Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  They arrived at the tiny settlement in the late afternoon and rode past the great, random scatter of lodges and tepees of the Indians who had gathered during the summer on the broken promise that they were joining the British to drive the Americans from their ancestral grounds. The mounted British held their horses to a steady walk as they rode, aware of the sullen faces and the muttered curses of the Indians who stopped to watch them pass.

  They continued on to the British camp, past the nervous pickets in full uniform carrying muskets and bayonets, to the orderly rows of tents and the forty-foot flagpole with the Union Jack hanging limp in the still, dead air. They dismounted before the low log command building, and were tying their horses to the wooden hitch rack when the commanding officer and his aide pushed through the front door and came to attention, saluted Procter, waited for the salute to be returned, and invited the general and his aides inside, while the armed escort squad waited outside.

  They took their places at the long table, and for more than half an hour Procter spoke while the camp commander and his staff listened in stony silence, mouths set in a straight line, faces expressionless as they began to grasp the fact that they, and every British soldier within two hundred miles, would be under the tomahawk and scalping knife within minutes of the moment the Indians, for any reason, or for no reason, turned on them. Their lives now hung on the whim of a volatile, unpredictable people they neither understood nor knew how to control.

  Procter continued.

  “Have your officers assembled here at nine o’clock in the morning. We must plan a full retreat west on the Thames River. Every building here, everything we cannot carry, must be burned. We can leave nothing the Americans can use. Have your entire command on the parade ground at ten o’clock, full uniform. They must hear it from me. I will spend the balance of the day inspecting any supplies you have left, all arms, all ammunition, to decide what goes with us and what we must destroy. I will remain here tonight and tomorrow night, and return to Amherstburg the following morning. Are there any questions?”

  There were none.

  General Procter took his evening meal in his small quarters, while his staff took evening mess with the camp officers. As they ate, they were aware of the furtive glances from the camp officers and the conversations that were carried on in quiet undertones.

  “Did you hear what happened at Amherstburg this morning? The Indians went wild in the council room! Got out their tomahawks and scalping knives! War whoops you could hear clear outside the fort!”

  “Tecumseh called General Procter a liar! He called the British Parliament liars!”

  “A liar? I heard he called Procter a pig! A fat pig!”

  “Tecumseh told Procter and the whole British staff that if they were too cowardly to stand and fight, they should leave the arms and ammunition for him. He’d stop the Americans without us.”

  Procter spent a restless night and was cleaned and in full uniform well before morning mess. The mood of the nine o’clock meeting with the staff was somber, quiet, and apprehensive. The ten o’clock meeting with the entire command in rank and file on the parade ground left the red-coated regulars staring in disbelief when Procter informed them they were to abandon everything they could not carry and burn the entire camp. The afternoon inspection was quick—perfunctory, since the food stores were almost entirely gone—and there were not enough arms and ammunition for the regulars, and none for the Indians.

  Procter spent the evening in his small quarters, pacing in the light of a single lantern, sick in his heart at the stark realization that the life of every man in his entire command depended on how he conducted a retreat the likes of which the British army had never experienced, and which had suddenly become a gigantic powder keg, waiting for the smallest spark to set off an explosion that would be heard in London.

  Before he sought his bunk, he sent word through his aide to his staff and escort squad. “Be prepared to leave immediately after morning mess is concluded.”

  The sun had scarcely cleared the trees on the eastern horizon when Procter mounted his horse, and with half his armed squad leading and the other half following, the column took the rutted road south, winding through the dense woods, every man silent, watching, listening for anything that interrupted the sights and sounds of the forest. It was midmorning when they rode through the thousands of Indians camped outside Fort Amherstburg and through the gates and stopped at the headquarters building.

  Procter thumped across the boardwalk, through the door, and slowed at the sight of Elliott sitting slumped in a chair against the wall, white head bowed. Procter closed the door, and Elliott raised his head, then stood. Fear was plain in the weathered face, and his hands and legs were trembling.

  Procter studied him for a moment, with dread rising in his chest. Quietly he asked, “You’re waiting to see me?”

  “Since dawn.”

  Procter gestured, and Elliott shuffled into Procter’s private office to take a seat opposite Procter, at his desk.

  “What is it?” Procter asked.

  The old man wiped at his mouth, and his voice croaked. “I took all the agents from my department I could gather and we talked with Tecumseh and some of the other chiefs.”

  Procter saw it coming. Elliott continued.

  “They wouldn’t listen. They got more hostile. There’s open talk of rebellion—turning on us—killing us all and plundering everything within hundreds of miles—taking all our arms and ammunition and fighting the Americans any way they can. I have never seen Tecumseh in such a mood. He is capable of becoming most terrible—beyond anything we have ever imagined. The only thing that stopped him yesterday was the Ojibwa and Sioux leaders. They told him it was a matter of honor—he had to stay and continue to be their spokesman because he said he would, and it would be dishonorable to break his word.”

  Elliott raised a hand to point at Procter. “I warn you, if you do not meet their demands, you will be facing consequences unimagined.”

  He dropped his hand, and Procter swallowed, and the old man went on.

