Hello. I am Tecumseh, a name which means celestial panther in your language. Although on the Indian tongue the meaning to whites would be more like celestial sphinx. I am a Creek Indian warrior of the tribe that the white man called “Red Sticks” during the War of 1812. I am not THE Tecumseh, as he was a Shawnee warrior-philosopher of my father's generation, but I am named after him and I do my best to live up to the honor. I will be telling you a story, of a great white soldier named Earl van Dorn.

The last thirty years have been tragic for the Creek Indians. As of the end of the War of 1812, when we sided with the British against the Americans, our numbers have been decimated, our tribal lands taken from us, and our warriors scattered to the four winds. Two generations ago we could call most of Georgia and Alabama our own land. Now it all belongs to the whites, and the few Creek tribes that remain have moved to either Florida or Oklahoma; at least, presently moving in those directions.

Technically, each tribe was comprised of two separate settlements - the “White Sticks” who were peaceable and civilized, and the “Red Sticks” who were the warriors and responsible for the protection of the community. Formally a pole painted red is what divided the two towns, is where our name came from. When the War of 1812 happened, and Americans set out to destroy our whole race, all the “Red Stick” warrior Indians came together to fight them. Now that the Americans have succeeded, the surviving warriors have no where to go. Not if they want to maintain their Indian identity.

Most of the Creek warriors have turned away from Tecumseh's teaching, and embraced the Christian religion. It is not really such a big change for the “White Sticks” because they were always peaceable and idealistic. It is a different matter all together for the “Red Stick” warriors, however, to turn the other cheek and make plow shares out of swords. Not that most had any choice in the matter, having been corralled onto federal reservations after the war.

Mostly, we went to Baton Rouge to find a sense of confidence, in our identity as an Indian people. After all, Baton Rouge got its name from a “Red Stick” monument placed to denote the boundary between the Houma and Bogalusa Indian nations - same as with the Creek Indians. There were even ancient Indian mounds there in Baton Rouge, many thousands of years old. These artifacts meant that we were as ancient as the white man, and no less worthy of being a people in our own right. Alas, these three mounds were at the exact same latitude as three large pyramids in Egypt, half way around the round world in a place that used to be called Memphis by the ancients. Our sacred mounds were smaller, granted, but the were five hundred years older. Needless to say, it made us proud, to be at this place.

A few of us Red Sticks escaped the American Indian round up, and found a place to call home in the river city of Baton Rouge, which means Red Stick in French. It seemed to be a reasonable place to hide - no one in their right mind would hide in a place named right after your kind. There were many other Indians of different tribes in the area, so it was not hard for us to pretend to be civilized for a little while until another war came along and we could fight once again.

Indeed, in the late 1850's there was much talk in the South of how the North was mistreating them, and ignoring their representation in Washington's town. By 1860 some states had actually seceded from the Union, and war was sure to follow. Now the Red Stick warriors could speak of their hatred of the North freely, and expect no retaliation from white men.

Being a sensible people, my friends and I were wary of the situation. Indians are very particular about whom they follow, especially into battle. Our entire system is organized so that war chiefs arise by virtue of skill, success, and ferocity. The white man's system is different, and often military leaders arise with no skill other than political or social aptitude. That's “White Stick” leadership, not “Red Stick” leadership. So we were careful to find a worthy leader before picking up the Tomahawk once again.

There was no hurry, in the spring of 1860. The South and North were in a war of words and although the pace in Baton Rouge had picked up a little from the excitement of it all, life was little changed. We took the opportunity of using this honeymoon stage of the Confederacy to find us a good white war chief. There were only twenty of us Red Sticks, so it was really no big deal; but it was important to us, and we took the selection quite seriously.

We found our leader in a West Point white called Earl Van Dorn. Joining his small raiding party, he led us west to Texas where we captured the federal forts at Galveston Island and even a couple of federal gunboats there. Then General Van Dorn went up to San Antonio to party with the Texans, leaving us Red Sticks behind.

