by Ron Carter
Three seconds later white smoke leaped from the cannon muzzles. The booming blasts and the concussion came rolling across the open water and an instant later three geysers erupted twenty yards past the bow of the oncoming ship. Morton raised his telescope to study the scramble of confusion on the deck of the little ship and waited until the echo of the cannon roar died before he raised his horn.
“Hello, the Cuyahoga,” he shouted. “I am Captain Reginald Morton of the British Royal Navy. I command you to change course and dock your schooner at the pier on the east bank of the river. If you refuse I have ordered my cannon crews to destroy you immediately. Do it now or bear the consequences.”
While Morton watched, a man pushed his way through the shaken crew on the little schooner and stood spread-legged at the railing on the ship’s bow. His voice came high, shocked, belligerent, defensive.
“This is not a gunboat! We are commercial! By what right have you fired on us? By what right do you demand our surrender?”
“Sir,” Morton went on in his steady monotone, “the United States has declared war on Great Britain.” He paused and saw the entire crew on the Cuyahoga come to a standstill, silent, unbelieving, and then he went on. “Do you understand? A state of war exists between the United States and Great Britain. I am taking your ship as a prize of war and your crew as our prisoners. Turn to starboard now, or my shore batteries will reduce you to kindling. Should you elect to destroy any part of your cargo, or your war chest, or your manifest papers, you will all be hanged before nightfall. You have ten seconds.”
Morton counted slowly to ten and was turning with his horn to shout orders to the shore batteries when the helmsman called, “Sir, they’re coming about to starboard.”
On Morton’s command, the six oarsmen turned the longboat, and with Morton watching like a hawk, they led the schooner back to the docks that served Fort Malden, where Morton waited while the schooner cast her hawsers and British hands looped them in the inverted figure eight to secure them to the cleats on the heavy planking. Morton waited impatiently until the gangplank was lowered, then marched up to the deck of the ship.
“Your name, sir,” he demanded of the captain, an aging, bearded, burly man who had shed his tunic in the heat of the morning and was standing in a white shirt damp with perspiration. His face was a red mix of anger, disbelief, insult, and terror. He ignored Morton’s question and his words came hot, fast, with an unmistakable New England inflection.
“What do you mean, a state of war? What declaration of war? I own this ship, not the United States. We’re unarmed! I was hired to bring possessions and personal belongings north to Fort Detroit! I got no part of any war!”
Morton’s expression did not change. “I understand, sir, but the fact remains, we are in a state of war. This ship now belongs to Great Britain, and you and your crew are our prisoners. Your cargo is ours. My men will inspect it immediately, and we shall do with it as we see fit. You will order your men to follow mine to the fort just behind us, where you will be placed in cells and extended every courtesy afforded prisoners of war. I will have your name, sir.”
There was hatred in the man’s eyes and voice as he answered. “Beltran. Andrew Beltran.”
“Thank you, sir. If there is nothing else, let us move. Now.”
Captain Morton led up the winding trail from the river to the gates of the fort with Beltran behind, followed by his bewildered crew, muttering blasphemies against England, Captain Morton, and a world that had turned hostile in an instant. The ramparts were filled with both officers and enlisted who had heard the cannon blasts and were peering over the top of the fort walls, waiting to see what had happened. Lieutenant Webb threw open the gates, excited, face flushed with the thrill of action and the capture of an enemy ship, choosing to ignore the fact that the American crew had blundered into a war of which they knew nothing and the ship was a small commercial schooner filled with someone’s personal belongings and not one cannon.
Morton hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lieutenant, this is Captain Andrew Beltran. Take charge of him and his crew. Extend every courtesy due prisoners of war, but be certain they’re locked up.”
“Yes, sir,” Webb exclaimed. “Captain Beltran, you and your crew will follow me.”
Morton walked on to the headquarters of General Brock, was cleared by the general’s assistant at the front desk, rapped on the door, and was ordered to come in.
Morton stepped inside, saluted, and waited for Brock to speak.
“Report.”
“The ship is a commercial schooner owned by a man named Andrew Beltran. The crew is American. Beltran said he did not know America had declared war on us, and I believe him. He claims his cargo is personal belongings he contracted to carry north to Fort Detroit.”
Brock considered for a moment. “Whose personal property?”
Morton smiled. “That, sir, I thought might be most interesting. May I have a squad of men to find out?”
“Immediately. Report when you know.”
Less than one hour later, Morton and two enlisted men carrying heavy wooden crates were back at Brock’s office in the low, square, sparse office building.
Morton held the door while the two enlisted men entered, wondering how they were going to salute their commanding officer without setting the boxes down, and if they did put the boxes down, where was the proper place. Morton rescued them.
“General,” he explained, “we have here some documents which I think will be of interest to you. May we set them on your desk?”
Brock nodded and pointed, and the enlisted men quickly set them on the desk, stepped back, and snapped a salute. Morton said, “You are both dismissed,” and they both heaved sighs of relief as they hurried back out the door and closed it behind them.
