Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  John Dunson is a fictional character, used herein for the purpose of maintaining the story line. The crewman who suggested kedging to Captain Hull was not John Dunson, but actually Lieutenant Charles Morris. The pursuit continued basically as herein described, with the American frigate able to stay just out of gun range the entire time, with crewmen sleeping and eating on deck, exerting themselves to exhaustion to maintain their lead, and the officers mixing with the ordinary seamen in the harsh work.

  An American merchantman appeared, and the British attempted to decoy it within gun range by raising an American flag to trick the merchantman into thinking they were American ships; however, the Constitution foiled the ploy by raising a British flag to warn the merchantman away. On the night of July 18, the British ship Guerriere, commanded by Captain James Richard Dacres, drew near the Constitution, leaving the other four British ships behind. The Guerrierre slowed, and her four companion ships came closer. Captain Dacres saw their lights, but did not know who they were in the dark and signaled to them to identify themselves. They made no return signal, and he presumed them to be a squadron of American ships under command of American Captain Rodgers.

  He withdrew and waited until morning, when he discovered they were his own ships. They had failed to return his signal in the night, presuming he knew who they were. He was furious and later demanded a court-martial to clear his name. Hull had two heavy cannon brought to the stern of his ship and tore out some of the railing to give them free access to fire at anything behind. He had two other heavy cannon brought into his tiny quarters with the muzzles thrust out the windows for added firepower at the British behind them, should it be necessary. The race continued, until finally a rain squall passed over the ships, giving the Americans enough wind to pull away from the British. The morning of July 20, the British withdrew from the chase. On his return to Boston for resupplying his ship, Hull sighted two separate merchantmen and paused to investigate both. Each was found to be American. Hull arrived in Boston on July 26. The entire episode appeared in newspapers throughout the United States, to become one of the most celebrated events of the War of 1812. The British Navy did in fact describe the actions of the Americans as “elegant.”

  See Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 47–50; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 91–93; Wills, James Madison, pp. 112–114.

  For a painting of Captain Isaac Hull, see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 95.

  Fort Detroit, Michigan Territory

  July 11, 1812

  CHAPTER XVI

  * * *

  The deep, faint rumble that was felt more than heard came rolling north from Lake Erie, up the Detroit River, to turn the heads of those who had lived in the thick woods or in the tiny village of Detroit long enough to know the signs. They paused in the fierce, humid heat of the midmorning sun to peer south at the low purple hedge of clouds, billowing, shifting, moving steadily up the river, with the flashes inside that for an instant lighted the clouds to all shades of blue, then were gone.

  The village blacksmith, white-hair, white beard, face lined with age, stepped from beneath his three-walled lean-to into the dead air and raised one hand to shade his eyes while he studied the horizon to the south.

  Been too hot—big ’un comin’—hit here about noon. He glanced west at the high walls of Fort Detroit. Wonder if those soldier boys know they’re in for a lot of noise and a good soakin’. A wry grin crossed his face as he turned back to the large brown mare tied to the post near his forge, nervous, moving her feet, ears twitching. Beyond the mare were three geldings, tied to a hitch rack, unsettled, shifting. They feel ’er comin’—better git the shoes on these animals this mornin’ if them Ohio officers figger to cross the river tomorrow.

  Inside the fort, within the headquarters building, General William Hull paced in his small private office, sweating in the stifling heat, hands clasped behind his back, staring unseeing at the floor. For the fifth time in ten minutes he looked at the wind-up clock on the crude mantel above the small, smoke-blackened, stone fireplace.

  Nine-fifty, he thought, ten minutes—have they prepared for the crossing?—where are the supplies we were promised?—are the south roads open?—where are the Indians?—what does Brock . . .?

  He started at the sudden knock on his door and exclaimed, “Enter.”

  The door burst open, and the corporal on duty in the foyer barged in, eyes wide.

  “There’s a messenger here, sir. Civilian. Has a paper he says you must see.”

  Hull started. “A messenger? Get him in here.”

