Sworn for Mackinaw

by James Spurr

  Oliver believed him. He was certain William did understand. But then William continued, “The risk, in my view, although unjustified in relation to your interests, was worth my personal stake. I saw these transactions as being necessary to prepare for what we all know is coming.” Oliver thought of the lesson of Captain Barron, taught him by Captain Lee.

  “No, William,” Oliver shook his head. “That will not serve, I am sorry. You cannot justify what you, my Captain, did as preparing and protecting my assets and interests from some future contingency. Not if by so doing you subject both to likely confiscation, and possibly me to prison, on the instant, without my consent.”

  Oliver watched as William considered. He suspected there was something else that William debated putting on the table, but at this moment, Oliver did not wish to hear a further defense. It was time for honesty, as his relationship with his best friend hung in the balance.

  William seemed to realize this also, for he left whatever consideration he had been mulling over unspoken and instead said, “Oliver, your point wins the day, truly. I must confess I took the risk not just to prepare ourselves but also so to advance the cause.”

  “What cause is that?” although Oliver was quite certain of the answer.

  William half held up his cup in toast as he answered almost sheepishly, “Free trade and sailor’s rights!”

  Oliver groaned. “Clever. Is that what they rally ‘round these days?”

  William nodded and added quietly, “While I assure you I coined no phrase, I sincerely believe in its rightiousness.”

  “You may well, but by what right do you claim to make your cause mine?” Again, Oliver’s point was strong and William nodded in agreement.

  Oliver asked, “From whom do you purchase?”

  William sat up, leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “I truly do not know. I am sure the night men we deal with on the shore are mere buffoons. One let slip the mention of a Royal Navy Lieutenant. Most likely he is keeping the proceeds to himself, as well as his identity.”

  Oliver nodded. William added, “We did not even begin, Oliver, honestly, until late August. We were likely prodded to do something in the aftermath of the Little Belt incident.”

  Oliver asked, “To whom do you sell… er, I mean, deliver?”

  Again, William held his eye. The coals were growing dim. Perhaps the cabin was growing cold, or it might have been his reply that caused a shiver as William explained, “If you please, Oliver, until you join the cause, it is much safer and simpler for you if you not know of such details. Suffice it to say the arms are finding their way, I am sure, to various of our militia. You may well find, if I am correct, some employed in defense of Detroit!”

  “Where is… well… the most recent ‘contraband’ now?”

  “Miles from here, near Frenchtown. We removed it from the hold the night we arrived at Eckert’s yard as was the plan in any case, but for the errant gaff.”

  Oliver stood, perhaps too suddenly after a few cups. “Do we have an understanding, William? No more purchases or deliveries without my express knowledge and consent?”

  William stood as well, offered his cup, “Agreed.”

  After the gesture was concluded and both nodded, Oliver confessed, “I cannot tell you how light I feel knowing you were not smuggling and enriching yourselves while deceiving me. I wished we had talked some time ago.”

  William shook his head, “No Oliver, no need for any regret. While we would never so dishonor your position and trust in us, still it is only by your grace that we are speaking even now. I am truly sorry. No more arms sales unless you consent.”

  Oliver reached for his coat, but William offered, “It is too late, take the spare bed in the loft. I suspect Bemose has long since retired at your home.” Oliver nodded, let the coat slip to the floor and began to make his way up the ladder to the loft.

  Near the top, he muttered, “A remarkable woman. You know that, don’t you?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned suddenly and asked, “William, is the false bulkhead the only secret space built into my sloop?”

  William’s face was hidden by the dark shadows but while Oliver could hear him draw on his pipe he could not discern William’s half-smile as he offered the truth, “No.”

  Oliver was asleep within moments. William had another drink while staring into the glowing coals of the fire and finished still another bowl of his pipe.

  Chapter 11

  Lieutenant James Fleet dismounted and led his horse a half mile to the southeast, just off the nearest road. He progressed on foot along the narrow path tracing the west bank of Portage Creek. A half moon on the wane and visible only intermittently through the dense forest of evergreens guided him through the night. The creek was slow and quiet near its outlet to Lake Erie. He feared he was late for the meeting he had requested with a man he had never met, but soon after resting on the trunk of a fallen tree, which nature had conveniently stripped of its bark and worn smooth and clean, he saw what appeared a blinking lantern light.

