Tecumseh had come to Brock not just with a vague desire to attack Detroit, but with a full-fledged battle plan in mind. He had even had Charcoal Burner bring a roll of bark, upon whose inner side Tecumseh had drawn a detailed map of the terrain and approaches around Detroit, with particular attention to defilades and cover.
The two leaders worked with growing excitement over their strategy, feeling their kinship grow stronger with every hour. Brock, unlike many British officers, did not speak condescendingly to Indians. He and Tecumseh found they could dispute each other’s ideas without getting angry with each other and accept each other’s amendments without pique. Brock also asked for the opinions of his junior officers, as an Indian chief always did in council, and this further enhanced his stature in Tecumseh’s eyes. Only Colonel Procter was opposed to the idea of attacking Detroit, and when it became apparent that his objections were based only upon lack of boldness or imagination, his arguments were disregarded.
The success of a British and Indian attack upon Detroit would depend largely on making their forces seem bigger than they really were. “It is like the mockingbird,” Tecumseh said, remembering a lesson of Chiksika. “He sings many songs so that other birds will think there are many birds in his territory. When the American Clark took Vincennes from your Hamilton in the last war, he played mockingbird in a way that we could do.” He told how he would have his Indians pass and repass a point visible from the fort, giving the impression that he had thousands of warriors. He would also deliberately let the Americans intercept a messenger who would be carrying a bogus dispatch referring to some five thousand warriors from upper Michigan—thus playing upon the dread that General Hull had revealed in his dispatches. Brock clapped and rubbed his hands together eagerly at this ruse.
Brock likewise would play mockingbird, by dressing hundreds of Canadian militiamen and farmers in regular army red coats that the quartermaster had in abundance. Added to the real regulars, these would make a formidable-looking display for the eyes of the nervous old American general. The two leaders chuckled like schoolboys plotting mischief and looked into each other’s merry eyes with growing appreciation.
Tecumseh’s warriors would cross the river first and occupy the ground north and west of Detroit and put on their show of numbers. Brock would bombard the fort with artillery from Sandwich across the river and at dawn of the following day would transport his troops to the American shore by boat and complete the encirclement of Detroit and the fort. Both Brock and Tecumseh felt that Hull had no fighting spirit and would likely talk surrender at that point. His supply train was still stalled far down the road, and the Americans at Detroit were hungry and demoralized.
When this war-planning council ended at four in the morning, the Redcoat officers were sagging with weariness and rank with brandy, but Tecumseh and Brock were wide awake and exuberant, and Tecumseh was feeling something he had not felt for years or even believed he could ever feel again: a full, true, trusting, brotherly friendship with a white man. Here was a blue-eyed man he liked and admired as he had liked and admired Big Fish and Ga-lo-weh. And he said as he left:
“Brock, listen. After the Long Knife Wayne ran over us at the Fallen Timbers on the Maumee-se-pe, the British officer at Fort Miami would not let the red men take refuge in his fort. For many years that memory has been bitter in my breast when I thought of British. But I feel that if that had been your fort, you would have had enough heart to shelter my people.”
“I would have,” Brock said, and he gripped Tecumseh’s hand firmly. “Moreover, my troops would have been beside your warriors in the fallen trees.”
THEY HELD AN OPEN COUNCIL IN A GRASSY FIELD NEAR AMHERSTBURG at noon, to tell the plan to Tecumseh’s thousand followers. In the background towered the masts and spars and massive hulls of the British vessels in the shipyard. They were always an awesome sight to the Indians who gathered here. Just the look of them seemed an assurance of the wealth and strength of England. Brock had rested a few hours and looked splendid in the August sunlight. He had added to his uniform a shimmering, varicolored silk sash and a bicorn hat trimmed with gold braid and a cockade. His voice, words, and looks made a powerful impression on the warriors, and Tecumseh was proud and happy as he stood beside his new friend. Brock told the Indians that the Americans were now trying to take the lands of both the red men and the British, and that he was not going to sit here and wait to defend Canada but was going to cross the river and drive them out of the Indians’ land. They responded with an excited murmur of approval. Then Tecumseh spoke to Brock.
