Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  We pressed through a large crowd. There certainly seemed enough militia in Lewiston to have reinforced their attack, but closer inspection showed that Ginger was right. Many of the men looked ill and thin. Some were dressed in little more than rags, with strips of cloth and rope holding together broken boots. There was a strong smell of human waste on the streets and I saw several soldiers crouched pitifully in corners with their trousers around their ankles. A lot of men crammed into one place was bound to encourage disease. If the troops were also weakened with poor rations, things would only get worse. From the smell of the main street, dysentery was rife in the army.

  I had expected to be jostled and shouted at, but most just stared at me with glassy eyes, evidently judging that abusing me was not worth the effort. We pushed on through the throng, watching carefully where we trod, until we reached a larger building. I guessed it was the courthouse, which presumably had the gaol attached. There I was handed over to a Major Cartwright, who seemed surprisingly genial.

  “Come in, sir, come in, you will have a glass with me, surely?”

  “I think I should probably be getting back, it is getting dark already.”

  “Ah, by the time we get the prisoners down to the docks it will be too late to row back. They will not row at night; too many boats have been sunk by logs coming down the river.” He was steering me into an office and showing me to a chair as he added, “A truce has now been agreed between our armies, you will be quite safe here.” He pressed a glass of brandy into my grateful hand and sat down beside me. “Where are your people from, sir?

  “From? Oh you mean in England. My family home is in Leicestershire.”

  “Ahh,” he breathed, smiling. “My parents came from Lincolnshire, some twenty-five years ago. I was only five at the time and barely remember the old country. We had relatives here already, you see, who helped my father set up in trade.”

  “And now you are at war with the old country,” I prompted.

  “Yes, it is strange that such a relatively short period of time should see us on different sides. Our ancestors could have stood side by side in the same ranks at, say, Agincourt or the Wars of the Roses, yet now we face each other.” He paused to sip his drink and then brightened. “But from what I hear you fellows are standing side by side with some pretty rum fellows at the moment.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes, those Indian savages. The first boats back during the battle were full of tales of massacres, torture and scalping. Their wild war cries could be heard from here and there was no way that we could get the militia across the river after that. They had been happy to cross when they thought they would be raiding the property of the citizens of Queenston, but not when they heard about the Indians. A good number have now declared that they are going home.

  “Surely you have Indians in America?”

  “Oh we do, there is some American Iroquois territory south of us, I believe, but they have been persuaded to stay on their land. Our soldiers don’t trust them, you see.”

  “I have some sympathy with your soldiers. One of the devils turned murderously on me when I gave an order he did not like. Then there is the scalping, which is beyond barbaric.”

  The major refilled my glass, smiling. “Well you can always come over to our side. Heaven knows we need some experienced officers and we have a number of British deserters already.”

  For a brief moment I was tempted, I have always got on well with Americans. There had been Cathcart who had assisted me and Cochrane in Tunisia and the crew of the American barque that had helped me escape France. They had all been good fellows. Even my gaoler in Boston had been kind and considerate. In contrast Canada seemed a strange, foreign land and it had been years now since I had set foot in Britain. But for all that, I could not imagine standing in battle in opposition to those dressed in red. I had seen too much blood seep into scarlet cloth for that. So I smiled and shook my head to decline his offer.

  “Well you can dine with me tonight, there is some venison, and then in the morning you can take your prisoners home.” He grinned. “In fact I think there are some Indians amongst them.”

  The major was as good as his word and after a pleasant dinner and good night’s sleep I found myself back on the Lewiston dock next morning with half a dozen bedraggled redcoats, who looked like they had suffered a worse night than me, and three silent, surly Indians. Given all the talk of massacres and scalping I was surprised that the Indians had not been killed or at least mistreated in captivity, but aside from one who had a bandage around his head, they seemed unharmed. I noticed, though, that the Americans had kept their hands tied behind their backs, while the British soldiers were not secured at all.

  The major had accompanied me down to the dock and again there was no great hostility from the American soldiers and militia in the streets. The boats had already started to ply their trade back and forth across the river. So as we stood waiting for passage on the quay, I was surprised to hear sudden gunfire: there were three bangs from the British canon.

  “What the devil is that? I thought there was a truce!” As I spoke I looked across the river but there were no plumes of water to indicate shot landing amongst the boats.

  “Don’t worry, they are just firing a salute for your General Brock.” As the major stopped speaking the guns on the American shore started their own salute for the British general. I was amazed at the civility of it all, given that the Americans had tried to invade just the previous day. Yesterday we had been fighting a pitched battle and now they were saluting our fallen commander. Not that I was complaining. I thanked the major warmly for his hospitality and threw him a smart salute before climbing down into the boat with the returning prisoners.