We took to sitting on some hay bales in a small clearing near the Port of Galveston, watching the boats and people, and lending a hand loading the rail cars to pass the time. Van Dorn would be gone for a few weeks to central Texas, and we were still not entirely satisfied with his leadership. We had time yet to seek a white leader.

It was becoming unsettling to us, to perceive war from the white man's perspective now that we were officially aligned with the Confederacy. As we had in the early 1800's, the South was fighting for their land; but they were also fighting for freedom and other ideals that were motivating to the white rebel soldiers. We Red Sticks had been motivated to protect our tribe, and that was it. We fought for people and friends and children and wives; not ideals. Besides, these ideals seemed to us self evident and usually both sides in an Indian dispute had these same ideals.

It was all very confusing, and it only got worse when we Red Stick warriors in Galveston had two weeks free time on our hands. The whole Southern mystique, we had agreed, was further complicated by the white religion called Christianity. The Creeks had suffered because of this Christianity once before already; it having motivated the Americans to wipe our nation out a generation ago, and to steal all our land, and kill all the White Stick noncombatants. Now these Southern whites were justifying a whole new set of apparently contradictory goals by the same Christian Book of words.

We were doing just fine, discussing these things among ourselves while idly watching the goings on in the Port, until one of the Red Stick warriors said something about evil. The disturbing point is that he made sense, about how we were evil before to the Americans but now we are not evil to the Confederates even though we had not changed at all. It just seemed like all whites, no matter what side they are on, blame everything on somebody called Satan and all the evil he does.

We knew enough about the Christ to know that the Great Spirit got upset enough about people speaking bad about God that He sent His son to investigate and to set the record straight for all human beings. It just seems like the Great Spirit would not be just as upset about all the wrong things being blamed on this fellow Satan, to call for another son to investigate. That, at least, is how we Indians saw the situation.

Fortunately for us this discussion, which was getting us all so very upset that we were on the verge of taking sides and then splitting each others heads wide open, was short lived. A stiff breeze was picking up off the Bay and we could see a large thunderstorm brewing not too far in the distance. A single massive anvil shaped cloud with steady bursts of lightening was coming right at us. The dock workers were frantic, to complete their off loading before the squall reached us. It's amusing, how scared white people are of rain. Only a few drops were falling now and they were panic stricken. We Indians just sat on our hay bails enjoying the cool breeze and the even cooler raindrops as they evaporated from our upturned faces.

A large schooner rushed into the port just then, and as soon as the last rope was made fast to the iron pilings on the pier wall, men were all over the sails like ants loosening ropes and pulling sails down. The wind was picking up and halyards were let loose, sails lost control of, and every manner of salty sea curse word could be heard from the sailors aloft. We watched, mesmerized.

As all this was going on, the passengers embarked and made haste to the nearest shelter. There were southern belles with billowing skirts held down in the wind not too successfully; gentlemen with bowlers locked down over their ears in the wind, everybody now getting quite drenched as the rain came down in vast sheets of water. Large drops splattered in the packed dirt of the dock proper, causing tender feet in delicate shoes to falter and slide. Everyone was having quite the miserable time of it.

When all the passengers had gone, and most of the sailors were below decks, their task done; the scene became static, with a steady rain falling in a stiff wind. The Indians made as if to leave themselves, when suddenly their attention was wrenched back to the schooner as a huge bolt of lightening cracked feet away from the gangplank.

A man was on the gangplank itself when this happened, trailing behind him an enormous beast of a beautiful horse. Neither man nor horse blinked an eye nor lost a step as the lightening struck, ripping the ground asunder mere inches away from them and bursting eardrums from the immediate concussion of the thunder. The lightening was so close it left in its wake a trail of steam where the rain had been vaporized by the intense energy.

The man stepped forward, horse in gentle tow, through billowing steam and blowing rain, undaunted by their circumstances. The Indians, only just now ready to leave this place, were riveted in attention. A man so fearless, with a beast so powerful, is the kind of leader they were seeking. The rain all but forgotten, no fear themselves of lightening or thunder, they observed with every ounce of their being.

