Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  “Are you coming?” I asked stretching my stiff muscles. “I am cold and want to get warm.”

  There was a brief whispered argument inside and the rustling of some clothes being pulled on. “I am coming, Little Father,” called Black Eagle as he started to emerge from the doorway. Once outside he stood up and stretched before grinning at me. “It was lovely and warm in my hut.”

  Morag crawled out behind him with a bundle in her hands. As she stood she glanced across at my shelter and shook her head in disgust. She had been scathingly critical when she had first seen it and the flimsy structure clearly had not grown on her. “A drunk, toothless beaver could build something stronger,” she sneered.

  “It is not that bad,” I offered defensively. Black Eagle and I had spent half a day building it.

  She thrust a small bundle to Black Eagle and to my surprise handed another similar bundle to me. “Dried meat and wheat cakes,” she announced and then she turned to me with a hand on her hip. “So do you want me to build you a shelter or not?”

  I glanced at her shelter and then at mine. Hers looked like it could keep out the wind and the rain whereas I knew from experience that mine did neither well and part of the roof had collapsed the previous night. “Well if it is not too much trouble, it probably could do with some improvement,” I suggested brightly while Black Eagle sniggered behind me. The big warrior and I turned for the escarpment up to the guns. We had barely gone a dozen paces when I heard a crash of poles and sticks and looked around to see my shelter had already been demolished.

  Black Eagle chuckled. “I told you she is a good woman. She will build you a fine shelter.” He gestured at the wrapped stone under my arm “Are we going to the gunners’ oven?”

  The foundry that the gunners had made to heat shot had many other uses. While it appeared useless at bringing down the walls of the fort, towards the end of the day dozens of large round stones taken from the river bed were heated inside it. These were then wrapped in leather or blankets to keep people warm at night. “Yes,” I replied, “and we may even be able to warm through the cakes too.” A short while later and we were sitting with a group of gunners on some logs by the guns, hot stones on our laps and under our feet while we munched away on the breakfast Morag had provided.

  “They are quiet this morning,” observed the artillery sergeant sitting with us. “They have normally sent a few balls over by now.” It was still early; there were only a hundred or so men on the cliff top and most of those were wearing the blue coats of the artillery. A handful of others wore red coats like mine and apart from some warriors setting off to hunt in the nearby woods, Black Eagle was the only Indian present.

  “Hello, where has that boat come from?” said the sergeant, pointing. There was a cutter with at least twenty men on board and it was approaching the far shore of the river from the south.

  I pulled my telescope from my pocket to study it. “It looks like some American reinforcements trying to reach the fort, but they will never get through. That far bank is swarming with our men.” I was just about to put the glass down when the edge of the lens caught a glimpse of two more boats coming around the bend in the river. “There are more of them…” I started but I got no further, for at that moment every single gun in the fort crashed out and half a dozen cannon balls came whirring in our direction. We threw ourselves to the ground but most passed harmlessly overhead; one clipped the edge of the escarpment showering us with mud before bouncing away. There were trumpets sounding now and staring across the river I saw that some of the garrison were sallying from the fort to meet up with the reinforcements. I realised the Americans must have got some messages out to plan this, for they had caught us completely by surprise. The gunners were shouting and rushing to their pieces to open fire on these new targets while Black Eagle and I hastily got out of the way. Thank God the action is all happening on the other side of the river, I thought, but no sooner was the notion in my head than the Indian hunting party came running and yelling out of the forest on the other side of the clearing.

  The hunters were pointing at the south and shouting about canoes. When I looked in that direction I saw the first men climbing over the lip of the escarpment on this side of the river. At first there were just a dozen men but within seconds at least a hundred men could be seen sliding over the edge of the plateau and for all we knew they could be hundreds more behind them.

  “Get that gun round, load with canister!” the officer in charge of the battery was shouting as his men threw themselves at the gun nearest the southern edge of the escarpment. I did not hang around to watch; the gunners did not need our help and while I did not realise it, the outcome of the battle depended on my next decision.

  I looked back the way we had come. It had taken us over ten minutes to walk from the British camp and it would be several minutes of hard running to get back. The Americans were already starting to charge towards us and might overhaul us. They could certainly get within musket range and I did not want a well-aimed rifle bullet in the back. There were no places to hide between where we stood and the camp and, for all we knew, the Americans could be sending more men in boats to attack there as well. The alternative was to head inland for the trees. They were closer, would give us cover and as I remembered Smoke Johnson telling me, only an idiot would follow Indians into a forest. “Come on,” I shouted to Black Eagle, gesturing towards the trees. “That way.”