  The corporal turned and signaled, and a young man strode into the room. He was average height, hair awry, sweating, breathing hard, face grim. In his right hand was a paper.

  “I’m Thomas Atwater.” He pointed west. “I got a farm out there. This was handed to me this morning by British soldiers. I thought you should see it.” He offered a crumpled paper, and Hull took it and read the signature.

  General Isaac Brock, Commander, Fort Malden, His Majesty’s Army.

  There was a slight tremor in Hull’s hand as he read the message.

  “ . . . I feel it my duty to remind you that the prosperity you have enjoyed is the result of British naval superiority, which has thus far guaranteed Canadians access to world markets. . . . Further, it is but too obvious that once exchanged from the powerful protection of the United Kingdom you must be reannexed to the dominion of France, not the United States. . . . Finally, I respond to the proclamation recently uttered by General William Hull of the United States Army . . . should he, or the United States, undertake to summarily execute Canadian citizens found in alliance with the Indians, it will be deliberate murder, and I give my oath that I will exercise retribution in every quarter of the globe . . .”

  Hull blanched, then exclaimed, “Where did you get this?”

  Atwater raised one eyebrow in question. “I thought I mentioned it. British soldiers. Came by my farm about an hour ago. They’re handing those out all around.”

  Hull brought himself under control. “I see. You were right to bring it here. Is there anything else?”

  Atwater shrugged. “Only that a lot of us are caught in the middle of this whole thing. We got your paper saying we should join you, and now the British want us to join them. Looks like we’re in trouble no matter what we do.”

  “Return to your farm,” Hull said. “Prepare to assist us when we liberate Fort Malden and Amherstburg.”

  Atwater turned and walked out into the foyer, shaking his head all the way. He was reaching to open the front door out into the sunlight when it swung open, and he stepped aside to allow three uniformed colonels to enter, the gold epaulets bright on their shoulders. The corporal at the desk stood and saluted as Atwater walked out and closed the door.

  The corporal faced the officers. “I’ll tell the general you’re here,” and his boot heels tapped on the hardwood floor as he hurried to the private office with a crude sign GENERAL HULL at eye level. Two minutes later the three colonels, McArthur, Cass, and Findlay, were inside the private office, seated opposite Hull, facing his desk.

  Hull was ramrod straight, voice firm, controlled. “Gentlemen, we cross the river tomorrow morning. I trust your men are prepared.”

  There was a silence, and McArthur reached to scratch under his chin.

  Hull cleared his throat. “Are your men prepared?”

  McArthur shook his head. “Some. Not all. We’ve had a . . . sort of mutiny. Two hundred of them from Ohio say they’re not crossing the river. That would put them out of the United States into foreign territory, and they say they were never authorized to leave the United States. They won’t go.”

  Color came into Hull’s face, and his voice raised. “What do they mean, they won’t go? They can be arrested! Shot!”

  McArthur shrugged. “They know that. They doubt you’d shoot two hundred of your own men. They won’t go.”

  For several seconds Hull sat in unmoving silence, unable to force his thoughts to a co
nclusion. Then he drew a deep breath and continued.

  “Very well. We’ll leave them behind.” He handed the paper he had received from Atwater to McArthur. “Are you aware of this?”

  McArthur took it and sat in silence for several seconds reading it. “I heard about it. This is the first I’ve seen it.”

  “It’s bound to have an effect,” Hull said. “All of you see to it your men are told of it, and inform them that it has absolutely no bearing on our actions. We cross the river tomorrow, and we will move on Fort Malden and Amherstburg as planned. Do you understand?

  McArthur glanced at Cass and Findlay. “Yes, sir.”

  Hull bobbed his head once. “Very good. The basic purpose in crossing the river is to be certain the British are not gathering there to attack us.”

  He paused for a moment, then went on. “Now, as to our actions after we’ve crossed the river. We have a substantial superiority in numbers over the British, which gives us time to make all preparations for an attack on Fort Malden. We must build cannon carriages if we are to place their fort under siege. You will assign men to construct the carriages and the wheels.”

