“Be still and quiet,” Norton whispered at the prisoners. Then he gestured to the warriors holding them, “Let them be.” The Indians let go of the scared men and stood back, but several still waved tomahawks and knives threateningly.
“Please, mister,” croaked one of the men to me, “we is on your side.”
“Who are you?” demanded Norton quietly.
“We are from the York militia, with General Sheaffe. He sent us to scout how many Americans are on the heights.” Sheaffe had been Brock’s second-in-command and would now be leading the relief force.
“How many are there on the heights?” I asked.
“Thousands, sir,” said the militia man, his gaze flickering between Norton and me as he tried to work out who was in charge. “I reckons at least six thousand, sir,” he added firmly. I was appalled. From what we had heard they had certainly got that number of men on their side of the river and they would vastly outnumber any forces that the British and Canadians could bring together.
“Six thousand, that is ridiculous,” exclaimed Norton. “They cannot possibly have got that many across. They don’t have more than a dozen large boats and our guns must have sunk half of those.”
“Well that is what we saw,” insisted the militia man truculently, beginning to recover some of his composure.
“The more game, the better hunting,” crowed one of the warriors and there was a chuckle at this from some of his comrades. But as the laughter died away I realised that amongst other Indians the news of the enemy numbers had caused consternation. They might have had their blood up for a fight before, but many clearly did not fancy the thirty-to-one odds that six thousand men would have on our meagre two hundred warrior war party. Some of the men at the back of the gathering were already turning round and going back the way we had come. I certainly did not blame them; in fact I was just about to edge back through the crowd to join them.
“Where are you going?” Norton challenged his retreating warriors.
“We have wives and children to look after,” said one of the warriors at the back of the group.
Norton turned to the militia men, “You can go,” he told them. He waited in silence as they scrambled to their feet and began running again down the hill, glancing nervously over their shoulders. Once they were out of earshot, Norton turned again to his warriors. “The women can look after the children and take them to safety if needed. The Americans cannot have that number on the hill.” He raised his voice now so that all could hear him, apparently no longer caring if the distant Americans heard him as well. “You are warriors of the Iroquois, you are painted for war and our enemy awaits us. We will show the Americans how we can fight and the Great Spirit will decide who lives and who dies.”
If Norton was expecting a rousing cheer at the end of this little speech he was to be disappointed. I was reminded of a similar oration given by my friend Cochrane when we had sailed into battle against what had seemed impossible odds. We had been on a small ship then and escape was impossible, but for the Indians here it was easy to slip away. While some picked up their weapons and moved forward to stand with Norton, others shook their heads in dismay at the odds and started to move back down the hill. I estimated that more than half were leaving.
“Let us climb the path,” called Norton to those who were left, with what I thought was a rather fixed grin of encouragement. “With Captain Flashman here, we will bring confusion to our enemies so that General Sheaffe can sweep them into the river.” He turned to me, “Is that not so, my friend?”
I was damned if I was going to take another step up that hill, but before I could reply a huge great Indian threw his arms about my shoulders and gave me a hug that would have suffocated a bear. As my face was pressed into his greasy skin the Indian pounded my back and declared loudly, “Fear not, Long Knife, the Mohawks of the Grand River will not let you down. We will help you avenge the Great Father.” There was a cheer at that and as I extricated myself from the great oaf’s embrace I found myself surrounded by Indians, patting me on the back as though I was General Brock’s long lost son.
“That is very kind of you, I’m sure,” I muttered as they moved away and started to stalk up the hillside. “John,” I called to Norton, “Can I have a word with you?”
Norton held back until the other braves were out of earshot. “Don’t worry about the warriors that slipped away, half of them will probably come back when they hear we are winning.”
“Winning? Are you mad? I am more worried about the warriors that stayed. For God’s sake, man, if there are six thousand Americans on that hilltop and you only have around eighty warriors left, they will all be slaughtered.” I drew myself stiffly to attention. “As the British officer of this force I insist that we withdraw at once; we must let Sheaffe know what he is up against.”
To my surprise Norton laughed. “I thought your orders were to encourage the Iroquois to fight and stay in the war, not to retreat.” He patted me on the shoulder. “You are right, if there are six thousand men on that hillside then we should definitely let Sheaffe know. But first we should look for ourselves as I am sure that they have nothing like that number.”
“But even if there are only two thousand men there, they will still outnumber your warriors by more than twenty to one; surely we should just send a single scout and wait here?”
“You do not understand the Iroquois way, Flashman. They are used to fighting against larger odds. They believe that the white man can be replaced in limitless numbers from across the sea, but for them several crushing defeats will see the extinction of their people. They will not stand toe to toe with the Americans. Each warrior fights according to his courage; there is no shame in retreat. They do as much damage to the enemy that they can, at least risk to themselves.”