  “You know about the wampum belt. The one the Indians made more than fifty years ago. The one with the heart in the middle and the hands on each end. The one that represents the bond between the Indians and England. Tecumseh has had that belt for the past eight years, and he swore to me that if you try to retreat, he will produce that belt in council, and he will cut it in half! When they cut that wampum belt in half, they are severing all ties with England. All promises, all that has gone before is ended. They will be free to butcher us at will.” Elliott paused long enough to lean forward, eyes wide, face white, and thump the desk with an index finger.

  “And I promise you, General, they will! William Caldwell fought on the side of the Indians in the Revolution and at Fallen Timbers. He knows those people better than anyone else around here. Yesterday, he packed his family and sent them south. He stayed, but he said he wasn’t going to have his wife and children here for the bloodbath he sees coming!”

  Procter rose above the dread that was ripping him inside and spoke calmly.

  “Tecumseh and the other leaders agreed to give me a few days to make my decision. I want to meet in private with Tecumseh before that final council. Arrange to have Tecumseh here in two days. Only Tecumseh and not more than three or four of the other chiefs. Ten o’clock next Monday morning. September 20.”

  For the next two days, no British subject dared go outside the walls of the fort without a squad of armed regulars. The pickets on the walls stayed low, avoiding the rifle slots where they could be seen by the Indians camped below, fearful of the moment they would hear the crack of a rifle from the woods and one of the pickets would drop.

  Monday morning broke with an overcast, and a light rain held for less than ten minutes before the clouds cleared and the sun came streaming. By ten o’clock, Tecumseh of the Shawnee, and the leaders of the Ojibwa and Sioux and two other tribes, were in their places in Procter’s council room, seated at the
single huge table that Procter had arranged. Seated opposite them at the same table were Elliott; his chief field inspector, Augustus Warburton; William Evans of the Forty-First Infantry; members of Elliott’s headquarters staff; and two British officers. Procter presided at the head of the table with the translators and his aides beside him. The Indians were dressed as at the last council meeting, in buckskins, with their tomahawks and knives in their belts, attired for war. The British officers had their swords in plain sight, handles ready.

  Procter stood and bowed to Tecumseh. “I thank the great Tecumseh and his chiefs for honoring us once again with their presence. I have journeyed to Sandwich to determine conditions there. I have reports of matters as they are now on the Thames River. I have other reports regarding what the Americans are doing. I wish to share this information with you, our allies.”

  The Indians exchanged glances, and Tecumseh nodded.

  Procter spread a large map on the table and waited while everyone present oriented themselves to place and direction.

  For more than one hour, Procter leaned over the map while he moved his finger, identifying every location of importance, and noting why it was important. He patiently, carefully explained that Barclay’s loss of the entire British naval squadron on Lake Erie had left Fort Amherstburg and Sandwich and the entire western half of the lake defenseless, isolated, without food, arms, or ammunition. They could get no reinforcements from Niagara, far to the east. He pointed to the Portage River on the south side of the lake and told of the great number of American soldiers now gathered there, getting onto ships to cross the lake and attack. He shook his head when he told them that the heavy cannon on the American war ships could shoot two cannonballs at one time, with a chain between them, and with such weapons the Americans could not be stopped.

  He straightened and paused to allow the Indians to examine the map, tracing rivers and calculating distances, and he remained silent while they began to understand that he had told them the truth. With the loss of the British ships, there was no way to stop the Americans. Fort Amherstburg and Sandwich, and all British troops and Indians with them, were doomed if they stayed where they were. They had no choice: flee, or be killed.

  Procter waited until he saw the reality come into their eyes, and then he went on.

  The retreat would follow the Thames River. The British had a great supply of picks and shovels in the hold of two small ships, the Mary and the Ellen, enough to prepare a defense at places on the river that would give good position against the oncoming Americans—Dolsen’s Farm, the Forks, McGregor’s Mill, Cornwall’s Mill, Moraviantown. In solemn terms, Procter promised the chiefs that at one such place the retreat would end. He would halt the army, and they would build breastworks and dig trenches, and they would stop the Americans.

  The Indians fell into a sober silence, and Procter moved on.

  “I request that the great Tecumseh bring all his chiefs to a council in the great council room tomorrow. I wish to share with them the matters we have talked about. I wish to have their consent to all that we must do.”

  With stoic silence the Indians filed from the room and out across the parade ground, through the gates, to their own people. Procter spent part of the day on the parapets inside the high fort walls, telescope extended, watching the chiefs sit with their people, gesturing, signing with their hands, pointing. He saw heads nod in agreement, and he watched the leaders all gather at the great evening campfire, where they sat while Tecumseh stood among them, talking. For the first time since Procter could remember, all heads nodded in agreement before Tecumseh sat down, and the council ended.

  At ten o’clock the following morning, with the Indians dressed in their buckskins and war decorations and their tomahawks and knives at their belts, seated in the great council room inside Fort Amherstburg, and the British officers seated opposite them, Procter called the council to order and faced the chiefs.

  He began by saying, “I thank you all for honoring us with your presence. I wish to counsel with you on the matter we spoke of six days ago.”

