Chapter I SOME INDIAN REMINISCENSES. Among the recollections of my childhood, the most startling to my youthful mind, was a story told me by my mother of an Indian raid that came near enough to my grandfather's home to massacre and scalp the whole family of friends, Brantly by name. Within a very few miles of the Brantly's there was a large settlement of whites, who owned their farms—some had lands inherited from their parents. For many years they had not been thus molested and the massacre of the Brantly family came like a shock from a clear sky. Mr. Brantly was plowing in a nearby field, his wife, with a servant woman, was washing at the spring branch, when the red skins swooped down upon them and tomahawked the last one of them.
Morgan county, Ga., was not a border county either, and when the alarm was given, my grandfather Swift, then a comparatively young man, saddled a gentle horse, helped my grandmother into the saddle, lifted my small uncle, William, up behind her, and placed the three-months old baby (my own dear mother) in grandmother's lap. Armed with a musket, he walked beside the horse, until they were in sight of my greatgrandfather's home, when he bade his little family goodbye and went back to join the near neighbors who had agreed to pursue the Indians. Night and day these armed men hunted the tracks of the murderers, but to small effect. This occurred in the year 1813.
Source: Country Life in Georgia, in the Days of My Youth, by Rebecca Latimer Felton, Widow of Hon. W. H. Felton, printed by Index Printing Co., Atlanta, Ga., 1919; Pg. 8