Sarah was torn from her tenuous sleep by the soft hoot of an owl. She startled awake, wide-eyed. She didn’t dare light a candle to search the inky blackness of her room for intruders. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she quickly glanced around. She was alone, only the little body of her daughter snuggled beside her, warm and innocent. Sarah put her arms around the child, hugging her close, and glanced over at her three year old son, sleeping in the little trundle bed nearby. Satisfied they were safe, she rested her head back on the pillow, listening, waiting... Sure enough, another owl call pierced the air. She held her breath. The Indians used owl calls to communicate to each other, to coordinate their savage attacks. They had mastered every bird call, sounds she used to enjoy as she wandered about the countryside. Now when she heard birds her heart stopped. Even that small joy had been stolen from her, along with her freedom. No longer could she wander the countryside, her small children at her side, gathering wild flowers and sweet berries, or digging into the warm earth as she planted seeds in her garden.
She should not, she knew, complain. Her husband, Uriah, was the commander of Fort Sinquefield, and due to his position they had the finest accommodation available- a small cabin of their own with a stone chimney and fireplace where she could keep a cooking fire. There was a simple wooden table and a few chairs. A ladder led to the sleeping loft above. She had a bed, with a feather mattress brought from home, big enough for her and her husband and children. But it felt lonely, without his big body beside her, to warm her and comfort her. He would assure her. “Hush, Sarah. I am with you. The men are on guard outside. You are safe.” And sometimes, she would believe him. But deep in her heart she knew the truth. They were only a few hundred whites, mostly helpless women and children, amidst tens of thousands of Creek Indians, most of them hostile and bent on exterminating the whites who had recently settled on their lands.
She lay awake, the events of the last few weeks pummeling her brain. As the danger of Indian unrest became apparent, as rumors flew about which terrified the small population of settlers and then reports came of unimaginable atrocities, stockades sprang up across the very land that had once held so much promise. Hastily constructed, a barrier of pointed wood stakes with a few blockhouses was raised around an acre of land. Inside, cabins and huts were being constructed providing minimal shelter from the elements and minimal safety from any outside onslaught. Still, even before the stockade walls were completed, Sarah watched families flood through the gates. They came on wagons, on foot or by horseback, a few meager belongings hastily thrown into burlap sacks. Sarah rushed out to meet her neighbors, welcoming them, helping direct them to the few shelters that had been constructed. Some put up canvas tents, sure this would not last for long. Sarah prayed they were right.
There were far too many people, but this was their only hope. In no time the small space was terribly overcrowded. The men were quickly absorbed into the militia, or assisting with constructing the stockade and rude shelters. The women, half of them pregnant or nursing hungry infants, held onto crying toddlers or looked worriedly after youngsters who ran about in blessed ignorance, enthusiastically playing with friends they rarely saw except on Sundays at church. But the only way this enclave resembled a church was in the magnitude of prayers that were offered up to the heavens.
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