The top document in the nearest box was a large ledger, and Brock had it open on his desk before the door thumped shut, reading the first page of scrolled handwriting. He raised his eyes to Morton.
“A daily log made by Governor William Hull of Michigan.” His forehead wrinkled in question. “This has to be the same William Hull who fought in the Revolution thirty years ago. He must be sixty by this time.”
He laid the ledger down, lifted a file from the box, opened it, and for thirty seconds studied the first few pages.
“This appears to be records of an army he’s been commissioned to command.”
Morton broke into a broad smile. “It is, sir. And it gets better.” He lifted a document from the near box and handed it to Brock, who studied it for a few moments.
“Are these what they appear to be?” he asked. “Orders from the United States Congress directing Hull to march an army up here to Fort Detroit? And what’s this about Niagara? And Montreal?”
“General,” Morton exclaimed, “I think we have intercepted the entire plan of the United States for their conquest of Canada. All of it! The commanding officers, their orders, the number of men they will command, the timing of their movements, their objectives, their strategies—all of it.”
Brock suddenly sat down in his chair, confounded by what he considered the incomprehensible stupidity he was seeing before him.
“You mean,” he said quietly, “Hull trusted all of this to be carried on that schooner right under our guns, on to Fort Detroit? Is the man insane?”
Morton shook his head. “No, sir, I doubt it. I think he received his marching orders before the declaration of war was signed and was well on his way to Fort Detroit before it was made public. I think he was ignorant of it when he put all this on the schooner to take to his new headquarters at Fort Detroit, and most likely still doesn’t know the United States is in a state of war with us. From what little I’ve seen of those documents so far, it is my guess we have the entire American offensive spelled out in detail. If we act quickly, it is probable we can hand General Hull and his Americans some very disheartening surprises.”
Thoughtfully Brock asked, “Did you see what else was in the hold of that
ship?”
“Generally, yes. Clothing and personal property. I think we are in possession of most of the personal property of General Hull.”
For a time Brock sat in silence while his mind raced. “Captain Morton, leave these things with me. Do not speak of what we have to anyone else until I’ve had time to put this all together. I’ll call you when I have finished. It may be tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Morton replied. “Would you like to have the other items brought from the ship and locked in storage here?”
Brock shook his head. “Not yet. Post sentries to guard the ship round the clock, and wait.”
“Yes, sir.” Morton turned to go, and Brock stopped him.
“Captain, well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The afternoon passed with Brock seated at his desk, poring over the ledgers and papers taken from the Cuyahoga. He set them aside to take his evening meal at the officer’s mess, where he invited Captain Morton to be at his office at eight o’clock the following morning. At precisely eight, the rap came at his door.
“Enter.”
“Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Take a seat.” Brock pointed to the two stacks of ledgers and papers on his desk. “You were correct, sir. We have intercepted the entire plan by which the Americans intend reducing Canada to an American territory. That includes this fort and this command.”
Morton leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowed as he concentrated. Brock went on.
“General William Hull is leading a force of about two thousand from Ohio to Fort Detroit, across the river. They left weeks ago. They are cutting a road north from Urbana to Fort Detroit. I expect they will arrive within the next two or three days. Their orders give Hull authority to cross the river and take possession of this fort, in any manner he deems appropriate. At about the same time, to the east of us, General Dearborn is under orders to cross the Niagara River and take Fort George, and further east, cross the St. Lawrence River and take Montreal.”
He stopped speaking to watch the changing expressions on Captain Morton’s face as he considered the information, and then went on.
“They intend to supply these armies by land, over the roads now in existence, with the new one from Urbana and a few others they intend building.”
Morton stiffened. “Through the woods? The forests? Not by water?”
“Yes,” Brock answered, “through the woods. It appears the thought just entered your mind as it did mine yesterday evening. Tecumseh. Am I right?”
“Yes. He’s back, and he’s ready. Tecumseh and about eighteen hundred of his warriors.”
Brock nodded. “Correct.”
“May I inquire, sir,” Morton exclaimed, “what is your proposal in all this?”
“Wait. Let them come to us. Let them cross the river and make the march down here. With a little thought and preparation, I intend giving them a warm welcome.”
Notes
General William Hull, Governor of the territory of Michigan, was appointed to assemble a fighting force consisting of soldiers, state militia, and Indians, and march north from Ohio to Fort Detroit. He assembled about two thousand men and began the march in early June, prior to the declaration of war by the United States against England. He cut his own road through the woods. When he reached the Maumee River, a tributary of the Detroit River, he hired the small commercial schooner Cuyahoga to transport all his personal belongings, including the critically important papers from both Congress and President Madison in which the entire offensive plan of the American armed forces were defined in detail, ahead of him to Fort Detroit. At the time, he did not know that the United States had declared war. The British at Fort Malden, under command of Major General Isaac Brock, one of the finest in the British military, knew of the declaration of war and took the Cuyahoga as a prize of war on July 3, 1812, along with her crew and the entire cargo of General Hull’s personal property and official government papers. The papers gave the British the entire American plan, including the number of troops, their condition, their proposed supply and communication lines, the timing of their attacks, and all other critically important information.