“We are happy that the father beyond the Great Salt Water has finally awakened from his long sleep and permitted his soldiers to come to the aid of his red children, who have remained steady in their friendship.
“The Americans are our enemies. They came to us hungry long ago, then they cut off the hands of the red man who gave them corn. We gave them rivers of fish, and they poisoned them. We gave them forests and mountains and valleys full of game, and in return, what did they give to our warriors and our women? They gave them rum, and trinkets, and a grave.
“The ghosts of our brothers killed at Tippecanoe can find no rest in the hunting grounds of the dead until the American enemy is destroyed! We must stay united with each other and with our allies the British until this is done!
“Brothers! The Redcoat officers here have been tight-handed until now, and have not given us enough guns. Many of us have fought the Americans with bows and clubs. But now General Brock has come here with a bold heart, and he has ordered them to give us all good guns for our attack across the river, and he and his many soldiers will fight beside us, as they have not done since our fathers were our chiefs.” Now he turned and looked at Brock.
“Brothers!” he said, his voice carrying over the field. “This is a man!”
TECUMSEH’S WARRIORS CROSSED THE DETROIT RIVER THAT evening in canoes and moved into the woods above the town and the fort, cutting off the roads. His scouts on the south road came and told him that about 350 mounted militiamen had just ridden out of Detroit, probably to try once again to bring up the supply convoy.
In a way this was good, Tecumseh thought. Hull would feel weaker with those men gone outside.
But on the other hand, a unit outside like that could create problems if it came back and struck at the warriors from behind. So Tecumseh sent word about it to Brock and settled his warriors for the night, to watch the town and guard the roads, particularly that south road. He told them to keep the Americans awake and nervous all night with strange animal calls and other alarms.
The next morning, while Tecumseh’s thousand warriors were making themselves look and sound like five thousand, Brock had his troops cut down a clump of oaks across the river at Sandwich, revealing a battery of cannons he had moved into position during the night. When the Americans had had time to look at the cannons for a while and count several thousand Indians crossing a road, Brock sent a messenger to General Hull demanding his surrender. When it was refused, Brock’s cannons started bombarding the fort. Tecumseh’s warriors were awed and cheered by such smoke, thunder, and fire. Most of them were too young ever to have heard cannon before. Brock had not just been talking big; for the first time in the memory of most of the warriors, the British were actually shooting cannons at the American enemy, and it did not seem possible that the Long Knife soldiers could live long in such a storm of destruction.
Then the cannons of the fort began firing back. The ear-hurting booms and clouds of thick smoke rolled through the river valley, and the shingle roofs of a few buildings in the fort began to fly apart. A building caught on fire. General Hull had all his troops in the fort where the shells were falling, except for one unit of Michigan militia that crouched near the edge of the town, facing the Indian forces. As dusk began to darken the countryside, these militiamen began deserting.
The cannonade continued into the night, a spectacle of red-and-yellow explosions and firelit smoke that kept the warriors
enchanted, even though the unaccustomed noise was giving them headaches. They were in high spirits; they were confident that the Americans would give up the next day or maybe even this night.
IN THE FIRST SMOKY LIGHT OF DAWN, DISTANT CRIES OF alarm could be heard coming from the fort and the town. The Americans could see many rowboats on the river downstream. Brock’s Redcoats were crossing to the American shore. They landed, using the lowest ground to stay covered from the line of artillery fire from the fort. By the time the rising sun was beginning to lighten the hazy, smoky lowlands, the green fields were impressively covered with units of men in red-and-white uniforms, maneuvering into positions for an assault upon the walls of the fort. And while the Americans in the fort were watching this ominous sight, Tecumseh’s warriors began trotting in files through a glade visible from the fort, howling their war cries. Once concealed by the trees, they circled back to the end of the line and trotted through the glade again. By the time that ruse had been completed, Hull’s observers had counted five or six thousand Indians on two consecutive days, which seemed to confirm the captured message about the horde of warriors coming down from the north.