The man was dressed in gray military pants completely black from the rain, with an officer's stripe down the seams. Thick leather boots and leather jacket were just as soaked, but it was the glittering silver saber arched on its leather belt around one shoulder that caught the angle of light from the lightening. Silver trimming on the worn saddle held on the opposite shoulder was evidenced too. The man wore a cavalry officers hat, water pouring from it's curve, to the back.

Right there in the middle of the mud sea that was now the pier loading dock, the man stopped, turned, put the saddle on his horse, then got a brush out of the saddle bags and started brushing down the huge gray and white horse. This went on for several minutes, as the storm passed and the rain lessened to a drizzle. A few rays of bright afternoon sunshine even showed up. Soon as the man had made his way all around his horse, brushing down hard its front, back and sides, he made to admire the stallion holding the reigns lightly in his hands as he stepped back. The horse reared its head, dug at the mud with its front feet clearly anxious for a good run on solid ground. The officer seemed no less anxious, packed his gear, buckled on the majestic silver saber, and adjusted the saddle then made as if to mount.

By this time he was surrounded by twenty Red Stick Indians gawking in open admiration at man, but mostly at horse. The rain was little more than a drizzle, but the whole group was totally soaked and dripping rain from every seem and shirt sleeve. Most of the Indians, still shy in the presence of white men, were slapping and petting and inspecting the horse. Tecumseh was looking right square in the soldier's eye, and he liked what he saw.

Sweeping an arm around at his fellow Red Sticks, Tecumseh identified them and himself. The man tipped his hat, letting loose an embarrassing gush of water as he did so, smiled a greeting, and held out a strong hand to Tecumseh in the white man's friendly greeting.

"Erb's my name. Louis Erb, from Memphis." Then he got right up on his horse and rode off at a gallop toward the nearest beach. The Indians all followed at a dead run; then somebody remembered their own horses and a couple of them ran back to the pier, gathered all the reigns and followed along as the bulk of the Red Sticks were by now running through the surf.

One of the mounted Indians asked what the man had said was his name. The other Indian hesitated; then said, sounded like Lucifer is what he said to me. They looked real seriously spooked for a couple of seconds, horses galloping happily under and all around them; then they both broke out in a ragged, somewhat evil smile - let loose a blood curdling holler, and went racing after their friends.

They all slowed down and stopped after a while, to admire the scattering of burned orange clouds silhouetting the setting sun over the ocean. The two mounted Indians got off their horses, then eased stealthily over to look more closely at the white soldier. One of the Red Stick Indians was about to reach out and touch him to be sure he was for real, when the other grabbed his shoulder in a vice grip and pointed to a name branded into the horses' neck. Leviathan, it said in bold block letters worn with time but still discernible.

The hair standing right straight up on the backs of their necks, the two Indians shivered with terror, then made a mad dash straight out into the pounding ocean surf. They came ashore minutes later, shivering badly from head to toe. The others gathered up some drift wood and soon a roaring fire was going on the deserted beach, and everybody was gathering around to dry themselves out.

Once the sun had set, everybody dry and sitting around the crackling fire, Tecumseh was called aside by the two horse soldiers and I was told in hushed words about their dark suspicions concerning this new white man friend of ours. We decided to tell him about this, which he did not confirm or deny, as white men can do so famously.

By this time everybody in the group was in the discussion, Indians being impossible to keep away from a secret, and the embers were nearly burned black in the camp fire before we finally came to an agreement. The white man was to take a new name, and we decided a suitable one for him was Clark because of the famous Lewis associated with that famous Clark. It was not good logic, but if Red Sticks can hide safely in Baton Rouge then Louis should be able to remain undiscovered going by a name like Clark. We all shook on it, then scattered to find some food for our horses then bed then down for the night. We Indians were back by the camp fire in no time at all.

There we all were, sitting cross legged in a big circle on the beach at Galveston in Texas, talking about our futures and plans for glory. It was like fire water in our veins, to be really back upon the war path again. It was good to have found a white man leader worthy of the Red Stick warriors of the Creek Indian nation.

