Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  It was over.

  With the battle ended, the crews on all ships came back to reality. Four of the English ships were shot to pieces. Every English officer was either dead or critically wounded. More than half of all British crew members were dead or wounded. The American Lawrence was hardly recognizable, and eighty percent of her crew were dead. Every ship in the battle had holes in its hull and sails, with spars and arms broken and dangling and shattered railings and hatches. When the Americans boarded the British Detroit, they faced a pet brown bear that was licking at the blood on the decks. In the hold they found two Indians cowering in a dark corner.

  While the ships made their way south toward the American base at Put-in-Bay, seamen gathered the dead to cover them with canvas, while others did what they could to stop the bleeding and give comfort to the wounded. The sun was setting when the ships dropped anchor amid the cheers of hundreds of men who had listened to the distant rumble of cannon for more than three hours, not knowing who had won and who had lost when the guns fell silent.

  On board the Niagara, Captain Perry rummaged in the captain’s quarters until he found an old, rumpled letter and a lead pencil. He pondered for a moment before he turned the letter over and wrote on the back side:

  “We have met the enemy and they are ours: two ships, two brigs, one schooner & one sloop.” He stuffed the report into his pocket for delivery to William Henry Harrison, commander of the northern forces of the United States.

  The battered ships entered Put-in-Bay at sunset and dropped anchor close to the docks. Through dusk and twilight the longboats carried the wounded ashore to the surgeons and nurses, and then the bodies of the dead to be placed side by side in any buildings where space could be made. On Perry’s orders, every military courtesy was extended to the British. Their wounded were taken ashore along with the American wounded, and their seamen were allowed to carry their dead officers ashore with British flags covering their remains. The camp cooks had roasted quarters of beef on spits, and they held evening mess hot until the somber work of caring for the wounded and dead was finished, and the remainder of the ship crews came to the mess lines, quiet and bone-weary.

  Adam had finished his evening mess and was rinsing his plate in the officer’s mess hall when a rangy sergeant approached him.

  “Cap’n Perry wants you at command headquarters.”

  Adam put his plate and utensils in the large wooden tub for the cleanup crew and walked out into the soft night air. Mosquitoes were in the air, and frogs on the small streams nearby were well into their nightly chorus as he walked past men moving among the tents with lanterns glowing inside. He entered the log headquarters building, and the corporal at the front desk pointed. Adam walked to the door and knocked.

  “Enter.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door. Seated on the far side of a worn desk, in the small, crude office, Perry, young, charismatic, eager, raised his head from a document he was drafting, laid down his quill, stood, and gestured.

  “Please have a seat, Captain.”

  Adam sat down on a simple hard-backed chair facing the desk, and Perry sat back down facing him. In the yellow lamplight, Perry came directly to it.

  “Captain Dunson,” he said quietly, “I felt it appropriate to tell you. Out there on the lake today, we gained control of the northern campaign in the war. Already the fight is being hailed as the pivotal battle of the war. We now command the northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean. It means our military forces can now turn their full energies on the southern campaign.”

  He stopped to gesture at the unfinished document before him. “I am writing my report. In it will be the detail of the battle. Captain Elliott’s mistake—leaving the battle line and leading seven ships astray—would have been fatal. It was your ship, the Margaret, that saved us. If you had not broken away from the Niagara and attacked both the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte as you did, the entire affair would have gone against us.”

  He paused to order his thoughts. “I have talked with Captain Elliott. He has no explanation for why he disobeyed his orders. I trust you understand, such things happen in the heat of battle. Elliott frankly asked that he face a court-martial for his lapse. I told him no, he had redeemed himself when he came to his senses. He requested that I tell you, he knows you gave him his chance for redemption and saving his career. He is most grateful. So am I.”

  Adam dropped his eyes for a moment but said nothing.

  Perry went on. “Your name will appear prominently in this report. I speak for myself and for a grateful country when I tell you we are beholden. Accept my deepest thanks. It has been my honor to serve with you.”

  Perry stood and extended his hand across the old desk, and Adam stood and reached to grasp it.

  “Thank you, sir,” Adam said. “The honor and the privilege are mine.”

  That rare thing that sometimes passes between men who have faced death shoulder-to-shoulder and won, was silently exchanged between the two of them, and Adam nodded and turned and walked out of the room, back into the night.

  It was later, after the drum had rattled taps and the lamps were turned off, that Adam lay on his back in his bunk in the officers’ quarters, hands clasped behind his head, staring into the blackness.

  We won—reports will be sent—newspapers will make headlines of glory—honors will be given—the country will make much of it—but little will be said about the price—the hundreds of men who died out there today—the hundreds who are crippled and maimed for life—the women and children with fatherless homes—the mothers with sons they will never see again—the pain—the suffering—who will tell it the way it was?—the way it is . . .

  He turned on his side and closed his eyes. His last conscious thoughts were of Laura, at home, waiting, not knowing if he was dead or alive, and he felt the deep yearning to be there with her, away from the horror of war—just Adam Dunson, a citizen quietly helping his brothers and Billy Weems to run a shipping company.