  With some study he realized the light was constant; the blinking effect caused by what he hoped was his mysterious partner as he made his way through the trees. Fleet had cooled from his walk. He turned up the collars on his uniform coat and cloak and bent down, scooping fresh snow and letting it melt in his mouth and wet his parched throat. He fought back his rising anxiety, a feeble attempt at denying his discomfort with a plan as dangerous as it was imperative. He would need to speak within minutes and could not afford anything but the assurance inherent with authority. He calmed his mount, hoping perhaps the effort would calm his own nerves.

  Before revealing himself, he resolved to assure they were alone, so he delayed in calling out. He soon heard more noise than he would have expected, certainly more than a lone traveler would justify. Straining to discern what might be conversation from mere noise, he was stunned to recognize not words nor music, but whistling. Soon broken twigs and branches and shuffling feet along the trail of dead leaves and snow added to the traveler’s homespun concert.

  Incredible, he thought. What a fool. As his subject slowed, he appeared to turn and look about, placing the lantern in the snow. As Fleet was warmed in the comfort of their isolation, the man called, without warning, “Fleet! Mr. Fleet, are you about?” The tone, only slightly hushed and on the clear crisp air of the windless winter night, was certain to travel halfway to Fort Malden. Fleet, both startled and unnerved, could tolerate nothing of the sort.

  Utterly at a loss as to how to silence the man from 30 yards, he called back in an urgent hushed tone, “Shut up, you dolt!” Cursing under his breath he began to approach realizing his careful plan designed to gather his composure was all but left in his wake.

  Earlier that evening, Alexander Grant lifted the legs of Lieutenant Owen Dunlap, propped them on a stool near the fire in his parlor in an attempt to divert the attention of the young Lieutenant from his near frost bit fingers. Dunlap had just removed his boots, and his new beard was still caked with ice.

  Eventually, with more logs on the fire, a tot of brandy and a thick wool blanket, Dunlap was able to speak clearly, his lips and cheeks having thawed and now feeling quite hot. His walk from Detroit to Grosse Isle, some miles down river from Eckert’s yard near the mouth of River Rouge, would not have, he guessed, taken anywhere near as long except in his haste to leave the walled city, he neglected to ask for clear directions and check his estimate with locals for any semblance of reason. He had always been much better at estimating time and distance on the water.

  The last leg of his journey consisted of crossing the early winter ice, exposed and alone, as he approached the fine farmhouse near the northwestern shore of Grosse Isle. With circulation now flowing through his extremities, Dunlap made his explanation. “Commodore, my apologies, certainly,” he began. “I would have thought I should have arrived two hours ago. I trust I have not awakened m’lady.”

  “Have no concern. She barely stirred, I wager. She
would not have my keen interest in your story, I am sure.”

  “I have much to report. I left you in Kingston in the heat of summer and here I am, thawing in front of your fire with no words between.”

  “Fear not for this old man,” the Commodore assured, yet his eyes betrayed his excitement and anticipation in sharing Dunlap’s adventures. Dunlap suspected age required the Commodore to live vicariously and he resolved to offer as much detail as possible, confident all nuance would be treasured. The Commodore inquired, “You have kept Colonel Pye apprised, I trust?”

  Dunlap assured, “Twice. Once late in September, posted by native canoe from Green Bay to St. Joseph’s Island. Then again about a month ago, overland, upon arriving well to the southeast of Detroit, from a Kickapoo village and with payment in advance. I have no idea if my letters reached even Fort Malden, let alone Montreal.”

  “Where is Fleet?” asked the Commodore, concealing his decided lack of enthusiasm with this detail.

  “We stayed together for but more than a week. The supply routes of which Colonel Pye is concerned are on both sides of Lake Erie. Fleet needed more time and had little reason to log the miles as far west as I have.” While entirely true, indeed even prudent, it was the perfect excuse for a mutually desired parting.