  He paused to look into their faces for some sense of acceptance, support. Their expressions were passive, nearly blank.

  Hull continued. “Once on the other side we will establish regular patrols to keep the roads open and to forage for supplies. And we will assign some men to construct a temporary dock and maintain enough longboats to control all traffic on the river.”

  He reached for another document and pushed it across the desk. None of them reached to receive it. “That message was received late yesterday. It states that a column of two hundred men left Ohio with loaded supply wagons to be delivered here. They’ve stopped at the River Raisin, thirty-five miles south. They are concerned that Tecumseh and his hostiles will attack them if they come any farther north. They request help. I am dispatching a relief column of one hundred fifty men under command of Major Thomas Van Horne to go there immediately and escort the supply wagons on to this fort. Is there any discussion?”

  McArthur casually asked, “When does Van Horne leave?”

  “Today.” Hull stopped and drew a heavy breath in the silence, frustration showing in his face and his movements at the indifference he was seeing in his officers. Finally he placed both palms flat on his desk and leaned forward, eyes too bright, voice too high.

  “Do any of you have anything to say about all this? We’re surrounded by British redcoats and Indians; we’ve got a supply train stopped thirty-five miles south; we’re dividing our force to go down there to rescue them; we cross the river in the morning into British territory; two hundred of our men have refused direct orders to leave United States soil—there’s nothing you have to say about all this?”

  Cass responded. “Not much to be said. We’ve got our orders. Let’s get on with it.”

  For a moment Hull looked at McArthur, then Findlay, who remained silent, and Hull tossed one hand into the air. “Very well,” he exclaimed, “you’re dismissed.”

  The three officers walked out into the late-morning sunlight and heard the rumble far to the south. They slowed to look above the rough walls of the fort at the purple line that was slowly rising, and to listen to the distant thunder. “Going to have a wet afternoon,” was all they said, and continued on to their quarters for a few moments before walking out through the big gates to their commands, camped in the woods.

  The wind rose before eleven o’clock, blustering and heavy, to rip leaves and branches from the thrashing trees. They lost the sun half an hour before noon mess, and the world darkened as the bellies of the thick purple clouds rolled over them. The soldiers at the head of the food lines were filling their pewter plates when the first great drops of rain came slanting. By ten minutes past twelve o’clock the lightning flashes were turning the twilight into brightness, and thunder shook the walls of the fort and every building inside, while the driving rain came so thick men had to bow their heads to breathe. Within minutes the drill field was a morass of mud and water, and everything inside the fort was drenched. Soldiers broke from the food lines to sprint for cover under the eaves of the buildings and the parapets overhead. Cooks abandoned the steaming kettles of stew to crouch beneath wagons or carts and watch as the stew pots filled with rain water. For half an hour the summer cloudburst raged with lightning strikes so close they left the air smelling burned and brought thunderclaps that jolted the ground and deafened the men and left their ears ringing.

  The storm rolled on north, toward Lake Huron, and the thick clouds gave way to patches of blue overhead, and then shafts of golden light came streaming through. Within minutes the skies were brilliant, and the sun was turning the world into a wet, steaming mass with endless tiny droplets of clinging water sparkling. Soldiers came from cover to silently survey their ruined midday meal, the mud-spattered, rain-soaked tents and bedrolls and firewood. They sighed and wondered how they were going to set their camp and the fort in order and still be ready to cross the river at four o’clock in the morning. They hitched at their belts and set their teeth, mumbling curses against the harsh reality that ninety-five percent of soldiering was the monotony and dirty work that filled the gap between the battles that were five percent of their lives.

  Midafternoon, the knock came at Hull’s door, and he stood at his desk and called out permission to enter.

  Major Thomas Van Horne, fully uniformed, with boots muddy halfway to his knees, pushed through the door and saluted.

  “We’re prepared to leave, sir.”

  Hull reflected for a moment. “I presume you have my written orders.”

  “I have a pouch, sir, with your orders inside and paper and quill for sending messages and letters the men might write.”