  He did not hesitate. In brief, succinct terms he repeated the harsh facts he had laid before Tecumseh only twenty-four hours earlier: to remain where they were would be suicide. They must retreat. They would find a place on the Thames River, and they would stop, and they would drive the Americans back.

  Then he concluded.

  “I will not do these things unless you agree. I ask for you to answer my question now. Do you agree?”

  Tecumseh rose and looked into the face of each of the tribal leaders, then turned to Procter.

  “We agree, with the understanding that you will stop at the proper place, and we will fight the Americans.”

  Procter nodded. “It is agreed. This council is adjourned.”

  The Indians filed from the room, down the stairs, and out of the building, and the British officers exhaled held breath in giddy relief. They waited for a few minutes, nearly jubilant, talking too loud, while the Indians left the fort, and then they walked down the stairs and out across the parade grounds to their quarters.

  Elliott waited until the room was cleared before he spoke to Procter alone.

  “Let me see the map.”

  Procter spread it before him, and the old man pointed with a crooked finger.

  “Some of the worst is yet to come. See these streams and rivers? Seven of them. Petite River, Pike’s Creek, Riviere aux Puces, Belle River, Carp River, Roscom River, Indian Creek. All with bridges you’re going to have to cross. When you do, you should burn them to slow down the Americans. But with two or three thousand Indians behind you, you don’t dare burn them. And when the Indians finally get across, it will be too late. With those bridges in place, the Americans are going to have no trouble catching you.”

  He took a deep breath and went on.

  “And you had better understand that some Indians will go with you, and some will not. Tecumseh is headed for Sandwich right now, thinking to make a stand there. He’ll be back, but I’m telling you certain. Don’t count on the thousands that are here now. They all said yes this morning, but they’re shaky. It will take next to nothing for most of them to disappear. You will be fortunate to have a few hundred left when the Americans catch you and you have to fight.”

  The old man stared into Procter’s eyes for a time and then turned on his heel and left the building.

  Procter gathered his map and his papers and walked down the stairs, out onto the parade ground where a brisk, chill south wind was blowing heavy clouds due north. He slowed and peered at the south wall as though he could see through it, down to Lake Erie, and across to the mouth of the Portage River where American General Harrison had ships and men. Procter could not stop his thoughts or his fears.

  The storms of fall are soon here. Where’s Harrison and his army? When is he coming? How many men? Ships? What is his plan of attack?

  * * * * *

  Across the lake, on choppy, wind-driven waters at the mouth of the Portage River, an unending concourse of small boats and flat-bottomed bateaux continued making the trip from the rocky shore out to the anchored ships under command of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, where they unloaded the soldiers, cannon, food stores, and horses of the largest American army ever seen west of the Appalachian Mountains, and turned back to shore to take on the next load. Volunteers from Ohio and Pennsylvania had arrived, and the tough, eager Kentucky horsemen were there with their long rifles, impatient to get on with the war.

  Billy Weems stood on the shore with his rifle in hand, watching the smaller craft bucking the swells and whitecaps as they labored out to the ships to unload and return. In the distance, on the far side of Perry’s anchored fleet, Billy studied the familiar silhouette of the one ship he knew so well—the Margaret—and he watched them using belly slings to lift horses from the bateaux onto the top deck of the big vessel.

  She’s still afloat. Got all her masts. Adam? Still with her? Is he all right?

  He walked west
to where the Kentucky cavalry was loading and faced a young, hawk-faced, bearded lieutenant who was caught up in getting nervous horses to walk up a gangplank and into the pitching hold of a large bateau.

  Billy pointed. “You loading onto the big ship out there—the Margaret?”

  The answer was short, irritated, perfunctory. “Who wants to know?”

  “I do. I have family out there.”

  The lieutenant paused. “Family?”

  “The captain is my brother-in-law.”

  “Captain Dunson?”

  “Adam Dunson. I haven’t seen him in months. I’d like to talk to him.”

  The change in the young lieutenant was instant. “Get on here with us. After what he done in that fight out there on the lake two weeks ago, we’ll get you out there and back.”

  Billy boarded the bateau, stacked his rifle in one corner with those of the crew members, and took a place among them, talking low and gentle to the frightened, wild-eyed horses, trying to calm them in their distrust of standing on the deck of a rocking, pitching boat.

  The south wind held the sails full and tight and drove the flat-bottomed boat pitching and rolling past the squadron of anchored ships to the Margaret, where the crew cast hawsers down to waiting hands on the bateau and tied the two vessels together. Then the risky business of earing down terrified horses began with experienced hands passing the big canvas slings beneath their bellies and dropping the loops over the hooks that would lift them up to the deck of the ship.

  In the noise of the wind and the snorting of the horses and the sound of their hooves on the bottom of the bateau, the young lieutenant turned to Billy and pointed upward. Billy nodded, picked up his rifle, and climbed the netting hanging down the side of the Margaret, over the railing to the main deck. There he stopped in the clamor to study the quarterdeck, and Adam was there, absorbed in the loading of his ship. Billy walked to the steps and climbed them, and quietly came up beside him.