Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  He paused and looked Madison in the eye. “What Congress has planned is the war Billy and I fought thirty-five years ago, but in exact reverse. Then, we knew our own territory. The British did not. We could move through it quickly, and they could not. We could cut their supply lines with twenty men, and they could do nothing about it. There were a thousand places we could hide in ambush and then disappear, and we did. The territory they were trying to take was simply too big, too strung out, too vast, too complicated for them. It took them six years to realize they were never going to force us to a stand. They were the most powerful military in the world, but they didn’t have enough to take all the vast territory we held and occupy it. They finally simply gave up and went home.”

  He paused, and for several seconds the room was caught up in an intense quiet. Then Matthew went on.

  “That is my worst fear for the plan as I understand it.” He pointed at the map. “Look at the territory you intend taking. Big. Vast. Complex. Empty. They know it better than we. We will never be able to push them to a battle they don’t want because they’ll just disappear in those woods, and we’ll never catch them if they don’t want us to. How many places up there can they lay an ambush? A thousand? Ten thousand? If we take Montreal and Niagara and Fort Malden and Amherstburg, do you think they’ll surrender? Or will they simply disappear and wait us out?”

  Again he stopped and turned to Billy. “How do you see it?”

  Billy’s answer was short. “Remember Burgoyne at Saratoga? Cornwallis at Yorktown? They both tried to force us to a stand and couldn’t. We caught them at a place of our choosing, and they lost. Burgoyne surrendered his entire army of six thousand. Cornwallis surrendered over six thousand. They learned too late what Matthew’s talking about. We didn’t beat the British. They gave up. The United States simply wasn’t worth the cost in British lives and money.”

  Billy stopped, then went on. “If William Eustis and Paul Hamilton are the two men who must make this work—our secretary of war and secretary of the navy—there’s reason to fear. I doubt either is up to it.”

  For a time Madison looked into the face of one man, then the other, then turned to pore over the map again before he spoke.

  “I know about the problems with both of them, but I have no alternative.”

  He heaved a great sigh and raised his face to them. “You’ve done me a tremendous service. You don’t know how I needed to see this through men who know and who are willing to say the hard things.” He gestured. “Take a seat. I need answers to one or two more things.”

  They sat in the upholstered chairs with Madison facing them across his desk. “If it comes to it, will you be available to help?”

  Matthew looked at Billy, then back at Madison. “In what capacity?”

  “Any you choose. Battlefield commanders if you wish.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Billy was right. We would both run the risk of being too cautious. Too unwilling to make the instant decisions that will get men killed. You’ll need younger men for that. But speaking for myself, I am at your service to give you the best I have to advise your commanders.” He turned to Billy. “What’s your answer?”

  “The same. I wouldn’t trust myself. I’ve seen too many men dead and crippled. I’m not sure I would make the right decisions while men were dropping all around me. But I will deem it an honor to give you my best advice, any time.”

  Madison looked at Matthew, and there was pleading in his eyes. “You have men in your business who are outstanding in their naval abilities. Navigators. Captains. Would they be available?”

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “You mean my brother and my son? Adam and John?”

  “Yes, and your brother Caleb.”

  “That’s for them to decide. Write them a letter and make a proposal. They’ll give you their answers.”

  “And there’s one more matter. Would Mister Stroud be available? His services among the Indians would be invaluable.”

  Billy cut in. “Write a letter to him but send it to me. I’ll see that he gets it. He can make his own answer.”

  Madison drew and released a great breath and rose and thrust out his hand, and the two shook it warmly. “There is no way for me to extend an adequate thanks,” Madison exclaimed. “I’ll write those letters soon. And one more thing I must say.”

  Matthew and Billy looked at him, waiting in silence.

  “We have war hawks in Congress from all sections of the United States. Henry Clay and John C. Calhoun, and others, some from the north, some from farther south. Each has his own views on all this, and the debates that develop in the hallowed halls of both houses are all too often ridiculous. The plan I have explained is almost entirely the work of General Dearborn and Congress. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I have no idea how many times I’ve wished that persons such as yourselves could speak to Congress assembled and call down thunder from heaven to make them understand what you’ve told me here today. I will do my best with what I have.”

  He led them to the door. “I won’t hold you longer. Give my best wishes to your families, will you?”

  They shook hands warmly as Matthew spoke.

  “It has been an honor to come. If there is anything else we can do, you have only to ask.”

  The little man held the door for them as they passed out into the long, polished hardwood hall floor. He watched them walk away, and he heard the door close behind them. He remained standing, silent, unmoving, for a long time, with a growing alarm rising in his breast as their words rang in his brain.

  The War of Independence in reverse—too big—too vast—can’t control the waterway—Eustis and Hamilton incapable—commanding officers too old—too cautious.

  He straightened and squared his shoulders and walked resolutely back into the library and closed the door.

  There is an election coming. I have no choice. We must move. Now.

