onto the ground.

The three men entered a small shed at the back of the house. Within seconds they found what they were looking for. A small metal bucket holding kerosene hung from a peg. The Indian boys grabbed the bucket and some horse blankets that were hanging across a sawhorse. Handles were broken from a shovel and two hoes and the horse blankets were

wrapped around them and tied. After soaking the blankets in the kerosene, they crept on silent feet into the kitchen door. A small fire still burned in the kitchen fireplace. Each of the blankets was set afire and one man went up the back stairs and moved from room to room setting bedclothes and draperies alight, after which he dropped his flaming torch onto Bertha's favorite piece of furniture in the house. An ancient fainting couch her mother had brought to her from Paris many years before. He watched the flames for a minute as they hungrily consumed the wallpaper and draperies. Satisfied the upper rooms were burning well, the warrior made his way back down the stair to find the other two on their way out the back door. The entire ground floor except for the front parlor was crackling with flames and rapidly filling with smoke. So intent were the womenfolk on their shooting, they had not yet noticed the flames licking their way up the damask wallpaper and devouring the heavy brocade draperies.

The boy chosen for the fire duty reported back that the house was well lit and the leader signaled his men to stop firing. The occupants of the house would soon come flying out the front door or they would perish in the flames. Either way this skirmish was finished.

A scream rang out from the house.

"Mama! The house is on fire!"

Then a crash as something fell inside the house and another shriek, this one an agonizing scream of pain. Bertha and Gertrude tried valiantly to save Katherine, but the big wooden beam was too heavy, the smoke was too thick and the flames were too hot. Katherine continued screaming for a few more seconds and then went quiet. Bertha released a howl of grief and fury that came from a depth she never even knew she possessed. She snatched her rifle from the floor where she had dropped it and burst through the front door, followed closely by Trude. Firing as fast as humanly possible, they advanced to the front steps where two Indian bullets ended their flight.

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