“You mean that they can run away whenever they want?” I was astounded and for the first time I felt some affinity for the Iroquois. Many was the time I had desperately wanted to run from a battle, but fear of the resulting humiliation and ruin had kept me in line. Now I was with a force where I could run whenever I wanted. For a brief moment I was delighted. Then I thought on: the Iroquois force had already halved due to rumours of the enemy size. There were downsides in having allies that could melt away at a moment’s notice. I would have to keep my eye on them; I did not want to be at the back of some headlong retreat with a pack of vengeful militia on my tail.
As if reading my mind, Norton added, “You will not find the Iroquois lacking in courage.” Then he looked up the hill where the Indians were disappearing through the trees. “Come, we had better get on and I promise if there are anything close to six thousand we will retire to alert General Sheaffe.”
We pressed on up the slope, the Iroquois now reduced to four shorter files of men. They moved so silently that the forward scouts surprised a deer, which ran through the trees between the line I was in and the one to my left. They went quickly too, and I was struggling to keep up. There did not seem any great need for silence now as there was the regular crash of cannon echoing through the trees, but knowing the warriors were all around me, the gaps between the artillery fire were eerily quiet.
“That big fellow,” I whispered at Norton as I stepped around some fallen branches. “He said he was a Mohawk. Are there other tribes in your band, then, as well as Iroquois?”
“No, the Iroquois is a collective name for six tribes or Indian nations, of which the Mohawk is the largest. That was Black Eagle, a brave warrior if a bit impetuous.” Before he could say any more there was a bird call and the Indians around me seemed to stiffen and become yet more vigilant. “Our scouts have reached the edge of the forest,” Norton murmured. “Come on, let’s find out how many men they really have.”
We crept through the undergrowth, the last few yards crawling on our bellies, to emerge at the bottom of a bush that faced on to the clearing. Norton was right, there was nothing like six thousand men. It looked like there was just a sixth of that number, half regular soldie
rs and the rest militia. Most were arrayed over to our right, facing down the hill towards the clear ground alongside the forest where I guessed Sheaffe’s men could be seen forming up. Ahead I could just make out the abandoned gun position that overlooked the river and to the right of that, across the clearing, was thick undergrowth that led down a steep slope to the river’s edge. In the middle of the open space to our front sat four American militia soldiers. They had clearly been detailed to watch the forest edge, but lounged looking relaxed on one of the low grass banks.
“If we can get into that far undergrowth we can attack the Americans from behind,” Norton whispered. “It would keep them disorganised and unsettled while Sheaffe approaches up the hill.”
“But they would just chase the warriors off and anyway those militia guards would raise the alarm if we try to cross here.” I was pleased to be able to spike his plan. The last thing I needed was to get involved in some death or glory charge with a bunch of savages; especially as they were prone to run away and were considerably faster over rough terrain than I was.
But Norton was not put off so easily. “The Americans would be foolish to chase our warriors into thick undergrowth and if they pursued us all the way down to the river bank, they would never get back in time to fight off Sheaffe.” He paused before adding, “But you are right, the militia are a problem.” With that he backed out of the bush and I heard him whispering to some of the other warriors. He returned a moment later, grinning, “Now you will see how Iroquois fight.”
Well I sat and waited in that bush for five minutes and saw absolutely nothing. The regular soldiers and militia were still preparing for a British attack to our right and the four militia men spent most of their time watching their comrades rather than scanning the trees. For them it was a fatal mistake. As Norton had mentioned, Iroquois like to fight at little risk to themselves and these poor devils did not get a chance to cry out, never mind return fire. One moment they were relaxed, sitting on the grass and chewing tobacco, the next three of them were staring in shock at arrows protruding from their chests. Only the fourth man looked as though he might manage to produce a shout of warning – he had been struck by an arrow in the shoulder. But as he tried to rise I saw the big Indian called Black Eagle spring up from a dip in the ground with his arm already drawn back. There was a glitter of metal and the fourth man was slumping back, with a tomahawk embedded deep in his chest.
There was giggling from the men about me as the militia slumped to the ground. As I was soon to learn, nothing cheers up an Indian more than doing the dirty to someone else. Without any further orders the Iroquois started to move forward down a shallow gully next to the bank the militia had sat on. They were all crouched down low, out of sight to the distant American forces. Norton was at their head and I had little choice but to follow. Without Norton nearby, and with Brock’s warning ringing in my ears I was still not sure I would trust the Iroquois. On the other hand staying back alone in a British uniform with so many Americans about would also be a dangerous business.
By the time I passed where the militia had been killed, the four Indians had pulled their bodies into the ditch and were busy recovering their arrows. These archers also had muskets over their shoulders. As they crouched down over the corpses at first I did not realise what they were doing. Then I saw Black Eagle’s knife carving around the head of one of the dead men and heard that awful suction and tearing sound as the scalp was torn from the skull. The Indian grinned at what must have been a look of stricken horror on my face and held up the bloody trophy.