  Notes

  Immediately after the American declaration of war against England was made public, President James Madison began a plan to take Canada, reasoning that England could not survive without Canadian timber to support her massive navy. He turned to his secretary of war, William Eustis, who was not prepared for his position and somewhat of a bumbler, who in turn sought advice from General William Hull, who at that time was governor of the Michigan Territory and Major General Henry Dearborn, both men above sixty years of age who had served well in the Revolutionary War. Dearborn proposed the three-pronged plan as herein described, of taking Montreal, the Niagara area, and the Detroit area, simultaneously. At the time, the United States could commit fewer than seven thousand troops to the cause and only seventeen ships. The British navy consisted of six hundred ships and its army of about two hundred fifty thousand men. At the time, England and France were at war, and England had to divide her armed forces between the conflict in Europe and that in America. Despite the horrendous imbalance of military power between the United States and England, the consensus of Congress was that it would require only that we march north and seize control of the great waterway, and the Canadians would surrender without a fight. General Hull saw the need for a massive overhaul of our naval presence on the waterway, but Congress did not agree, and in fact reduced the naval presence. President Madison offered command of the three-pronged plan to Hull and Dearborn—Hull to the Detroit area, Dearborn to the other two. Hull refused at first, so Madison offered it to Colonel Jacob Kingsbury, whose health would not permit him to accept. Madison went back to Hull and persuaded him to take the position. The secretary of war at the time was Paul Hamilton, who was openly addicted to alcohol and incompetent. Eustis and Hamilton were unqualified to handle the proposed invasion and taking of Canada. The addition of the two American frigates President and Constitution to their shadow navy on the Great Lakes would add eighty-eight cannon to American firepower, since each was armed with forty-four cannon. The reasoning presented herein of Matthew Dunson and Billy Weems, both fictional characters, represents t
he reaction of the better-qualified veterans to the whole plan. The area was too vast and United States forces were too sparse to carry it.

  See Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 3–7, 181–192; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–92; Malcomson, Lords of the Lakes, pp. 15–16, 39–41; Wills, James Madison, pp. 97–100; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, p. 57.

  Fort Malden, Canada

  July 3, 1812

  CHAPTER XIII

  * * *

  Of the links that formed the great highway of water that reached west from the Atlantic Ocean nearly halfway across the North American continent, none were more strategically located nor critically important than those that connected the lower four Great Lakes. There were two such links, both relatively small rivers. The Detroit River at the south end of Lake Huron drained Lake Michigan, Lake Superior, and Lake Huron into Lake Erie, to connect the upper half of the great waterway with the lower half. The Niagara River at the east end of Lake Erie drained into Lake Ontario, thence into the mighty St. Lawrence River and on eastward to Hudson Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, making the chain complete—from Lake Superior to the great ocean. The result was that whoever controlled the Detroit River or the Niagara River, had the power to stop the commerce that fed and sustained most of the northeast section of the continent.

  To protect their claims to the rights of navigation on the two rivers that were the indispensable keys to the northern sections of the continent, the Americans had built Fort Detroit on the west side of the Detroit River at the west end of Lake Erie, on United States soil in the territory of Michigan; and the British had built their opposing Fort Malden on the east side of the Detroit River, on English soil in what was called Upper Canada. At the other end of Lake Erie, the east end, the Americans had built Fort Niagara on the west side of the Niagara River on soil belonging to the state of New York, and the British had built Fort George on the east side of the Niagara River on Canadian soil.

  Twenty miles south of Fort Malden, on the Detroit River, the village of Amherstburg had sprung up, where the British had created a small shipyard for construction of their gunboats that patrolled the Great Lakes.

  Thus, in the early months of 1812, with unbearable tension gripping those on both sides of the entire waterway, Great Britain and the United States stood toe to toe and face to face across the two key rivers in what had suddenly become a stand-or-fall confrontation for possession and control of the Detroit River and the Niagara River, and, consequently, the great waterway and Canada.

  In early July, Fort Malden stood wilted and sweltering in the hot, dead, midmorning humid air. The proud Union Jack with its royal blue field and red and white crosses hung limp and unmoving from the seventy-foot flagpole at the huge gates into the square, efficient fort with its log buildings constructed around the great parade ground in the center. Sweating soldiers in proper British rank and file cursed their crimson wool tunics and their ten-pound Brown Bess muskets as they mechanically executed the barked orders of their drill sergeant. The drill field was planted in grass that was thick and green in April and May, but with winter and spring past, was now fast disappearing under the relentless tread of British boots in daily drill. The firm steps of the marching soldiers raised tiny curls of dust as they marched on.

  Along the north wall of the east-facing fort, women with cloths tied to hold their hair back and clothed in ankle- and wrist-length dresses and high-top black leather shoes that were soaked, perspired as they carried water in wooden buckets from the fort well to steaming, blackened kettles hung from chains on nine-foot tripods for the weekly washing of the clothing of the entire fort. Some fetched armloads of split kindling to feed the fires beneath the kettles. Some scrubbed clothing on corrugated washboards in heavy wooden tubs filled with hot water and strong, homemade lye soap that left their hands raw and cracked. Some hung the dripping, laundered clothing on wires strung between posts. Others gathered those already dried to make way for the wet ones coming. All paused from time to time to wipe at the perspiration and steal a moment to watch the soldiers make their oblique movements and their left and right flanking maneuvers, before they turned back to the unrelenting, sweaty work of keeping clean clothing available to a disciplined, orderly military presence in the wilderness.

