One picture instantly arrested the eye of every beholder.  There were one hundred and eighty-six friendly Chickasaw and Choctaw Indians, who had enlisted in the army.  They formed a band by themselves under their own chiefs.  They were all nearly naked, gorgeously painted, and decorated with the very brilliant attire of the warrior, with crimson-colored plumes, and moccasins and leggins richly fringed, and dyed in bright and strongly contrasting hues.  These savages were in the enjoyment of their greatest delight, drinking to frenzy, and performing their most convulsive dances, around the flaming fires.

In addition to this spectacle which met the eye, there were sounds of revelry which fell almost appallingly upon the ear.  The wide expanse reverberated with bacchanal songs, and drunken shouts, and frenzied war-whoops.  These were all blended in an inextricable clamor.  With the unrefined eminently, and in a considerable degree with the most refined, noise is one of the essential elements of festivity.  A thousand men were making all the noise they could in this midnight revel.  Probably never before, since the dawn of creation, had the banks of the Alabama echoed with such a clamor as in this great carouse, which had so suddenly burst forth from the silence of the almost uninhabited wilderness.

This is the poetry of war.  This it is which lures so many from the tameness of ordinary life to the ranks of the army.  In such scenes, Crockett, bursting with fun, the incarnation of wit and good nature, was in his element.  Here he was chief.  All did him homage.  His pride was gratified by his distinction.  Life in his lonely hut, with wife and children, seemed, in comparison, too spiritless to be endured.

The Alabama here runs nearly west.  The army was on the south side of the river.  The next day the Indians asked permission to cross to the northern bank on an exploring expedition.  Consent was given; but Major Russel decided to go with them, taking a company of sixteen men, of whom Crockett was one.  They crossed the river and encamped upon the other side, seeing no foe and encountering no alarm.  They soon came to a spot where the winding river, overflowing its banks, spread over a wide extent of the flat country.  It was about a mile and a half across this inundated meadow.  To journey around it would require a march of many miles.  They waded the meadow.  The water was very cold, often up to their armpits, and they stumbled over the rough ground.  This was not the poetry of war.  But still there is a certain degree of civilization in which the monotony of life is relieved by such adventures.

When they reached the other side they built large fires, and warmed and dried themselves.  They were in search of a few fugitive Indian warriors, who, fleeing from Pensacola, had scattered themselves over a wilderness many hundred square miles in extent.  This pursuit of them, by a thousand soldiers, seems now very foolish.  But it is hardly safe for us, seated by our quiet firesides, and with but a limited knowledge of the circumstances, to pass judgment upon the measure.