The whites soon populated the acquired territory, and the Chattahoochee was no barrier to their aggressions upon the helpless Indian beyond.  Feuds grew up:  this led to killings, and in the winter of 1835-6 active hostilities commenced.  This war was of short duration.  Before the nation was divided, Hopothlayohola was opposed to war.  In his communication with General Jessup, he told him:  “My strength is gone; my warriors are few, and I am opposed to war.  But had I the men, I would fight you.  I am your enemy—­I shall ever be; but to fight you would only be the destruction of my people.  We are in your power, and you can do with us as you will.”  But the chiefs of the lower towns would not yield, and made the fight.  In a short time this was concluded by the capture of their leading chief, Nehemathla.  He was decoyed by treachery into the power of General Jessup, who detained him as a prisoner, and almost immediately his band surrendered.

Nehemathla was an Onchee chief.  This was the remnant of a tribe absorbed into the nation of the Creeks or Muscogees, and was probably one of those inferior bands inhabiting the land when this nation came from the West and took possession of the country.  Their language they preserved, and it is remarkable it was never acquired by white or red man, unless he was reared from infancy among the tribe.  It was guttural entirely, and spoken with the mouth open, and no word or sound ever required it to be closed for its pronunciation.  They had dwindled to a handful at the time of his capture, but more obstinately determined to remain and die upon their parental domain, than any other portion of the nation.

Nehemathla was more than eighty years of age at the time of his capture.  When brought into the presence of General Jessup, he expected nothing short of death.  The General told him of his crimes, upbraided him with bad faith to his great father, General Jackson, and drawing his sword, told him he deserved to die.

The chief, seeing the sword lifted, snatched the turban from his head, and fiercely and defiantly looking the General in the face, as the wind waved about his brow and head the long locks white as snow, said firmly and aloud:  “Strike, and let me sleep here with my father and my children!  Strike, I am the last of my race!  The Great Spirit gave me seven sons—­three of them died at Emucfaw, two at Talladega, and two at Aletosee.  General Jackson killed them all, and you call him my great father!  When did a father wash his hands in his children’s blood?  When did a father rob his children of their homes?  When did a father drive his children in anger into the wilderness, where they will find an enemy who claim it as the gift of the Great Spirit, and who will fight to retain it?  Strike, and let me die—­no time, no place like this!  The mother of my sons, their sisters, perished for food, when I with my sons was fighting for our homes.  I am alone; and not afraid to