Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  A puzzled look crossed the rider’s face. “Do I understand this right, sir? You want me to lose that satchel so they can find it?”

  “Exactly. The trick is, don’t get shot doing it.”

  The rider shook his head. “I don’t know what this is all about, sir, but if you want that satchel in their hands, I can do it. And I most certainly intend to keep from getting shot!”

  “Good. Excellent. Leave in the morning and report back when you’ve completed the assignment. And by the way, tell no one of this.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Late the following afternoon, while the redcoated troops were lining up for evening mess, the mail rider rapped on Geneal Brock’s door and entered on command.

  “Sir,” he said, “I just returned and I’m reporting as ordered. The American patrol saw me and I dropped the satchel and made a run. I stopped in the woods long enough to see them pick it up. They have it, sir.”

  Brock raised a fist in triumph. “Good. Excellent. Was there any trouble? Shooting?”

  “Yes, sir. They shot, but me and my horse was moving fast enough I don’t think the musket balls caught up with us.”

  Brock chuckled. “Thank you. Go get in line for evening mess.”

  “That I can do, sir.”

  Brock was still smiling as the door closed and he sat down. Well, General Hull, you should have that fake letter sometime soon. What are you going to do about it?

  He pondered for a time, then called his aide.

  “Would you bring the war council here for a brief meeting?”

  Within twenty minutes, six officers were gathered around Brock’s desk, wondering at being summoned without notice.

  “Gentlemen,” Brock explained, “get your men ready. It is my guess we are going to march north soon. We’ll cross the river about two miles south of Fort Detroit and move on up to surround it and attack.”

  Smiles appeared, and murmurs of approval were exchanged.

  “I don’t know precisely when, but soon. Have your men ready to march on half an hour’s notice. With artillery. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  * * * * *

  Twenty miles north, General Hull watched as the last of four hundred men loaded into the waiting longboats and pushed off into the smooth flow of the Detroit River. They made the crossing, and for a time Hull studied them with his telescope as they unloaded their baggage. In fading twilight they fell into a column and disappeared on the road leading south. Hull turned and walked back to his tent, keenly aware that there was a large, vacant gap in the campground where four hundred of his fighting force had been.

  Too few remain, he pondered. If Brock and the Indians were to come now . . . He shuddered and did not finish the thought.

  The following day, with the heat of the sun directly overhead, a winded sergeant with the leather satchel in his left hand stood impatiently at the flap of General Hull’s tent, waiting until the picket gave him permission to enter. Inside, he saluted the general, surprised at the tobacco stains in the man’s beard and the spots on his tunic. The general did not stand.

  “Yes, Sergeant, what is it?”

  “Late yesterday we intercepted a British mail carrier. He dropped this satchel. I thought you might want it, sir.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know sir. I didn’t open it.”

  “Lay it on my desk. Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  The sergeant turned and walked out without looking back, aware there was something very wrong inside the tent.

  General Hull spat tobacco juice into the spittoon before he opened the satchel and drew out the single sealed document. It was addressed to Major General Henry Montgomery. Hull’s hands were trembling as he broke the seal and read the signature of General Isaac Brock, Commander, Fort Malden. His breathing came shallow as he read.

  “ . . . advise you that Chief Tecumseh is gathering three thousand Indian warriors from the Shawnee, Miami, Ojibwa, and Wyandot tribes to arrive here within three days . . . request that you bring your sixteen hundred regulars immediately, primarily to create a fighting force of at least five thousand, and secondarily to help control the Indians . . . it is impossible to predict what they will do once we have taken the force presently on the west side of the Detroit River under command of General William Hull and also Fort Detroit itself, on the east side of the river . . . we must do all possible to prevent a wholesale massacre of the Americans and those friendly to their cause . . . we will move north imminently with our artillery to commence the attack . . .”

  It did not occur to Hull that he had never heard of a British Major General named Henry Montgomery, nor did he consider the possibility that no such person existed. Hull sat in shock before he leaped to his feet and charged out the flap of his tent to confront the first officer he saw.

  “Assemble the war council in my tent immediately,” he ordered. Tobacco juice oozed from the corners of his mouth as he talked. “Get them here. Go! Now!”

  The officer backed up one step, staring at the wild look in the eyes of his commanding officer.

  “Yes, sir,” he stammered and turned to run.

  They came singly, until seven of them were in the tent facing Hull. Not one of them saluted. Hull stood rigid on his side of the desk as he spoke. His voice was high, nearly out of control.

  “The British are gathering three thousand Indian warriors. Shawnee, Miami, Ojibwa, Wyandot. Sixteen hundred British regulars are joining them. They are going to attack us here, then Fort Detroit. With artillery. Our force is reduced by one third. We must—must—get a message to Colonels Cass and McArthur to return! Immediately. Select two riders on the best horses we have and dispatch them within the hour. They are to ride without stopping until they have delivered the message and returned to inform us of it.”

  He paused to wipe the tobacco juice onto his sleeve. “While the messenger is gone, prepare your men to cross back to Fort Detroit! I do not know if such a crossing will occur, but should it become necessary, time will be against us. We must prepare, now!”