Now Tecumseh mounted a gray stallion and galloped down past the fort, just a little out of musket range, to the fields where Brock’s army was forming. Brock was already prominent on the field, on a high-spirited gray war-horse, and the two leaders galloped to greet each other, within the sight of the fort. They then rode side by side inspecting the fort from a distance, looking confident and nonchalant. But they were aware that this was the point of their greatest risk.
“Now, my friend Tecumseh,” Brock said, “let us see whether we’ve got General Hull appraised right. I’ll start the assault. If he resists, we’ve got a deadly job ahead of us. That’s an awful fort to storm, and he’s got more fellows in there than you and I have together. You can wager that those cannon pointing down on us are loaded with grapeshot. Oh, how I hate grapeshot! We may not be able to take that fort without a long siege, my friend. Even that’s a very long chance.…”
“Brock! See that!”
Brock followed Tecumseh’s pointing finger. Then he began humming an impromptu little song in his throat and smiling. “Oh, my good fellow,” he chortled. “This is just utterly preposterous! It worked!”
A white flag was being raised over the American fort.
TECUMSEH GATHERED HIS WAR CHIEFS AND LAID DOWN HIS law.
“I have made a promise to our friend Brock, and it is our promise:
“When we go into the town and the fort, we will harm no one. The Americans are our prisoners, and the women and children in Detroit are innocent. I have told you many times that prisoners must not be hurt. If you wish to remain allied with me and win more great victories like this one, you must not let your warriors harm any of the people, nor steal or destroy anything. Remember what I have told you: in my eyes it is the act of a coward to hurt the helpless. The American general has surrendered to Brock in order to save himself and his people from the knife and tomahawk. For the honor of Brock’s word and my own, see that your warriors are merciful.”
MANY OF THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS IN THE FORT WERE WEEPING with frustration as they watched the American flag come down the flagpole and the British flag go up. Hull had consulted not one officer before making his decision to surrender. They had all been ready and eager to fight and were so astonished when Hull sent his aides out to raise the truce flag that they had hurriedly tried to relieve the old general of command and go on with the battle. But that had failed, and now they were all prisoners—all 2,500 of them, the entire United States Army of the Northwest. Even those 350 who had ridden down the road two days before were included in the surrender terms, though they did not yet know it. Some of the American officers had had tantrums, broken their swords in disgust, or thrown themselves on the ground and wept. Others swore that if they ever got back to their country, they would see to it that Hull was tried as a traitor and a coward.
The misery and depression of the Americans were matched by the jubilation of the British and Indians. As the king’s flag went up the flagpole, General Brock was so moved that he untied the beautiful silk sash from around his waist and gave it to Tecumseh. “You deserve the honor for this day of triumph, my friend,” he said. Then, as if this token were insufficient for the good feelings overflowing in him, he unbuckled his silver-trimmed pistols and gave them to Tecumseh also, and all the British soldiers and Canadian militiamen who were close enough to see it gave a cheer.
Then, to his total surprise and delight, Brock received a present in return. Tecumseh turned to Billy Caldwell, and the half-breed rode forward and gave a bundle to Tecumseh, who extended it to Brock, saying:
“This was made by the women of Prophet’s Town, and I am pleased to put it in the hand of a brave ally. The American governor always tried to tell me that British officers have no courage to help the red men. But you have shown how a great English warrior stands and moves.”
Tears welled up in Brock’s eyes when he saw the priceless thing Tecumseh was giving him. It was a six-foot wampum belt depicting an oak-leaf design in green-and-white beads.
“For one strong like the oak,” Tecumseh said.
“My brother and gracious friend!” Brock said, his voice husky with emotion. “I’ll keep this near me till the day I die.”
“May that day be far from now,” said Tecumseh, who felt that this was perhaps the happiest day of his life, that this was only the first of many victories with Brock’s help, which would lead to the salvation of his people. Brock was so important to the outcome of the great task that Tecumseh wondered why he had never seen him in any of the dreams or visions.