  We soon came up to Queenston where I saw that there was still a large crowd of American prisoners waiting to cross. Stepping ashore I had the Iroquois warriors untied and all of the former prisoners went off searching for their comrades. As for me, I was not sure where to go. I had no particular wish to return to the Iroquois; I had made an enemy of Black Eagle and he would have friends willing to avenge him. The invasion had been repulsed and the Americans did not look in a fit state to launch another one any time soon. Perhaps now would be a good time to seek another posting with our new commander, perhaps a comfortable billet on his staff. I made my way to the Queenston Inn, which, from the horses tied up outside, was clearly Sheaffe’s current headquarters. I had barely set my foot over the threshold when I was intercepted by some staff wallah.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” The rudely blunt enquiry came from an immaculately dressed major, who had a languid air about him that instantly rubbed me up the wrong way.

  “Why, my compliments to you, sir, on this fine day,” I responded with exaggerated politeness to show that I intended to ignore his rudeness. “I do not believe that I have had the honour of an introduction, Major…?”

  The major glared at me in irritation but then saw no alternative but to give his name. “It is Major Fforbes, with two ‘f’s. And you are?”

  “Captain Flashman, with one ‘f’,” I replied. “I am here to see General Sheaffe,” I added.

  “The general has asked me to deal with all matters that are not urgent,” replied Fforbes, shuffling through some papers with a frown. “What is it you wanted?”

  “Well I have completed the exchange of prisoners as requested by the general, and I wondered if he had any new duties for me.”

  “Ah, here it is,” said Fforbes pulling a paper triumphantly from the pile. “You are the officer that escaped from France, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply he continued, “I see General Brock detailed you to act as liaison for the Iroquois.”

  “Yes but now that the invasion has been repulsed…”

  “That is just their first attempt,” interrupted Fforbes. “There are bound to be others and we will continue to need liaison with our native allies. You should return to your duty, sir. General Brock’s orders stand until they are co
untermanded by General Sheaffe.”

  “But for God’s sake, man,” I protested. “Some of them are murdering savages. You cannot expect me, a British officer, to live with them in some mud hut. One of them already tried to kill me when I got in his way.

  Fforbes just smiled at me before replying. “Your orders stand, Captain, and you may be interested to know that Major Norton came to see me earlier, to say that he thought you would be an excellent liaison officer. I wish you well and I think that you will find living with the Iroquois an interesting experience.”

  Chapter 5

  I found Norton and Iroquois still up on the heights where I had last seen them. Now the battle was over, most were now dressed in ornately embroidered deerskin tunics and trousers. Much of the war paint had been washed off, although on some there were still traces of where it had been. They seemed far less intimidating now, sitting around their campfires and talking. Only the sight of one man cleaning the back of a scalp with his knife gave any clue to the recent savagery. Norton stood with a crowd of men surrounding the recently recovered warriors as they recounted their experiences, but when he noticed me he broke away and came over.

  “Welcome back Flashman,” he called and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “Thank you for collecting our missing men. Are you ready to leave?”

  “I suppose so. Are we going back to Fort George?” I asked hopefully. Fort George was where the Indians had been garrisoned before the battle and it was at least a soundly built structure that would keep out the weather.

  “No, the men are keen to celebrate their victory on the Grand River. We are going back to our lands and there will be much feasting. Your horse is tied up over there.”

  I had no idea then what an Iroquois village would look like. Did they really live in mud huts or perhaps wood frames covered in bark and grass? Or possibly shelters built around fallen trees? Whichever, the prospect did not sound appealing with winter approaching. I cast around for an excuse. I spotted it sitting slumped at a nearby campfire. “I don’t think he would welcome me in your camp,” I said pointing to the warrior. “And I would rather not spend the next few days continually watching my back.”

  Norton followed my gaze and called out, “Black Eagle, come here.” The big man reluctantly got to his feet as his fellows cackled over some joke, doubtless at his expense. He did indeed look as though his fighting spirit had left him, as he walked over staring miserably at the ground. “I think you owe Captain Flashman an apology,” reminded Norton sternly.

  Black Eagle raised his gaze to look into my face for the first time since he had faced me the previous afternoon. “Little Father, I apologise for attacking you,” the warrior mumbled abjectly.

  Well it was the first time I had been called that. They had called Brock the ‘Great Father’ and so it was clearly a term of respect. I thought a magnanimous gesture was called for, especially if I had to spend time with these warriors. So I reached to my belt and pulled out Black Eagle’s tomahawk and offered it back. But the big man just shrank back a pace away from the weapon.

  “No, Little Father, that is yours, you have beaten me in battle.”

  “I know it seems silly to you, Flashman,” intervened Norton, “but many of these warriors feel that some of their fighting spirit lives in their hair and if they lose it they feel emasculated somehow.”

  “Perhaps this can help, then.” As I spoke I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a long greasy lock of hair, still tied with a red strip of cloth and adorned with some eagle feathers. I had picked it up the previous day while I waited for Winfield Scott to approach. I had wondered if it might come in handy. As I held it out to the warrior he gave a yelp of delight and threw his arms around me, half squeezing the air out of my chest. Never have I seen such a sudden transformation from misery to delight.