It was also decided that Red Stick warriors was not a good thing to call ourselves because we were in the Confederacy now and we would be fighting alongside with men from Alabama and Georgia who had lost families to us during the War of 1812 and then the Creek War. So, using the same twisted logic, we called ourselves the Missouri Volunteers.

So that is how it all began with us, Colonel Clark's Missouri Volunteers. It seems a big name for just twenty people, and a long introduction has been written here as well, but now we all have something to live up to in the next few years of the Civil War. Well, actually it wasn't quite as simple as all that. We Indians had enough exposure to the Christian myth to be at least a little bit fearful of their notion of evil. There were those among us who wanted to consider this more before going galavanting off on the trail with this white knight from some place called Memphis.

We were all still talking about things, and Tecmuseh found himself bringing up this matter, of this white man leader being maybe evil. It is to the Colonel's credit that, sitting right there amongst us, he seemed as curious to discover the truth about this as we. Before too long the discussion got heated, and we lapsed into our native tongue of Muskogee. Mostly because there are many subtle things, spiritual Great Spirit things, that cannot be adequately expressed in the english tongue. But also because it is uncomfortable for us native American people to be discussing evil in front of the accused himself.

After a while, I must admit that things were not going well for the Colonel. Evil is like that, hard to get out of the mind, and cleanse the spirit of its mere mention. We were on the verge of calling for a vote, when this great big huge shadow came over us - like evil itself, darkening our camp fire and stifling the sea breeze. We brave Indians shuttered, only to look up from the fire to see the nose of the big fearsome horse named Leviathan above us in the smoky air. Of course, several of us startled with fright even worse; like so many little children listening to a scary story in a strange new place, but after all it was only a horse - so we told ourselves, at least.

This Leviathan looked all around the circle of us, seeking out his master; he nodded his powerful neck when he spied the Colonel, then looked back at all the rest of us and gave us all a great big wet slobbery sneer. It was quite discombobulating to us, how this horse was putting us down in our very own pow wow.

By now everybody was silent, watching the beast, who moved then and came up behind the Colonel, holding down the reigns into the Colonel's lap. The Colonel tried to ignore the stallion, and made himself busy by rolling up his pants legs, and taking his boots and socks off. The reigns were still dangling in his face, so he grasped them, and the horse yanked him right up on his feet. They went trotting off together after that, dancing together in and out of the surf; he in his bare feet, the horse - well, you have the image.

So there we brave Indians were, discussing for all practical purposes the fate of a strange white man who had just then left us staring at a pair of tooled leather boots and dirty socks stuffed into the top. It was quite a foolish feeling, and having kind of lost the edge to the heavy philosophical things we were discussing we all got up overly casual like, to stretch our stiff legs and ambled down the beach after the Colonel and his smart but kind of scary great big horse.

It may seem odd to white people, but a sight we saw not long after was what made up our minds on this whole matter. Leviathan had outrun the Colonel in a foot race, and had trotted happily off into the distant surf breaking on the beach. We observed the Colonel, now playing little games with the many small birds called terns, scurrying in and out of the frothing surf waves plying the gently sloping sand, chasing the little birdies here and there like a small boy. Admittedly, it made us braves think seriously about taking our own moccasins off and playing in the warm salty water too; but we perished that thought.

The Colonel had herded all the terns into a large group, easily fifty in number. Then he stopped at the surfs edge; they stopped too, in the moist sand above the wave line. He looked at them, not moving a muscle; they stared back, motionless. Then with a little flurry, the group of birdies as if on command shuffled around to form the silhouette of a large sea gull, you know how you draw a big bird in the sand by connecting two arches. That was how these birds looked then. They were still, the Colonel was still - and by this time so were we Indians.

Then the Colonel raised his arms, yelled, and started chasing the little birds all over hell and back. They screamed, he screamed; they took a flight, and he scurried right after them. You had to have been there. It was a moment fitting for the Great Spirit. It was good enough for us Indians, anyway.

© 2002 bill h. clark ii
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