It was on the 29th of December, 1813, that the Mississippi volunteers attacked the Indians, under circumstances of almost unparalleled difficulty, after enduring incredible hardships. Without tents or blankets, without proper clothing, more than half starved, some of them without shoes, in inclement weather, this heroic band had marched over one hundred miles through a pathless forest, to meet and subdue the wary foe. And now, on this 29th of December, says General Samuel Dale, who was one of the party, "the weather was very wet and bitter cold; we had neither meat, coffee, nor spirits." The savages were fortified in a strong defensive position, a town which they called their holy city, and which their prophets declared was invulnerable to the whites—that the ground would open and swallow them up, should they venture to set foot on it. Nevertheless, the gaunt volunteers, worn with their sufferings, gave such fierce battle to the confident Indians, that they drove them out of their holy city of refuge, and Weatherford, one of their most trusted leaders, barely escaped destruction. He was mounted on a powerful charger, and being hotly pursued by a band of whites, who knew him well, and were eager to secure the prize, he urged his horse to its utmost speed. Soon a ravine, at least twenty feet wide, and of great depth, yawned before him; the very barrier of nature which he had relied on as a protection in case of assault from enemies, now rose before him, to threaten his own life. But he only drew the rein a little tighter, spoke a low word to his favorite steed, and over the horrible ravine flew the obedient animal, as if love and fear had given it wings—over the gaping ruin, and down the bluff into the Alabama. The gallant courser swam the river scornfully, his chief holding his rifle excitedly over his head, and shouting his war-whoop exultingly, as he ascended the opposite bank. This renowned leader was born at the Hickory Ground, in the Creek nation; his father, Charles Weatherford, was a Georgian; his mother, the beautiful Schoya, was half-sister of the famous Creek chieftain, General McGilivray. William Weatherford had not the education of his grandfather, but nature had endowed him with a noble person, a brilliant intellect, and commanding eloquence. He was, in every respect, the peer of Tecumseh. And now that we have mentioned the name of General Dale, we can not forbear giving, in his own words, an account of one of his characteristic adventures. His life was full of such. He calls it his canoe fight: