Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Yes, sir.” The aide handed the letter back to Harrison, who passed it on to Billy.

  While the American column made their camp for the night, Harrison had his table unloaded near the great campfire and gathered his war council and his chief scouts around while he unfolded and laid out his map. He shifted it to lay consistent with the river and began, pointing and moving his finger as he spoke.

  “We’re here. Moraviantown is here.” He turned to Eli. “Where are the British, and how has Procter prepared their defenses?”

  With Billy at his side, Eli took a moment to study the detail, when Harrison interrupted.

  “First, has he begun digging trenches and throwing up breastworks?”

  Eli shook his head. “No. They don’t have their trenching tools. Their picks and shovels were moved from two ships into in two flat-bottomed boats that are behind us on the Thames. They didn’t get them. They can’t build defenses.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “They also forgot to unload their ammunition boats. Most of their gunpowder and shot are on the river, behind us, near Arnold’s Mill.”

  “What?” Harrison exclaimed. “They left their trenching tools and ammunition behind? Procter? Ridiculous! Are you certain?”

  “Certain. They’re behind us on the river. Yours for the taking.”

  Harrison plunged on. “What’s wrong with Procter? How could he let that happen?”

  “It wasn’t Procter. It was Warburton. Procter left his command and is in Moraviantown right now.”

  Harrison recoiled in disbelief. “Abandoned his men at a time like this?”

  Eli said, “I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. All I can tell you is Warburton is in command, and Procter is in Moraviantown right now.”

  Harrison thumped his finger on the map. “Where are the British, and how are they deployed?”

  Eli dropped his finger on Moraviantown and moved it west. “Right about there. Just over a mile this side of the town. There’s a wedge-shaped piece of high ground there with a few birch trees, just a few feet from the road.” He turned to Billy. “How wide and how long is that strip of ground? Two hundred yards wide, north to south, and half a mile long, east to west?”

  Billy answered, “About two hundred fifty yards wide, and just less than a half mile long.”

  Eli moved his finger north. “Over here, away from the road, at the north edge of the high ground, is a bog. A marsh—a bad one. It’s called Backmetack Swamp. No one can put troops there.”

  Eli paused for a moment, then went on. “From what we saw before we came to you this afternoon, the British intend forming a line with their regulars that runs from the road pretty much north towards the swamp. At the end of that line, near the swamp, they’re going to form the Indians in an adjoining line that curves somewhat towards the west. They’ll most likely put Tecumseh and his Shawnee at one end of the Indian line, and Oshawahnah and his Ojibwa at the other end.”

  Eli stopped and turned to Billy. “Have I missed anything?”

  “Only that they don’t have artillery. Maybe one gun, but no more.”

  Harrison looked carefully at both Billy and Eli. “Have you two had battle experience?”

  There was a hint of a smile when Billy answered, “A little.”

  Harrison looked at Eli, dressed in Indian buckskins with his tomahawk and his sheathed knife thrust through his weapons belt. “You speak any of the Indian dialects?”

  Billy spoke for him. “Seven.”

  Harrison’s jaw dropped open, and he clacked it shut, then took a deep breath and moved on. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

  “I don’t think so,” Eli said. “You might want to send a detail of men back to Arnold’s Mill to get those trenching tools and ammunition before Procter does.”

  Harrison asked, “Will you two stay with us? We might need you in the morning.”

  Eli looked at Billy, and Billy answered. “We’ll stay, but we might be gone for a while. Someone ought to take a look at the British lines tomorrow morning in the daylight just to be certain what they’re going to do.”

  Harrison bobbed his head. “Done.” He turned to one of his officers. “Send a company of men back to get those trenching tools and ammunition from the boats on the Thames, now, tonight.” He spoke to the remainder of his staff. “I’ll spend some time working out a plan of attack. All of you be back here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning to approve it and receive your orders. No fires tonight. Double pickets. If there’s nothing else, you’re dismissed.”

  Billy and Eli shared a sparce evening mess with the officers and went to their blankets beneath a lean-to they made from pine boughs. It was close to two o’clock when they were awakened by the return of the men sent to get the trenching tools and ammunition from the British boats on the river. At four o’clock they left their blankets beneath a clear, star-studded sky and silently made their way through the camp and disappeared onto King’s Road, traveling east toward the British camp.

  Frost was on the ground, and the eastern horizon was showing deep purple when Harrison roused his camp. He allowed his men to build fires to cook their morning mess, then gathered with his war council at the table and laid out his map. He tapped the high ground where the British were camped and began.

  “I propose we attack the British lines with Mister Henry’s infantry division. The British will not have breastworks or trenches because we have their equipment. The result is, we will meet them out on open ground, and we have at least twice the numbers they do. As for the Indians, I propose that Mister Desha and his division face them and hold them over by the swamp. Once the British are defeated, we can send all our forces against them until they are defeated or have fled.”

  He stopped while the simplicity of the plan was accepted by his officers, and he was about to continue when movement on the road stopped him. He peered up the winding ruts and suddenly recognized the two men coming at a trot. He waited until Billy and Eli reached the gathering of officers before he spoke.

  “You’ve been scouting the British?”

  Billy was breathing hard as he answered. “We’ve been there. They’ve changed their lines. It looks like they might form the British regulars in two lines, not one. The larger line in front, facing us, with a second one about two hundred yards behind it. That means that front line is not going to be shoulder to shoulder, the way they usually form. There’s going to be a fairly large gap between each of the soldiers, in both lines. It doesn’t make sense. To leave gaps like that will weaken both lines bad enough that they’re going to fold in the face of a head-on infantry charge.”

  He stopped to catch his breath, then went on. “It doesn’t look like they’re going to change the Indian line. They’re still out by the swamp, with Tecumseh and Oshawahnah and the Shawnee and Ojibwa warriors.”

  Eli cut in. “Seems to me we should move on over there soon, and let them see us. Then watch what they do. As it is now, Billy’s right. They seem to be forming two loose lines, one behind the other. I don’t know what Procter is thinking.”

  Harrison asked, “Is Procter back from town?”

  “Yes. Got there about two hours ago.”

  Harrison turned to his officers. “Get your men into ranks and check their ammunition. We march in thirty minutes.” He turned back to Billy and Eli. “Go on down to the officer’s mess and tell them I said to get something hot for you. Will you two stay with me? No telling when I’ll need you next.”

  “We’ll stay,” Eli replied, and the two of them made their way through the scurrying ranks to the officer’s mess where a tall, rangy, profane sergeant was in charge of clean-up. He handed them wooden bowls and pointed, and two minutes later Billy and Eli were standing by one of the cookfires, gingerly working on steaming mush made from the wheat confiscated at Arnold’s Mill the day before.

  Twenty minutes later, with Billy and Eli mounted nearby on army horses, Harrison mounted his mare, called his orders, and the column moved forward amidst the din
and jostle of more than two thousand men marching and one thousand more mounted on horses with vapor rising from their belled nostrils, feeling the cold, throwing their heads, fighting the bit. Four hundred yards ahead of the main column rode twenty bearded Kentuckians, cocked rifles across their knees while their heads and their eyes never stopped moving, probing everything on both sides of the road and dead ahead for the first sign of a British patrol or an ambush.

  The sun was three hours high when the road slanted to within twenty yards of the river, and in the far distance, through a break in the forest, Harrison and Eli and Billy caught their first glimpse of the high white church steeple above the treetops in the settlement of Moraviantown. The thought ran through their minds, They’re waiting— one mile this side of that church.

  The column kept moving on the hard-crusted ruts that wound on through the woods, searching the left side of the road for the field Eli had described. It was shortly before noon that the forest suddenly opened, and the gentle rise was there, less than one mile ahead, and on it were the crimson-coated British regulars with their Union Jack flag high on a pole. Harrison halted the column long enough to extend his telescope and study the position of the British and the Indians and identify Procter, very close to the road. He handed the telescope to Billy.