See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–81; Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 200–201; Wills, James Madison, pp. 100–102.
Fort Detroit, Michigan Territory
July 5, 1812
CHAPTER XIV
* * *
With the sun just reaching its zenith, General William Hull, United States Army officer, Governor of the territory of Michigan, and commander of a force of close to two thousand army regulars, Ohio militia, and volunteers, all strung out on the narrow, crooked wagon ruts that wound through the forest behind him, gritted his teeth against the ache in the muscles of his back and the sweat from the insufferable humidity and heat that sapped the strength from a man by midmorning. Before him was the south wall of Fort Detroit, with cannon muzzles showing in the notches near the top.
The weight of his sixty years bore down as he swung his leg back from the far stirrup and dismounted his horse. He stood stiff-legged to put his hands on his hips, and he straightened, then leaned back hard to relieve the tension and the pain in muscles that had grown stiff in the seven hours he had remained in the saddle since four o’clock am. While his column broke ranks to hunker down in the shade of the thick, dense forest that came within yards of the walls on three sides of the fort, Hull studied the structure he had been ordered to command.
The fort was constructed of lumber cut from the surrounding forest. The four walls would have formed a near-perfect square had they been straight, but they were not. Each wall slanted slightly inward from the corners to make a shallow V at about the midpoint, with a small projection outward near the center, all to afford a clear field of fire in all directions for the cannon mounted inside the walls. The structure had been built with the huge gates facing the Detroit River to the east. On the north, west, and south sides the guns came to bear on the forest, so thick Indians or redcoats could be within yards of the walls and still be invisible. Between the entrance and the river was the small village of Detroit, built of rough-cut logs, with less than ten streets laid out east-west and north-south to form rectangles in which the business and the living of Detroit were carried on. On the east edge of the village a single dock projected out into the river; all who were familiar with survival in this wilderness understood that the river was the lifeline that connected them to the world and sustained them, and the dock was indispensable. The guns in the east wall of the fort covered the tiny village and the river beyond.
Hull removed his black tricorn and used a damp handkerchief to wipe at the wet leather sweatband, then his forehead, before he settled the hat back on his head. He was turning to his horse when he suddenly stopped dead and stared at the dock with a knot of fear rising in his midsection and his thoughts racing.
Where’s the Cuyahoga? My personal belongings. My orders. The plans for the campaign? The inventory of resources? Where? Sunk? Pirates? The British?
He called to Colonel Duncan McArthur, the senior officer in his command, and McArthur came trotting.
“Mister McArthur, have the men start making camp. I’m going inside the fort. I’ll return when I’ve settled matters there.”
McArthur nodded, turned, and walked back to the lounging men while Hull remounted and trotted his horse around the southeast corner of the fort and on to the front gates. They were standing open, and he paused long enough to identify himself to the sentry before he passed through into the enclosure. He walked his horse in while he studied the walls and the parapets and the guns and the low log quarters built against the walls. Clusters of silent people—soldiers and civilians and white men dressed in buckskins and beaded moccasins and stone-faced feathered Indians—had gathered to stare at the arrival of the great column. He reined in before the building that housed the headquarters of the fort, dismounted, handed the reins of his mare to a private, and walked through the door into the relative
cool of the square, plain room. A sergeant and two corporals were on their feet, standing at rigid attention, and they saluted while Hull stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of bright lights. He returned the salute and started to speak when the far door opened and a short, stocky man with a round, jowled face strode into the room, uniform rumpled, long hair pulled back. On his shoulders were the epaulets of a colonel. He spoke.
“General Hull, I presume.”
Hull nodded stiffly. “Correct. I am under orders to assume command of this fort. I trust you received notice.”
The man stepped forward and offered his hand. “Yes. I received the notice. Welcome to Fort Detroit. I am Colonel Waldo Everton. We have been expecting you ever since we were advised of the war with Great Britain.”
Hull shook the hand perfunctorily, and then his face suddenly clouded. “War?”
Everton showed surprise. “You didn’t know? June 18. By vote of Congress the United States declared war on Great Britain.”
It took Hull three seconds before he blurted, “Did a schooner named Cuyahoga arrive here? With my personal belongings?”
Everton raised a hand. “Your personal belongings? You had cargo on that ship?”
“Yes! All my papers. My personal belongings. You know where she is?”
Everton stumbled for words. “I . . . uh . . yes. I’m sorry to say, the British intercepted the Cuyahoga two days ago. She’s about fifteen miles downstream, tied to the docks of Fort Malden.”
Hull recoiled. “Her cargo? Her crew? Do they have it all?”
A look of puzzlement crossed Everton’s face. “Of course! We are in a state of war with them. They took the ship and the cargo as prizes of war, and they still have the entire crew. Prisoners of war.”
Hull felt his thoughts disintegrating and for a moment stood mute, unable to force a coherent sentence. “I must have . . .” He stopped and started again. “There were papers that . . .”
Everton stared, aware that Hull’s grasp on reality had been shaken. He stood silent, waiting.