  The Commodore nodded, smiled and moved his chair close to Dunlap’s by the fire. “Let’s take it one mile at a time.”

  Leaving his horse tied to a nearby tree branch, Fleet moved swiftly and was alongside the man with the lantern in but seconds. His shout had so startled the new arrival he just stood and watched Fleet approach, evidently presuming his identity, and fortunately remained for those few seconds silent and still.

  Just strides before reaching the man, Fleet drew his dirk. Extending his arm fully pointing midway between the man’s shoulders and jaw, he stopped with the sharp tip lightly touching the man’s throat. “I am Lieutenant James Fleet, Royal Navy. If you so much as move, the last sound you hear before hitting the snow will be the gurgle of blood in your throat.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide in the moonlight. He remained still. Fleet, realizing his carefully planned first move had the desired intimidating effect, relaxed just a bit. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The man was shorter than Fleet, much the leaner and appearing somewhat younger, but not at all well groomed. Certainly not a gentleman, Fleet decided. The man replied, “I am LaRoux, whom you summoned.” His accent confirmed that which his name suggested. The man was French Canadian, dressed very much like a voyageur in skins with fur trimming and blankets.

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Oui, though I see no need for such tension, Mr. Fleet. Our dealings this past summer demonstrate I am trustworthy.”

  Fleet grew alarmed, “This summer! Whatever leads you to think we have had any dealings? We have certainly never met.”

  “Quite true, Lieutenant. But those delivering notes this summer were not, perhaps, as discreet as you wished. They spoke of a Naval Officer, of your name, selling His Majesty’s arms.” Fleet felt near panic and LaRoux must have seen it in his eyes, for he assured, “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Fleet. Those few of which I am aware never met you and were merely repeating rumor. I can personally vouch my fellows would never admit to the authorities even so much as nightfall while bathed in moonlight.”

  Fleet was now more resolved then ever as to the necessity of his plan. Originally conceived as a means for revenge, it appeared its primary motive was now but a secondary benefit. Fleet had not known until that moment of the need for his own protection.

  Fleet processed the new information and determined his plan was yet sound. “Mr. LaRoux, you are quite mistaken. I have sent you no correspondence but my summons of yesterday.” LaRoux shrugged, seeming to accept the statement at face value, perhaps sensing it was important to Fleet that LaRoux believe what he suspected a lie. In truth, night men such as LaRoux and their comrades did not much care. Whatever it took to arrange for the next transaction was their sole purpose and objective.

  Fleet continued, maintaining the dirk at LaRoux’s throat and pressing it forward ever so gently, “I tell you, LaRoux, I am under orders from Montreal to determine the identity of the traitor selling arms and I will require your full cooperation.”

  Now it was LaRoux who revealed concern. Yesterday’s note to him had been identical to the previous three, so to arrange for a small shipment. He could never have anticipated the summons and request for a meeting with Lieutenant Fleet as anything remotely resulting in his entanglement in an investigation. He had assumed that demonstrating his trustworthiness the previous three occasions had led his partner to now dealing directly with him, reducing the risk of intermediaries no longer needed among trusted cohorts.

  Could he have been so mistaken about his true partner? Since late August he had been impressed with the manner in which the transactions had been arranged, the organized logistics, the ease and apparent security with which the transfers of arms, and certainly coin, had transpired. Whoever was behind the theft of the King’s arms, the fellow knew the risks and minimized them to the greatest degree possible. His eyes betrayed his confusion and doubt. Fleet was encouraged.

  “Do not fear, LaRoux. The shipments were small, mere bait arranged purposefully to flush out the traitor. You will not be harassed or called to account for your involvement—provided you tell me everything you know. We seek a King’s man, after all, one of our own in uniform; not the network of night men.”

  Whether Fleet was telling the truth or had in fact misrepresented his actual mission, orders, and complicity in the prior shipments, LaRoux was in no position at that moment, a dirk at his throat, to judge. He could only manage a hoarse whisper, “Oui, Lieutenant. Of course.”

  Fleet withdrew the dirk. LaRoux exhaled, and the moonlight failed to reveal Lieutenant Fleet’s subtle smile.