  “Oh well done, Flashman!” cried Norton. “For a warrior to live after losing their hair is unusual, but to receive their hair back from the man who had taken it is a very rare thing indeed. Black Eagle’s spirit is restored to him.”

  The man himself finally let go of me and then sank to one knee and kissed the back of my hand. Before I could react to that he was off and running back to his fellows holding his hair aloft and giving his whooping war cry.

  “You have made a true friend there, Flashman,” exclaimed Norton, grinning. “Black Eagle will never attack you again. Now will you feel safe in our village?”

  “What is an Indian village like?” I asked cautiously. “I mean do they live in caves or mud houses? What are their dwellings made of?”

  “Caves and mud houses?” Norton repeated and then he roared with laughter. Wait and see, Flashman, but I promise you that you will be most comfortable.

  We set off later that morning. Norton and I were the only two mounted and we rode at the front of the column while the Indians carrying bundles of their possessions followed on behind. We were just over a day’s ride to the Grand River reservation. Norton explained that originally the Iroquois had lived mostly to the south, in New York State. But after the American War of Independence many had migrated north to land in Canada known as the Grand River Tract. Initially it stretched some six miles either side of the Grand River for over a hundred a fifty miles of the river’s length. It was a huge strip of land but in the intervening years much of the northern half had been sold off by the Indians to white settlers.

  “Are many of the Indians Christians?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Smoke Johnson under the bush.

  “A growing number,” Norton replied. “I do my best to encourage them; a few years ago I translated the Saint John’s Gospel into Mohawk. When this war is over I will try to translate the other Gospels.”

  “A Bible scholar, Iroquois war chief, friend of the British aristocracy, is there no end to your talents?” I looked at my riding companion carefully. Without his war paint he was far less intimidating, and he looked older. I thought he was aged in his mid-forties and he clearly had Indian blood in him. “I take it you are half Iroquoian? Was your father a white settler who married an Indian woman?”

  “You could not be more wrong. My father was a Cherokee brave from America. He was captured by the British before the Revolutionary War and later joined the British army. He went back to Britain with his regiment and there married a Scottish girl. I was born and brought up in Scotland. Later I joined the army and was eventually posted back here in Canada. I left the army and became a translator. I spent a lot of time with the Iroquois. Remember I told you that the Iroquois are also known as the Six Nations as there are six tribes in that group? Well one of the chiefs formally adopted me as a Mohawk, one of the six tribes, and that is how I came to be a Mohawk war chief.”

  “So how did you get to meet the Duke of Northumberland and attend the English court?”

  “The Six Nations sent me to London to negotiate with the British government on their behalf. I met many people there who helped me. There was a lot of interest in our people; I even had my portrait painted in London.” He laughed. “The artist insisted on painting me in a romantic pose – I looked like a fortune teller in a travelling show. I think the sight of me painted for war would have frightened too many ladies.”

  We rode companionably for the rest of that day before making camp in a forest clearing. Some Indians had been hunting while we had marched and soon there were fires burning and meat roasting. I threw my blanket down on the ground and sat near a blaze with a roasting haunch of venison suspended above it. Norton, Black Eagle, Smoke Johnson and more Indians I was getting to know were sitting around the same flames. The other Iroquois seemed to treat me with renewed respect since I had returned Black Eagle’s hair. I thought I was getting on well with the big Indian until he marched around the fire to stand in front of me.

  “Little Father will not sleep on that Indian Land,” he intoned with a look of concern.

  I was hungry and tired and not inclined to put up with any more of his superstitious nonsense. “Is that wha
t your Great Spirit tells you?” I asked wearily.

  Black Eagle looked puzzled and turned to Smoke Johnson, saying something in Iroquoian at which Johnson roared with delight. “It is nothing to do with the Great Spirit,” he gasped out between bouts of laughter. “The big lug does not know the English words to tell you, but you have put your blanket on an ants’ nest!”

  I looked down. There were hundreds of the black insects on me. As I started to brush them away I felt the first one bite and then I was up on my feet sweeping them off my clothes. Soon half the warriors there were howling with mirth at my expense. Even Norton called out something about the white man’s war dance. I was not amused; the damn creatures were still biting. Some had got down my shirt and so I tore the garment off over my head. I was just shaking the insects out of the shirt over the fire when I noticed that the laughter had suddenly died away. When I looked around they were all staring at me as though they had seen a ghost.

  “What the devil is it?” I asked irritably as I shook the last ants off.

  “Your chest, Flashman,” said Norton. “The scar on your chest.”

  “Oh that. It was a wound I picked up in Spain last year.” If you have read my previous memoirs you will know that I was shot through the chest at the battle of Albuera. There was a small entry scar on my back but a much bigger, star-shaped exit scar on my chest.

  Black Eagle came up to me with an awestruck look on his face. Slowly he put his left hand over the entry scar and then reached around to put his right hand on the big exit scar and stared at the space between his hands as though he was watching a miracle. Then he suddenly snatched both hands away and called out something in his native tongue that brought gasps from some of the watching Indians.