  In the late afternoon, American patrols returned to make reports. There’s activity out in the woods—saw Indians—red-coated regulars—some horses—six cannon—they’re coming! Reluctant officers carried the messages to Hull, who began to mutter under his breath, spraying tobacco juice, wiping it on his sleeves, giving incoherent orders.

  He took evening mess in his tent, ate none of it, and paced the floor, pointing, gesturing, exclaiming to no one. Outside, the pickets and the officers who passed his tent paused in wonder, then continued, fearful their commander had lost his sanity.

  The moon had risen and the nighthawks were darting overhead when the messenger hauled an exhausted horse to a stop before Hull’s tent and the picket gave him entrance.

  “Sir,” the winded messenger blurted, “I delivered your message. To Cass and McArthur, personal. Both said to tell you they will not be returning to this camp.”

  “What!” Hull stood stock still. “Refused to return? Refused a direct order? A written order?”

  “All I can tell you, sir, is they said no, and ordered me to return.”

  “Rouse the camp,” Hull shouted. “Everybody. Get the officers here!”

  Without a word the messenger fled the tent and ran to his regimental officer. “General Hull’s in trouble, sir. He wants the entire camp roused. Now. I have no idea why.”

  Half an hour later Hull stepped out of his tent to face his war council in the flickering yellow light of great fires.

  “Colonels Cass and McArthur refuse to return. We are being surrounded by Indians! Break camp. Now. Tonight. Cross back to Fort Detroit! In the name of the Almighty, we have women and children over there! We cannot leave them to be massacred!”

  By morning the crossing was completed. Hull cowered inside the walls of the fort, mumbling incoherently. A woman found him crouched beneath a stair casin
g, hands thrown over his head to avoid incoming cannonballs that were not there. The woman shook her head and walked away. Talk against Hull was no longer subdued, it was open, rampant.

  Within the hour, pickets on the walls shouted, “British and Indians are in the woods. They have artillery!”

  Then came the thunder of cannon and the white smoke, and cannonballs ripped into the walls of Fort Detroit. Some cleared the walls, landing on the parade grounds and smashing into the buildings. For thirty minutes the shelling continued, then ceased. When the white smoke cleared, two British soldiers under a white flag marched to the gates of the fort.

  “A message from General Isaac Brock,” they announced, and delivered it to the American officers waiting at the gate.

  Hull was cowering in his private office when the knock came at his door. He did not answer, and the two officers walked in. Hull was on his knees in the corner, his back to the door, his head held in his hands.

  “From General Brock, sir.”

  Hull jerked upright. His hands were shaking so hard he could hardly open and hold the document, and he slumped into the chair behind his desk to hold the message flat while he read it, mumbling incoherently.

  “ . . . It is far from my inclination to join in a war of extermination, but you must be aware that the numerous body of Indians who have attached themselves to my troops will be beyond control the moment the contest commences . . .”

  He read it again, then sat with his head tilted forward, staring at the document. A full minute passed before the officers before him moved, then spoke.

  “Sir, are there any orders?”

  Hull did not move, nor did he give any sign he had even heard them. One officer looked at the other, and the two of them turned and walked out of the office. They had no sooner reached the parade ground than Hull came barging out behind them.

  “Get a white flag!” he raged. “Get it now!”

  One officer, a captain, turned to confront him. “A white flag? For what? Are we surrendering the fort?”

  “Get it. Now!”

  “A white towel? Will that do?”

  “A dirty towel?” Hull exclaimed. “Not a dirty towel! A sheet. A clean white sheet!”

  Again the officer asked, “Sir, are we surrendering the fort?”

  Hull roared, “Get a clean white sheet!”

  Minutes later, while Hull knelt in the corner of his office with his back to the door, trembling, talking to the wall, incoherent, three officers opened the gates of Fort Detroit and marched out under a clean white bed sheet, held high on a pole. They were met by a detail of British officers who accepted their swords in surrender, including the fort and every soul within, as well as the men under command of Cass and Findlay, who were not present. Those men were hidden in the woods nearby, close enough to have come to the aid of those inside Fort Detroit, but refusing to do so.

  The moon was up, and Americans were on the parade ground outside the headquarters building, openly accusing General Hull of cowardice and treason when Isaac Brock sat at Hull’s desk by lantern light with his daily log before him. Thoughtfully he dipped Hull’s quill in the ink well and wrote:

  “August 16, 1812. This date General William Hull of the United States Army surrendered Fort Detroit and all personnel, present or in the field, to British and Indian forces. The battle was minimal and casualties were light. General Hull is thought to be suffering from mental and physical exhaustion, due to a stroke suffered by him some two years since, with possible effects of alcohol or narcotics. The occupation of Fort Detroit and vicinity brings control of the western front of the American offensive into our hands . . .”