  Dunlap began with mid-August, describing his sail from Kingston to Fort Niagara, his overland ride to Fort Erie, and another short voyage down the length of Lake Erie to Fort Malden. By the time he made Fort Malden, it was September. His mission had begun exceedingly well. Fleet departed his company at Fort Erie to make his way overland along the north shore of Lake Erie, presumably concentrating upon supply routes. Dunlap had been anxious to make acquaintance with influential native tribes in the area, the local bands and chiefs of which were mostly new to him. His previous experience was with bands well to the north from Green Bay to the shores of ‘Gitchee Gumee’ and the Sault.

  “At Fort Malden, I determined to stay and visit among those natives in the villages near to the settlement. As an aside, Commodore, I was quite impressed with His Majesty’s establishment and yard on the Detroit River. It appeared most suitable, for peacetime, and I admired two vessels moored in the river. In September, the villages are not as quiet and empty as would have been the case in the height of summer and I managed to call upon some local chiefs who were preparing for the influx of their people for the oncoming winter.”

  The Commodore could not contain himself, “Did you meet him? Will he winter at Malden?” His eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “I assume you mean Tecumseth, or his brother, the Prophet?”

  The Commodore nodded and clarified, “Certainly, either, yes…”

  Dunlap interrupted his careful chronology so to ease any suspense. “No, although one of the Shawnee smoked the intent of my visit and saw, I think, great opportunity in our meeting. He lent me a guide for so long as I was in need and encouraged me to seek out Tecumseth. But first, I needed to proceed to St. Joseph’s Island and call upon Mr. Dickson of Green Bay.”

  The Commodore placed another log on the fire, signaling, Dunlap assumed, that his report would require most of the night. “What of the Prophet? Do you read anything into your referral to Tecumseth?”

  “Excellent question. It may be, Commodore, simple geography. I do not know the exact whereabouts of either, although the Kickapoo I rendezvoused with southwest of Detroit reported t
he Prophet is somewhere near, in Canada, under the protection of our forces. Still, I read more into the suggestions. I am of the impression that the Prophet, while still looked upon for spiritual guidance, has ceded all real power to Tecumseth since Tippacanoe. ‘Affairs of state’, shall I say, including political allegiances and matters of war or peace. The Kickapoo firmly believe the Confederation is still very much intact.”

  Their eyes met upon the word. The Commodore, more serious than excited, repeated, “A Confederation. Do you think it still possible?”

  Dunlap nodded, “Indeed, I think it yet a reality, despite Tippacanoe.”

  For several years, the Prophet, a Shawnee and brother of Tecumseth, had preached a religion calling for unity, abstinence from alcohol and the cessation of all sales of land to Europeans. As the seasons passed, both England and the United States presumed that such teachings were intended to support Tecumseth’s political views. In addition to warning all tribes that none of them had the inherent power to sell native land unless and until all tribes approved and that local chiefs would pay for such sales with their lives, Tecumseth also clearly opposed further westward expansion of all Europeans. Uniting the native peoples had long been recognized by the whites as the only long term serious threat the native peoples could likely employ; Pontiac had come close within the Northwest, 50 years before. Tecumseth, it appeared, may have succeeded well beyond and yet including the Northwest.

  The native alliance was known as the Confederation. It was formed at a critical time in the balance of power for the entire continent. The United States quite rightly recognized the threat, while England, France and Spain had far much less to lose.

  England’s relations with the natives were more cordial and its settlements and westward expansion in the north much less aggressive than in the more temperate climates of the United States. France, as the result of the Seven Years’ War, ceded Canada to England and Napoleon had sold its coastline on the Gulf of Mexico and the vast interior of the continent to President Jefferson less than 10 years before. Spain held territory well to the south in Florida and to the west of much of the land France had recently sold. Spain was thus unconcerned with any Confederation in the Northwest Territory being far more intrigued with whether United States citizens would begin to occupy that which their government had only recently purchased. In the vast areas north and east of Texas, Spain saw an opportunity to advance its contested claim to that which France sold so cheaply.