  For one full minute Billy studied the red-coated lines, then handed the telescope to Eli and waited until Eli lowered the instrument.

  Harrison spoke. “Looks like they still intend forming one line, not two. Let’s move out in the open and see if Procter changes his mind.”

  With Harrison mounted, near the road, flanked by his aide, and Billy and Eli, the Americans came by rank and file, steadily, methodically. The two thousand American infantry marched onto the west end of the open field, eyes riveted on the British less than eight hundred yards due east. Then, behind them came the Kentucky volunteers, mounted on their horses, rifles across their knees, to form lines behind the infantry. The last of them were taking their places when Harrison suddenly jerked forward in his saddle, and his arm shot up, pointing.

  “They’re shifting! About half of their line is falling back!” Instantly he had his telescope up, watching, scarcely breathing as half the men in the long line fell back two hundred yards to the east and reformed in a second line.

  “They’ve got Warburton in command of that first line and Muir in the second. Procter’s clear off to one side, next to the road. What are they doing?” Harrison exclaimed and looked at Billy.

  Billy shook his head in amazement. “I don’t know. That front line will never survive a head-on infantry charge, and the second line is too far back to give support.”

  Harrison took a deep breath, and his face settled. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

  He turned and was raising to give his signal to William Henry at the head of his command of Kentucky infantry when his aide pointed and shouted, “Sir, wait! The Johnsons are coming.”

  Harrison reined his horse around to the sound of two horses coming in from behind at a high run, their riders hunched low over their withers, rifles held high above their heads. He waited while the two brothers, Colonel Richard Johnson and Lieutenant Colonel James Johnson, who had gathered the Kentucky cavalry and now had command of them, came pounding in and hauled their mounts to a sliding halt, stuttering their feet, wanting to run.

  Harrison peered at them, waiting.

  Richard paid no attention to formalities. He pointed with his rifle. “There’s too much ground between us and them. If we use the infantry for the attack we’re going to lose some men. We’ve got a thousand mounted Kentuckians back there, and they can cover that half mile horseback in about one minute.” He stopped to lick his lips, and Harrison saw his eyes shining. “Our men are ready. Most of ’em came with us from Kentucky because they remember the fight at the River Raisin—the one where some of their friends and families were massacred, even after they surrendered. These men are ready. They’ll cut those British to pieces in less than three minutes.” He turned to his brother James. “What do you say?”

  James came loud and firm. “My men are beggin’ for the chance. The last thing they said to me before I came here was that I had to tell you, remember the Raisin.”

  Harrison made his decision in five seconds. “Get your cavalry up here. Now!”

  The two Johnson brothers jerked their horses around, and in two seconds were gone at stampede gait.

  Harrison shouted to Major General William Henry and then to General Shelby and waved his arm violently for them to come at once. They arrived at the same moment, and Harrison didn’t wait for questions.

  “Hold your infantry right where they are. The Kentucky cavalry is going to take a position in front of you, and they’re going to lead the attack. James Johnson and his regiment are going straight at that line of redcoats while Richard Johnson is charging the Indian line to the north. It’s going to happen fast, so get back to your positions and order your men to hold. Don’t move until I give the signal. The cavalry goes in first. Do you both understand?”

  Billy and Eli watched the two officers spin their horses and gallop back to their commands, shouting Harrison’s orders over and over again.

  The Kentucky cavalry came trotting up the road and with Harrison pointing and shouting orders, they formed their lines in front of the infantry, with every man among them waiting for the order to launch the attack. Harrison thought to draw his watch from his pocket to check the time. It was 3:45 on the bright, chill day of October 5, 1813.

  Harrison jammed the watch back into his pocket and shouted his last order to the two brothers.

  “See that cannon on the right of their line? Try to get it first. Don’t let them get that gun going.”

  Both brothers nodded and held their eyes on Harrison, waiting for his signal.