FOR A FEW DAYS AFTER THE CAPTURE OF DETROIT, TECUMSEH and Brock shared a deepening friendship and high hopes for more such successes. Brock set up his headquarters in a comfortable house in Detroit, and Tecumseh lived in two rooms of it. Here he was visited by several of the captured American officers who had met him in Vincennes and O-hi-o in past years. They came to thank him for the merciful restraint of his warriors. One of these officers introduced himself as a friend of James Galloway’s family. That family, the major reported, was as usual prospering. The major then astonished Tecumseh by referring to Rebekah as “the girl you courted.” Tecumseh said nothing about that but listened until he was able to deduce the story: that Rebekah had told people he had proposed marriage to her. It had become the family story.
“Ah,” Tecumseh said, looking thoughtfully down at the floor beside the officer’s feet. “Such a thing could not be.” He remembered her, wistfully, for a moment, remembered the readings, the grammar lessons, the writing, her strange loneliness—their pitiful misunderstanding about the gift she had called dowry.… “Is that girl well, then? Perhaps she is a man’s wife by now, and the mother of children?”
“Not yet but soon, I hear. They say she’s fixing to wed a cousin of hers—‘Pennsylvania George,’ he’s called.”
Tecumseh was quiet for a while, half smiling. “That is a good thing to hear,” he said. “One should not marry another kind.”
Coming now, at this time of his swelling friendship with Brock, the news of Rebekah caused a strange wave of poignancy to move through Tecumseh. Once again, for the first time in many rushing, eventful years, he wondered at this deep affinity he had for a few members of the race that was ruining his world.
Later that day Tecumseh sat in his room, wearing a white man’s cloak and no headdress, while a picture maker painted his portrait, which Brock had insisted upon commissioning.
In these heady and pleasant few days, Tecumseh’s leg wound finished its healing. The limp went away, and his hopes for the success of his mission grew. With the bold energy of Brock, he felt, the tribes might yet defeat the Long Knives so soundly and so often that they might actually recover their lands in Indiana and O-hi-o and hold those lands forever. Had that region not been considered by the British to be a part of Canada before the Revolution? Might it not be a
gain, if the British won this war? And might not the English king give it back to Tecumseh’s people as a reward for their help in the wars? Tecumseh thought of discussing these possibilities someday with Brock. He sniffed the strange paint smell, pondering the notion. He kept it within himself, and would until he might have time to talk deeply with Brock. But first there was this war to win, and it had started out well indeed. By such victories as this, the disaster at Tippecanoe might be fully compensated. He had summoned all the tribes that had followed him before Tippecanoe, telling them of the conquest of Detroit and inviting them to join him in the rebuilding of the alliance and more great victories. Even as he was sending out these calls, still there came warriors who had been roused by the shaking of the earth.
When the painter was finished, Tecumseh saw the brooding image and laughed at it. “But it does not show how happy Tecumseh is!”
Word soon came of another victory over the Americans, but it was a victory that saddened and angered Tecumseh. His Potawatomi, Sauk, Fox, and Winnebago allies had captured the entire garrison of Fort Dearborn and the people of the village of Chicago near the end of Lake Mis-e-ken. Among the captives had been the Indian agent William Wells. But the warriors had been too tempted by the helplessness of their captives and, forgetting Tecumseh’s repeated preachings for mercy, had massacred most of the captives. One of the Potawatomi chiefs in his frenzy had cut Wells’s heart out and eaten it. The death of Wells was not bad news to Tecumseh, but this repeated reversion to blood lust twisted his heart. How could the red men expect to become a nation recognized among nations if they never would learn mercy and restraint?
“Yes, I have incited them to fight the Americans as long as they have strength to raise an arm,” Tecumseh confided to Brock. “But they forget my pleas to spare the helpless, and are untrained children, who know not what is good or bad, and each time they do that they step farther back from the building of a respectable nation. Every act of cruelty will be repaid a hundred times by the Long Knives, who welcome any excuse to make us be no more. Brock, what am I to do with my poor People?” Tecumseh had never trusted any other white man enough, even Galloway, to say such a thing to him, and to be able to say it to such a friend was an exquisite release of his anguish. He could see in Brock’s eyes that he understood.
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