  We grabbed our weapons and broke into a run, the gunners and the river behind us, the distant British camp to our right and the Americans pouring onto the plain to our left. In front I could see the Indian hunting party retreating back into the trees. After running just a few yards my tall companion was pulling ahead and I was sprinting flat out to try and keep up. The tranquillity of just a few moments ago was shattered: musket volleys were crackling on the other side of the river and cannon were now firing from the fort and the British battery, while on both river banks trumpets signalling alarm or advance were sounding in all directions. I looked over my shoulder and saw that most of the Americans were charging our guns but a score of men had seen us and were running in our direction to cut us off. Some were pointing and they were shouting something, but I could not make it out above the sound of me gasping for air as I ran.

  It was close but I thought we would make the shelter of the trees before the Americans. But then I heard a crackle of fire and several musket balls whizzed over my head. Foolishly I looked over my shoulder again and the next moment my foot had caught in a hole and I was tumbling to the ground. I was stunned for a moment, but then Black Eagle was back at my side and pulling me up.

  “Come on, Little Father,” he urged. “A few more yards and we will be in the trees.”

  It was then I heard what the Americans were shouting. There had been a whoop of triumph when I had gone down and I remember hearing someone shout, “I got that Indian officer,” then another voice yelling out, “Remember the Raisin.” I was staggering to my feet again now and recalled with a chill what fate would befall any British officer found fighting with the Indians.

  It is amazing what the fear of death will do to your stamina. I was getting a second wind and in a moment I was up and running again. The Americans were now close on our heels and I realised with despair that even if we made the trees we would not have time to find cover. I forced myself over the last few yards searching for the thickest patch of undergrowth and then the trees in front of me exploded into life. The bushes were suddenly covered in musket smoke as a volley of shots was fired at our pursuers while the air was rent with the war cries of countless warriors. I realised that it was the hunting party who had come back to give us covering fire. There were no more than a dozen of them but they made enough noise for twice that number.

  We were close enough to the Americans to hear the wet smack sounds as bullets hit flesh followed by yells and the clatter of equipment as men either fell or threw themselves to the ground. As I reached the first tree I risked another look bac
k. Our pursuers were all prone in the dirt. Some looked dead or wounded but others were aiming into the trees unsure how many enemy they faced. Gazing beyond them I could see that our gunners had already abandoned their weapons; some were surrendering and others running back to the British camp, the slower ones set to be overhauled by a crowd of Americans in pursuit. There must have been well over five hundred Americans on the plateau then, maybe a thousand. They were all militia, judging from their dress, and now they were spreading out hunting for more enemies. Many had heard shots coming from the trees and started to move in our direction. Further away I could see that the fort’s guns were firing to the south, to protect those of its garrison that must have met up with the new arrivals. There was no return gunfire from the British battery and I guessed that this too must have been captured.

  It took just the briefest second to take this in but in that moment a ball from one of the prone militia slammed into the tree trunk I was standing behind.

  “There is a British officer with them Injuns,” shouted one of the militia, while another of his comrades bawled at the men rushing towards them. “Come on, we got them on the run, remember the Raisin!” I was already darting away again before all the words were out of his mouth. The hunting party were scampering back deeper into the forest now, still making their awful war cries while Black Eagle ran with me.

  “Stop behind this bush and leave your red coat,” he gasped after we had run fifty yards into the trees. “You are too easy to see in that.” I did not hesitate to do as he suggested. He held my gun and ammunition while I tore the garment off. I was going to throw it into a bush but Black Eagle took it off me and wrapped it around a tree stump. Gazing down, my white shirt seemed similarly striking against the green foliage, so I pulled that off over my head as well.

  As I took my gun back I glanced over the warrior’s shoulder. Through a gap in the trees hundreds of the militia were running across the plateau towards us. We were off again in a moment. While my mind was almost numb with fear and panic, I had just enough thought to realise that without the coat and shirt I looked much like any of the other Indians. I thanked my stars for my Spanish blood, giving me dark hair and an olive complexion. But while I might look like an Indian, I could not melt into the forest like one; when I looked to my left the hunting party seemed to have disappeared.

  “Where are they?” I gasped pointing to where I had expected them to be.

  “They are drawing the Americans into the trees,” Black Eagle replied calmly, seeming barely out of breath. “Come on, Little Father, we will make a stand by that split tree.”

  For a moment I thought I had misheard. “Draw them into the trees?” I exclaimed. “But there are hundreds of them and only a dozen of us.”