  Notes

  The very complicated chronology of events by which the United States lost Fort Detroit and dominance on the western front of the three-pronged American invasion of Canada to the British is virtually as herein described. The command of the American force sent from Ohio to Fort Detroit with the intent of crossing the Detroit River to capture the British Fort Malden and then the town of Amherstburg was first offered to General William Hull, governor of Michigan Territory and aging Revolutionary War hero, who refused, then to Jacob Kingsbury who also refused. Finally, President Madison persuaded William Hull to accept it. Hull marched north with a force of about two thousand troops, cutting a new road as he went. The circumstances of that expedition and the misfortune of Hull’s papers being seized are accurately represented herein, as is the incident of a supply column being sent, with the subsequent ambush by Indians. The events of this period in the War of 1812 are historically accurate, including the derision in which Hull was held by his command. General Hull’s mental and physical collapse is accurately described. His surrender was completed on August 16, 1812. Many of the messages sent by both sides, as they appear herein, are verbatim quotes, or abridgements of verbatim quotes.

  See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–84; Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 196–205; Wills, James Madison, 100–103; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 28–29.

  For a painting of British General Isaac Brock see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 83.

  The reader may be interested to know that later, after General Hull was returned to the United States in an exchange of prisoners of war, he was tried by a court-martial for cowardice and neglect of duty, convicted, and sentenced to death, with a recommendation, however, for mercy, because of his “revolutionary services and advanced age.” President Madison approved the sentence and remitted the punishment. See Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 84.

  Boston

  August 18, 1812

  CHAPTER XVII

  * * *

  The sound of the front door opening and closing brought Kathleen Dunson to a standstill in her kitchen as she listened for the familiar sound of Matthew’s footsteps quietly crossing the parlor floor.

  “Matthew?” she called softly.

  “Me,” he answered in a whisper. “Children sleeping?”

  “Yes. All but the twins.”

  She twisted the handle to close the grate-setting on the stove firebox and walked to the archway into the dining room as Matthew came from the parlor. For a moment she felt the slight rise inside, as she always did when he appeared, and in the same moment she saw the tiny signs that more than twenty years of marriage had taught her. He had come home pensive, preoccupied, troubled.

  She spoke first. “Sit down. There’s warm ham and potatoes in the oven.”

  “Good. I could eat.”

  She turned back into the kitchen. “Small wonder, coming home this late.”

  “Things happened,” he replied. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, then tugged the knot loose on his cravat and draped it over the coat. He sat down at the great table, silent, listening to the sounds of the oven door and plates and silverware, and then she walked back into the dining room with a plate of steaming ham and potatoes in one hand and a pitcher of buttermilk in the other. She set them before him and for a moment took deep satisfaction in the light that came into his eyes.

  “Be right back,” she said and moments later returned from the kitchen with sliced bread, butter, and a bowl of applesauce.

  “That enough?” she asked.

  He looked at her with the beginnings of a smile. “For starters.”

  She stood beside him while he bowed his head and returned thanks for the bounties of life, then sat down in a chair beside him, feeling that rare joy known only to wives and mothers, of seeing the pleasure in his face as he gratefully ate what her hands had prepared. He was spreading home-churned butter on home-baked bread when the sound of a single chime came from the large, engraved clock on the parlor mantel, crafted by Matthew’s father thirty years earlier.

  Matthew paused. “Nine-thirty?”

  A wry smile crossed her face. “Nine-thirty pm.”

  He understood the gentle reprimand. “Sorry. Things happened. Where was it the twins were going tonight?”

  “The theatre. Hamlet.”

>   “With those two young men?”

  Kathleen nodded. “Linda with Robert Littlefield, Louise with Charles Penn. All four together. They’ll be all right.”

  “Home by midnight?” Matthew asked.

  “I told them. They’ll be here.”

  Kathleen leaned forward to straighten her gray ankle-length housedress and rub her feet through her knitted woolen slippers. “It’s been a long, hot day.”

  Matthew bit into the bread.

  Kathleen continued. “Brigitte came by. She’d been at Margaret’s. Said your mother had another of those spells today. Couldn’t keep her balance.”

  Matthew paused. “Get her to the doctor?”

  “The doctor came to her. Gave her some medicine—I don’t know what. Told her to stay off her feet as much as she could for a day or two.”

  “Someone with her now?”

  “Brigitte for tonight. My turn tomorrow night if she needs it.”

  Matthew asked, “Should I go over to see her? Now?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “She’s sleeping. I think the doctor gave her medicine to help her sleep.”

  Matthew continued eating, and Kathleen waited for a time before she interrupted. “Got a minute to talk?”

  Matthew stopped eating, waiting, and Kathleen went on.

  “Part of you is still at the office. Something wrong?”

  Matthew laid his knife and fork on his plate and straightened in his chair. For a moment he looked into her eyes and then spoke.

  “It’s Adam. You know he left about three weeks ago. To go north, up to the Great Lakes. Converted our ship Margaret to a gunboat and sailed up to help on Lake Ontario. We haven’t heard from him. That’s not like Adam.”

  She shrugged. “There has to be a good reason. Maybe the mail was lost. Things happen in war.”

  Matthew leaned back in his chair. “There’s more. There was talk down at the docks this afternoon. A crew just back from the Great Lakes. They said the British overran Fort Detroit three days ago. Fort Detroit is far to the west. East of Fort Detroit, our troops at Niagara and Montreal are in trouble. Bad. If that’s all true, Adam could be a prisoner of war right now. I doubt it, but it’s possible.”