  Harrison looked at his aide, who nodded his head, then at Billy and Eli, who both nodded, and he straightened in his saddle. He raised his arm high and dropped it.

  The dead quiet was shattered with the war cries of one thousand mounted Kentuckians as they drove their spurs home and the horses leaped out to a hard run in three jumps. The men held their rifles high above their heads, and in their weapons belts they carried tomahawks and knives and hatchets, ready for what was coming.

  James Johnson’s command swept across the open field like an avalanche, to fire their first volley at fifty yards, and all up and down the line, British regulars groaned and went down. The tide of horsemen was only thirty yards from the British lines before the stunned regulars could recover from the shock enough to raise their muskets, and the oncoming horde was less than five yards from the first British line before the British fired their first volley, ragged, without aim, without effect. The Kentuckians hit them head-on, swinging their tomahawks and hatchets, running over them, knocking them sprawling. They overran the lone British cannon and its crew before it could fire a single shot, and the British threw down their muskets and sprinted in all directions, done, wanting only to be away from the demons that were killing them. The Kentuckians held their mounts at stampede gait straight on through the first line, across the two hundred yards, and hit the second line of regulars with their tomahawks and hatchets and knives working. The terrified second line also threw down their muskets and wildly fled, heedless of anything that got in their way.

  The Kentuckians pulled their mounts to a skidding stop and spun around to descend on the scattering British, driving them in all directions, a beaten, devastated, undisciplined mob. The total time from the moment James Johnson’s command had dug spur to horse and started its run across the open ground, to the time the British were a disorganized, destroyed army, was just under three minutes.

  North of James Johnson and his command, his brother Richard had led his regiment at a full gallop into the line of Shawnee and Ojibwa warriors who had their backs to the Backmetack Swamp, with some of them hidden in the trees to the west of the bog. With Tecumseh shouting his defiance, the Shawnee stubbo
rnly held their ground while the mounted Kentuckians stampeded among them, slashing with their tomahawks and hatchets, shouting, “Remember the Raisin!” South of them, on the open ground, Joseph Desha shouted to his waiting regiment of infantry and led them in a sprint toward the embattled cavalry. Behind Desha, James Johnson turned his horse and led half his command at a run to reinforce his brother. James was thirty yards from the battle line when he gasped and sagged in his saddle and toppled to the ground, rolling, hit hard but still alive.

  Back at King’s Road, Harrison sat his horse with his aide and two officers beside him, and Billy and Eli slightly behind and to his left, all standing in their stirrups, caught up in the fury and unbelievable speed of the battle.

  Suddenly Billy pointed east on King’s Road and shouted, “There—Procter! He’s running! Deserting his men.”

  Harrison stared, shocked that a British officer would desert his men in the worst crisis they had ever seen. He turned and barked orders to Major Devall Payne. “Get him! Take a company and get him!” Payne and a company of his infantry left at a run.

  Harrison and those with him watched them running up the road, then turned back to the battle raging four hundred yards to the north, where the Indians were slowly backing toward the swamp, giving ground, taking devastating losses.

  Billy saw Eli tense, and then Eli raised a hand to point, and Billy saw Tecumseh in full battle dress, alone, tomahawk raised, shouting his defiance and hatred at two Kentuckians. While they watched, both Americans raised their rifles, and the yellow flame and white smoke spewed from the muzzles, and Tecumseh’s slender frame shook as he staggered backward and stumbled and fell and did not move.

  All the wind went out of Eli, and he sat for a second, staring, unable to believe, and then turned to Billy.

  “We need him! If we’re ever going to make a treaty with the Shawnee, we will need him.”

  Eli dug his heels into his mount, and in three jumps the gelding was at a full run, out across the open ground, neck stretched out, mane flying, with Eli low over the withers, rifle still in hand, heels pounding the horse’s ribs with his heels. Two seconds later Billy was behind him, his horse stretching to catch Eli, shouting, “Stop! Wait!”