  It was much later that he drifted into a troubled sleep, seeing the flash of cannon and the destruction of ships, and men falling, crippled, mortally wounded.

  Notes

  On September 10, 1813, the pivotal sea battle of the War of 1812 was fought on Lake Erie between nine American ships anchored at the American port at Put-in-Bay in the Bass Islands at the west end of Lake Erie, under command of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, and six British ships anchored at or near Fort Malden on the Canadian side of Lake Erie, under command of Captain Robert Hale Barclay. The names of all ships in this chapter are actual, except the Margaret, which is a fictional ship.

  The Americans had taken control of Lake Ontario to the east and cut the British supply and communication lines. Thousands of Indians, including women and children, had gathered at Fort Malden, and the British were responsible to feed them. When supplies ran out, the Indians were starving and threatening revolt. British regulars were on half rations. Barclay had but one choice, and that was to break out, take control of Lake Erie, and reestablish the supply lines. To do so he would have to defeat Perry and the American fleet.

  That Friday morning he left Fort Malden to engage the Americans. The two forces met in the open water, and Perry, commanding the Lawrence, sailed straight into them. Captain Jesse Elliott, commanding the second ship, the Niagara, failed to follow him into the battle and contrary to orders, held back, using his long-range cannon. Elliott never did give an explanation of what caused him to fail to follow Perry into the midst of the British ships. As a result, Perry’s ship was shot to pieces; however, in the process, he badly damaged both British gunboats, the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit. It was only then that Elliott realized what he had done and came into the fight head-on. Between the two American ships, they succeeded in taking both the large British ships out of action.

  In the process, Perry lost eighty percent of his crew, and his ship was reduced to a shattered hulk. He did in fact board a longboat, and a crew rowed him to t
he Niagara, where he took command. Some of the smaller British ships thought he had surrendered and were prepared to board the Lawrence. During the same time, the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit collided and became entangled, and before they could completely separate, the Americans shot them to pieces.

  Musket fire was given and received by every ship. Every British captain was either killed or badly disabled. Barclay, with one arm missing from a prior sea battle, lost his remaining arm. Four of the British ships struck their colors and surrendered. Two made a run for freedom but were stopped and surrendered. When the Americans boarded the Detroit, they in fact observed a pet bear licking the blood on the decks and found two Indians in the hold, who had been brought on board as marksmen but had hidden when the gunfire became unbearable.

  Perry found an old letter and on the back of it wrote the message he would later send to William Henry Harrison, commander of the American northern forces: “We have met the enemy and they are ours; two ships, two brigs, one schooner & one sloop.” The first nine words of the message became immortalized, and Perry instantly became a shining hero. The battle is regarded as the single most important sea battle in the war, since it gave complete control of the northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean, to the Americans, allowing all military forces to be concentrated on campaigns to the south.

  See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 131–35; Wills, James Madison, pp. 124–25; Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 196–98; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 328–30; Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 141–56; Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 286–88.

  Adam Dunson and the ship Margaret are both fictional. Most of the action ascribed to them in this chapter was actually performed by Captain Elliott and the Niagara, only, however, after Captain Elliott finally came to Perry’s rescue.

  For a likeness drawn of Captain Perry by artist George Delleker, see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 134.

  Fort Amherstburg, Detroit River, Canada

  Mid-September 1813

  CHAPTER XXI

  * * *

  The five British officers came to the large, rustic headquarters building inside the high walls of Fort Amherstburg in the late afternoon, one at a time, silent, with a deep sense of dark foreboding. They entered the battered door, and the uniformed sergeant at the foyer desk pointed each of them into the plain, square, private council room of General Sir Henry Procter, commander of British forces in northwestern Canada. They took chairs on two sides of the rough table to sit rigid, quiet, in scarlet uniforms that were slightly faded and threadbare at the cuffs and the tops of their erect, rigid collars. Their black boots lacked luster, and the gold epaulets on their shoulders had long since become dulled by the harsh Canadian winters and the sun and storms of summer.

  They flinched at the sound of the foyer door closing too hard, and moments later they watched Matthew Elliott enter the twilight of the singled-windowed room. All nodded to him, but none spoke as Elliott slowly walked to the end of the table, laboring under the weight of his eighty years. Bent, wrinkled, white-haired, hands gnarled and twisted with age, the old man eased himself painfully onto the chair, then looked up at the officers and returned their nod. As head of the British Indian Department, he was dressed in the garb of a civilian, not a military officer. The British Parliament had ordered him to Amherstburg in a desperate attempt to save the tenuous, trembling alliance between England and the Indians. Each man at the table understood that should the Indians turn on the British, the six of them would be witness to the most horrifying massacre in the history of the North American continent. They sat in silence, nervous, moving their hands, eyes downcast, waiting.

  They heard the foyer door open and close once more, then listened to the sound of leather heels on the floor planking, and General Procter entered. The five officers came to their feet and stood at attention.