  None wished to suffer the consequence of dereliction of duty that would provoke Major General Isaac Brock, the commander of the fort and of British subjects in the area. Tall, hair golden in the sunlight, powerful in the shoulders and arms, with strong, regular features, Brock was a fair man, and a just man, who gave rewards when earned and punishment when deserved. He never asked a soldier or a civilian to do a thing he would not do himself and had earned the respect of every man in his command. Perhaps not their friendship, but always their respect. In battle, he was brilliant to a fault, leading his men into combat where his peers would not go, inspiring them, driving his command on to victories that made them the envy of the British army.

  Just days earlier, an exhausted messenger on a weary horse had delivered a message to General Brock that left him shaking his head in stunned disbelief. On June 18, the United States had declared war on England! For long minutes he had sat at his desk, reading the message over and over again as the stark realization settled in. The Americans have invited their own demise! They’ve thrown the spark into the powder barrel. When and where will the explosion come? Then General Brock had stood and squared his shoulders and set his jaw and made his resolve. If it comes here, we’ll be ready. We’ll be ready.

  He was seated at his plain desk in his office reading the morning sick-call report when a loud, rapid, urgent knock at his door brought his head up. He closed the report and leaned back in his chair.

  “Enter.”

  His eyes narrowed at the sight of the slender, sweated, red-faced, winded, wide-eyed lieutenant who pulled up short and jerked his hand up in a salute, then dropped it as Brock recognized him.

  “Sir,” the man panted, “I have just come from the river. There’s an enemy ship out there coming this way. She’s—”

  Brock held up his hand and smiled calmly. “Slow down, Lieutenant Webb. Start at the beginning. Something’s happened. Tell me.”

  The young man took a deep breath. “Sorry, sir. It caught us by surprise. Captain Morton thought you should know and sent me. It’s an American ship. A schooner. The Cuyahoga. Commercial, we think. Not carrying cannon we can see. She’s moving north in the Detroit River. She’ll be under our guns in a few minutes. If I understood it right, sir, the United States has just lately declared war on us. We are not quite sure what to do about a civilian ship moving north. It’s certain she’s headed for Detroit, most likely to bring supplies to the Americans there. Respectfully, sir, what are your orders?”

  Brock’s forehead wrinkled in question. “An American commercial schooner? Voluntarily coming under our guns?” For a moment he stared at his desktop. “I would almost wager her captain doesn’t know about the declaration of war.” He paused for just a moment. “Board her and bring her to our docks. Do not use cannon or muskets unless absolutely necessary. Bring her war chest and all paperwork here to me. I want to know if they’re aware America has declared war on us.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant blurted and turned on his heel and fairly ran from the room, then turned left to sprint down the boardwalk to the great gates. He seized the reins of his horse from the startled private who had been holding the bay gelding and vaulted into the saddle. He pulled the head around and jammed his blunted spurs into the flanks of the animal, and in three jumps the horse was at a dead run down the narrow dirt trail that wound through the dense forest to the British gun emplacements dug into the banks of the river. He hauled the winded horse to a sliding stop and was shouting General Brock’s orders to Captain Morton before he hit the ground, pointing to the light schooner, still four hundred yards to the south, steadily moving up the river under a light breeze.

  “Sir, General Brock orders us to take the Cuyahoga. Bring her to our dock.
Get the war chest and all the papers of her captain and take them to the general. Do not use cannon or musket if it can be avoided.”

  Instantly the captain turned and trotted down to the dock on the riverbank to drop into a longboat with six seamen in position on the cross-benches, oars shipped, and a helmsman seated at the rear, hand on the tiller, all ready and waiting. The captain used his horn to bellow his orders to the gun crews on shore. “Guns one, two, and three. I’m going out there. At my signal, each of you fire one shot over the bow of the Cuyahoga. I will demand they tie up at our dock peacefully. If she refuses or if she shows cannon that we have not seen, all batteries open fire at once and continue until she is disabled. Do not sink her if it can be avoided. We want her crew alive and all her papers.” He lowered his horn and then raised it again while a wry grin crossed his face. “Should any of your cannonballs come within twenty yards of this longboat, that crew will be hung just before evening mess. Am I clear?”

  Chuckling gun crews reached for powder ladles and budge barrels and commenced loading their cannon.

  Morton lowered his horn and gave orders to the longboat crew. “Cast off! Take us out into the mainstream, well ahead of the American ship.”

  The long oars dropped from their upright position and rattled as they were shoved into the oarlocks. The three men on the right held their oar blades above the water while the three on the left dug theirs deep and grunted as they threw their backs into it to turn the boat. On the fourth stroke all six oars were in the dark waters of the Detroit River, and the boat was skimming out into the smooth current. Morton waited until he was directly north of the oncoming schooner before he turned to face his waiting shore batteries and raised his horn.

  “Numbers one, two, and three. Fire!”