Hardly had the heap of ruins, ghastly with human bodies, ceased to smolder before fleet riders were spreading the news in Georgia, in Louisiana, and in Tennessee.  A shudder swept the country.  Every exposed community expected to be attacked next.  The people’s demand for vengeance was overmastering, and from north, west, and east volunteer armies were soon on the march.  Tennessee sent two quotas, one from the eastern counties under General John Cocke, the other from the western under Andrew Jackson.  When the news of the disaster on the Mobile reached Nashville, Jackson was lying helpless from wounds received in his fight with the Bentons.  But he issued the necessary orders from his bed and let it be known with customary vigor that he, the senior major general, and no one else, would lead the expedition; and though three weeks later he started off with his arm tightly bandaged to his side and a shoulder so sore that it could not bear the pressure of an epaulette, lead the expedition he did.

About the middle of October the emaciated but, dogged commander brought his forces together, 2700 strong, at Huntsville and began cutting his way across the mountains toward the principal Creek settlements.  His plan was to fall suddenly upon these settlements, strike terror into the inhabitants, and force a peace on terms that would guarantee the safety of the frontier populations.  Supplies were slow to arrive, and Jackson fumed and stormed.  He quarreled desperately, too, with Cocke, whom he unjustly blamed for mismanagement.  But at last he was able to emerge on the banks of the Coosa and build a stockade, Fort Strother, to serve as a base for the campaign.

During the months that followed, the intrepid leader was compelled to fight two foes—­his insubordinate militiamen and the Creeks.  His command consisted partly of militia and partly of volunteers, including many men who had first enlisted for the expedition down the Mississippi.  Starvation and disease caused loud murmurings, and after one or two minor victories had been won the militiamen took it into their heads to go back home.  Jackson drew up the volunteers across the mutineers’ path and drove them back to the camp.  Then the volunteers started off, and the militia had to be used to bring them back!  At one time the furious general faced a mutinous band single-handed and, swearing that he would shoot the first man who stirred, awed the recalcitrants into obedience.  On another occasion he had a youth who had been guilty of insubordination shot before the whole army as an object lesson.  At last it became apparent that nothing could be done with such troops, and the volunteers—­such of them as had not already slipped away—­were allowed to go home.  Governor Blount advised that the whole undertaking be given up.  But Jackson wrote him a letter that brought a flush of shame to his cheek, and in a short time fresh forces by the hundreds, with ample supplies, were on the way to Fort Strother.  Among the newcomers was a lank, angular-featured frontiersman who answered to the name of Sam Houston.