“We will take many scalps today to avenge the Great Father,” he told me while he cleaned his knife on a tuft of grass. I pressed on, feeling sickened. I had heard about the Indian habit of scalping since I had arrived in Canada, but hearing about it and seeing it are two very different things. I never got used to that sucking and ripping noise, which makes my skin crawl even now just thinking about it. Some Indians took scalps as trophies, believing that some of their enemy’s martial spirit was in the warrior’s decorated top knots. But scalping had been encouraged by both the French and the British during their wars in North America. Some whites even collected scalps. Later in the war I came across a dying man from Kentucky who had several scalps tucked into his shirt. He asked for his own scalp to be sent on to his wife; Christ knows what she was expected to do with it!
We had to crawl on our hands and knees to cross the last part of the open ground as the bank had got shallower. But soon the entire war party had gained the shelter of the undergrowth at the top of the steep slope that ran down from the heights to the river bank. There, for the first time, I caught a glimpse of the American boats on the river. I saw six large cutters, but there may have been more. What surprised me was that the boats pulling back to the American shore were almost as full as the ones rowing towards Canada. Looking down at the shore by the village of Queenston I could see American militia queuing to get back in the vessels, loaded with booty. I remember two soldiers carrying a long case clock down to the beach; they seemed to view the venture more as a raid for profit than an invasion. A water spout appeared in the middle of the river near one of the boats – a distant British gun was still firing at the craft, but it would be lucky to hit one of the small targets at that range.
The Indians were already working their silent way south through the trees and bushes to get directly behind the American forces. There was an air of excitement amongst them now, grinning and whispering to each other as they pressed through the undergrowth. They did not seem to have the slightest concern that they would be hugely outnumbered. It was a warm day and the naked chests and legs of the natives blended in with the tree trunks and leaves that were a riot of autumnal colours. As well as deerskin breech cloths, the natives all had leather bags over their shoulders containing cartridges and spare flints. Just a handful had the traditional bows and arrows in addition to a musket; a few also had spears but all had knives and tomahawks or clubs, which were tucked into waistbands or hanging from cords.
With my new conspicuous scarlet coat I kept well back from the clearing, but through gaps in the foliage I could see the American soldiers moving to and fro. They were using a path further south to climb down to the river; it must have been their original route up to the heights. From the shouting and yelling coming from the distant track, they were now trying to haul up something heavy, probably a gun. It was obvious that they had no idea that hostile Iroquois warriors were just a few dozen yards away.
“I have sent a warrior to General Sheaffe,” Norton whispered to me. “So he knows that we will distract the Americans while he makes his advance.”
I nodded but I still did not believe that the Indians would provide much of a distraction. Outnumbered as they were, the Americans would soon have them pinned down … or so I thought. Nothing I had seen fighting in two continents had prepared me for the Iroquois style of warfare. In any conventional army they would have advanced in either line or column. Even light troops with their looser formations would still retain some structure so that their commanders could retain control. There was none of that with the Indians; indeed if there was even an order to attack I did not hear it. The whole war band had come to a silent halt in the undergrowth opposite the nearest American troops. They were a company of militia riflemen, around one hundred men, who were standing and sitting some eighty yards away, oblivious to the danger nearby. The American regulars, their professional soldiers, were some three hundred yards further on. Again, many of those were resting as any of Sheaffe’s forces that they could see were still some distance off. All seemed peaceful.
The first I knew that an attack was imminent was when the Indians started to take aim. They were still in the trees out of sight of the Americans, many of them resting their guns against branches while they squinted carefully down the sights. I had heard people say that the American riflemen were sharpshooters, or as one New Yorker colourfully put it: ‘they could shoot the teats off a sow.’ Well the Iroquoi
s were no slouches either, learning to hunt deer in the forest from boyhood. Some had rifles and others muskets, generally a lighter calibre than the army used. Now, in the stillness, they silently pressed their cheeks against their gun stocks and lined the barrels against their unsuspecting foe. Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter 3
I think it was one of the militia who unwittingly triggered the attack. As I peered at them through the leaves, one of the militia soldiers looking in my direction suddenly stiffened and started to raise his hand to point. He was just opening his mouth to shout when the first ball hit him, throwing him back into the dirt. Then the rest of the Indians opened fire. It was not a volley as I was used to, but a long ripple of well-aimed shots. Many of the militia started a grotesque dance as musket balls slashed through them and all around them. Before the fusillade had finished the first war cries had sounded and as the gunfire died away, the bushes became full of their deafening shrieks. It was the first time I had heard the sound; it was as though the tails of a troop of baboons had been slammed in a door. Wild angry howls and whoops that seemed utterly foreign to me, but the militia evidently knew all too well what they portended.
Even though I was with the Indians, my sympathies at that moment were with the militia. One minute they had been peaceably smoking and chewing tobacco and in a matter of seconds half of their number lay dead or wounded and through the musket smoke the first of the Iroquois could be seen charging towards them. While I had not heard of a Mohawk until a few days previously, these men had been brought up on tales of massacres, abductions and the torture and scalping of prisoners. The survivors managed a stuttering volley of their own, but these were rushed and snatched shots and I saw only two Indians go down. Then the militia were off running towards the safety of the lines of regular infantry, some dragging or half carrying wounded comrades with them.
Flashman and Madison's War Page 2