  “Keep the mail pouch available. You may need it. Be alert for Indians. That is all.”

  “I shall take personal charge of the mail pouch. Thank you, sir.” Van Horne turned and walked from the room. There were spots of mud from his boots on the floor as he closed the door.

  Hull opened the center drawer in his desk and drew out a plug of tobacco and a small knife. He folded the blade out, cut a piece of the pungent brown tobacco, and put it in his mouth, then replaced the knife and tobacco and closed the drawer. He worked the cud between his teeth as he glanced down to locate the shining brass spittoon on the floor at the corner of his desk, then spit a stream of brown liquid and wiped at his mouth and beard before calling the corporal from the foyer.

  “Have my brown mare brought from the blacksmith and saddled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ten minutes later the corporal reported back, and Hull walked out the front door to the hitch rack where the mare was tied in front of the headquarters building. He stooped to raise each hoof to inspect the new shoes, then mounted and rode slogging through the muck of the camp outside the walls of the fort. Sweating soldiers, stripped to the waist and muddy to the knees, were chopping fresh firewood or washing mud-speckled uniforms or hanging them on lines or tree limbs or bushes to dry, while others worked on roasting whole pigs for evening mess. They raised their heads to see the general coming, then paused in surprise. He was among them alone, unannounced. This was not a regularly scheduled inspection, nor was it a surprise inspection with the general escorted by his junior officers. This was a man driven by compulsions that were rapidly reducing him to an enigma that did not conform to the unwritten code governing military leaders. At first it had puzzled the soldiers. Quiet talk had begun around the evening campfires. Then the puzzlement faded, and open concern had crept in. Is this officer fit? Can he lead in battle? We cross the river in the morning—will he attack Fort Malden? Will he?

  Few saluted as he passed, ramrod stiff in the saddle, face severe, head turning from side to side, probing. They watched him for a few moments, then went on with their duties, wondering, their concerns bordering on fear of what this man would do when the muskets began rattling and the cannon booming.

/>   The afternoon wore on with the command sweating as they steadily put the camp in order for their river crossing. They went to the evening mess lines to eat hot roast pork and boiled potatoes, then back to their campsites to roll and pack their own clothing, most of it still damp, into their forty-pound backpacks, and count their paper cartridge ration, fifty rounds per man, into the cartridge cases mounted on their belts. Lanterns burned for a time after the ten o’clock taps drum sounded, and no officer came to order them extinguished. It was midnight before the camp and the fort were dark and silent and without movement, save for the pickets who took their rotation at their posts.

  By three o’clock in the morning the lanterns in the headquarters building inside the fort walls were casting misshapen rectangles of light out onto the ground while General Hull sat at his desk inside, poring over his notes for the river crossing. Boats—crews—barges for the horses—freight-boats for the cannon—food—gunpowder—cartridges—is the camp prepared?—what if the Indians come swarming?—the British attack?—another summer cloudburst strikes with winds that make crossing the river impossible?—if a boat capsizes?—if . . .

  He suddenly straightened, staring at the three-page list as though it were something alive and deadly. What am I doing?—we’ve crossed rivers before—we’ll make this crossing successfully—what am I doing?

  He shoved the list aside and rose from his chair to walk from his small private office into the foyer, then on out into the night. He stopped to stare upward at the unending points of light that gleamed in the eternities overhead, and he stood still as a sense of stability and rightness came into him and grew. He turned and walked back into his private office to collect the papers he would need in the next few weeks and pack them into a leather valise ready for the crossing and what would follow.

  At four o’clock, the reveille drum rattled, and the camp came alive as men began their morning toilet and then struck their tents to fold them and bind them closed. By six o’clock they were walking to the breakfast lines with bowls and cups for hot oatmeal and steaming coffee. They ate in near total silence, washed their utensils, packed them in their backpacks and tied them shut, and then reported to their squad leaders to begin the massive work of moving more than sixteen hundred men across a river, with all their horses, cannon, tents, and food.