  Average height, blocky build, face unremarkable and square, dark wavy hair combed straight back, sideburns prominent, Procter took his place at the head of the table and laid a rolled map and several documents to one side. His eyes were dead, a mask covering the turmoil and fear that were destroying him inside. A tension began to grow in the austere room.

  Procter cut through the usual protocol of greeting.

  “Be seated. Gentlemen, I believe a review is in order for what is coming.” He paused long enough to pick up a sheaf of hand-written notes, which he glanced at as he spoke.

  “You know about the naval battle on Lake Erie four days ago. Two days ago I sent an agent from the Department of Indians with four natives in a canoe to determine the results. They returned. The news is disastrous. Captain Barclay and his entire squadron were defeated and captured by the Americans. There are four American ships at Put-in-Bay being repaired from the battle. All other American ships are anchored at the mouth of the Portage River on the American side of Lake Erie. It is obvious they are preparing to transport General Harrison and his army to this side of the lake.”

  He paused to watch the officers’ breathing slow and their eyes widen.

  “We are cut off. Isolated. All water routes are closed. We have no communication from the east. No supply line on land or water. No reinforcements can reach us. The last message I received from General Prevost in the east was that I should ‘call forth the combined discipline and gallantry of the troops to cripple and repulse the enemy.’ He did mention the possibility that a withdrawal from the area might become desirable, if done with ‘order and regularity.’ He encourages me to meet this catastrophe with ‘fortitude.’”

  He paused, and the officers saw the disgust and contempt in his face at the ridiculous advice from his superior.

  Procter went on. “Four days ago I sent several bateaux to Long Point for food. They got nothing. Yesterday our flour ran out. Our commissaries are bare to the walls. Our soldiers are on short rations of potatoes and wheat, and there is no way to acquire more. Our men are wearing tattered uniforms. Some are barefoot. Within thirty days we can expect the storms of approaching winter.”

  He paused to collect his thoughts, then went on.

  “You know that yesterday I declared martial law in this entire area. That gives me the authority to requisition all foodstuffs from all civilians, if we can find it. It is already obvious that they are hiding their stores. We will never collect enough of it to be of any help.”

  He stopped and took a great breath and released it.

  “Food and supply shortages, lack of communication, and oncoming hard weather are matters we could most likely survive.”

  All six of the men seated at the table saw it coming, and they braced themselves.

  “The Indians are another matter. Lacking a solution to the Indian problem, our entire army in this sector is lost.”

  He stopped and waited for a time before he went on.

  “My latest count of our own forces places them at something around twelve hundred. Latest reports on the Indians say there are ten thousand adults gathered in this area. At least one third are warriors. In addition, there are wives and children. I do not need to tell you that we have been making them promises of food and blankets for more than fourteen months, and each month our supplies coming from the east became more and more meagre until there were none. To stay alive, the Indians spent part of this past summer killing deer and opossum and raccoon for food—even a bear—and when they were all gone, they ate whitefish and parched corn and maple sugar. When that was gone, they turned to crab apples and chestnuts. That is now gone. They’re starving.”

  Not one of the officers moved or spoke as Procter went on.

  “I have today received what amounts to an ultimatum from their chiefs. They flatly accused us of lying to them, using them. We promised them food, and there is no food. We promised we would drive the Americans from their ancestral lands and restore to them what was theirs, and we have failed. We promised them we would deliver muskets and ammunition to them and that we would be their allies in the battle. We have not delivered the arms, a
nd there has been no battle. We have done none of it! Instead, we have lost control of both Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, and they know we are now preparing to retreat east, overland. They have made it very clear that if we do not now live up to all we’ve promised, they will rise against us in bloody revolt. If that happens, there will be nothing left of any of us.”

  There it was! Procter and the entire British command on the west end of Lake Erie would either deliver what they had promised or face the tomahawk and scalping knives of three thousand enraged warriors. The tension in the room became almost palpable.

  Procter reached for the rolled map and spread it out on the tabletop, oriented it, leaned forward, and spoke as he pointed.

  “We are here at Fort Amherstburg on the Detroit River where it drains into Lake Erie. North of us about five or six miles is Sandwich. Here, about twenty-five miles east of Sandwich, is the place where the Thames River drains into Lake St. Clair, between Lake Huron and Lake Erie.”

  He moved his finger east, up the Thames River. “Here, about twenty miles or so east of the mouth of the river is the fork where McGregor’s Creek joins it, and it is a natural defensive position.” His finger continued up the river. “Here, about twenty miles farther east, is Moraviantown. There’s a church there, and about sixty homes—the largest settlement on the river. It has high ground and some natural cover for defensive positions. By far, the best route for our retreat will be east on the Thames River.”

  Procter straightened. “I arrived here fourteen months ago by schooner on the lake. I have never been out in the wilderness in this area. I do not know the terrain along the river. I will have to depend on what information I can gather, and so far that information has been seriously flawed and lacking. I can only assure you, I will do what I can.”

  The officers saw his pain as he made his confession.