  “Then it will be a famous victory, Little Father.” Black Eagle chuckled at my dismay before adding, “You are forgetting about the hundreds of warriors in the British camp. If we can draw the Americans deep into the forest then our brothers can trap and kill them.” My mind was struggling to keep up. Five minutes earlier I had been sitting warming my feet and enjoying breakfast without a care in the world; since then our siege had been blown apart. We had lost all our artillery and were reeling from multiple assaults. Now this great big oaf was suggesting that we could still snatch triumph from the jaws of defeat.

  We reached the split tree and Black Eagle stopped running, turned and levelled his musket against a splinter of wood in the trunk to keep it steady. As he did so there was a distant sound of breaking twigs and undergrowth as the bulk of the militia charged into the forest behind us. Compared to the silent hunting party, it sounded like a herd of elephants entering the trees and there was certainly no attempt at stealth. Men were yelling at each other to spread out, others were shouting for men to stay in lines while some were asking how many Indians there were and which way we had gone. Several shots were fired and one man was yelling to cease fire as someone had nearly shot him. At first they nervously edged into the trees but then there was a shot from our right, followed immediately by a war whoop, which almost drowned out the scream of pain from the person hit. There was a fusillade of fire in return, a long stuttering volley that lasted nearly a minute. It snapped branches and sent leaves falling from the canopy overhead but I caught a fleeting glimpse of two Indians pulling back on our right, unhurt.

  The militia were angry now and were edging forward through the trees. There was another shot and war whoop further down the tree line, but now I could hear clearly the voices of the men coming towards us.

  “I am going to kill one of those sons of bitches and scalp him,” snarled one. “Let’s see how they like a taste of their own medicine.”

  The hair on the back of my neck started to prickle. “Should we not be moving back?” I whispered to Black Eagle, but he just slowly shook his head without taking his eyes of the trees in front of us.

  “I seen one!” called out a voice and a shot cracked out. Instinctively I ducked but no ball thudded into the tree or the ground around us. There was another burst of fire immediately to our front as at least twenty soldiers let fly with their guns and men rushed through the forest.

  “God damn, it is just his coat,” yelled a voice in disgust.

  “I reckon we have frightened them off,” said another man as he pushed his way through a bush. It was the last thing he ever said as Black Eagle’s gun fired. I had the briefest glimpse of the militia man sinking down to his knees before I was off and running again. With Black Eagle’s war whoop ringing in my ears, we bounded over fallen logs and ducked around bushes. Several shots were fired after us but many of our pursuers had not reloaded and those that did fire seemed to do so blindly. I ran as silently as I could on the balls of my feet but still I made some noise, although this was probably drowned out by the men charging behind. Suddenly there were two more of the hunting party in front of us, they grinned as we ran past. They both had muskets levelled to ambush those following in our wake. A hundred yards further on and we heard the two hunters shoot and a fusillade of return fire from the militia. Black Eagle stopped again behind a half-fallen tree with a solid trunk to protect us. I took up a position to fire but the big warrior took the gun out of my hand.

  “I have seen you shoot,” he said with a grin. “We cannot afford to miss. Here, reload my gun, we should not have long to wait now.

  “What do you mean?” I asked taking the gun from him. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Listen,” he said simply. At first all I could hear was the militia crashing about in the trees, but then I understood. It was as though a distant pack of wolves were charging into the forest, a growing chorus of howls and shrieks that chilled your blood.

  Chapter 11

  It was not hard to imagine the horror in the trees we had run through. I leaned against a stump to catch my breath while I reloaded the gun. I could hear the awful howling getting louder and then the sound of gunfire as the Indians came up on their enemy. Single, carefully aimed shots were met with crashing volleys from the militia. I suspected that most of the American fire smashed through little more than foliage as the warriors melted away after taking their shots. I could hear men shouting to fall back and then the terrible screams of the wounded left behind.

  “We should go,” said Black Eagle gesturing towards the fray while taking back his loaded gun and passing me mine.

  “But no scalps,” I warned. “I gave you your hair back; you are not to take anyone else’s.”

  “No scalps,” agreed the big man grinning. “But now you are fighting among us you should look more like a warrior. The Shawnee shoot quickly and do not look carefully like the Iroquois.” He casually looked me up and down. My skin was pale compared to his and he was a good number of inches taller and broader around the chest. “Stand still,” he commanded and then he reached into his ammunition pouch and pulled out a hollowed piece of horn. Dipping his finger in it, he drew two horizontal lines on my cheeks and then did the same on his own. The red war paint sme
lled quite pleasant but he was not finished yet. Next he pulled out a strip of cloth and tied that around my head. Then he reached into his pouch and pulled out a feather. I recognised it; this was one he had worn in his own hair before I had cut it off. He tucked it into the strip of cloth. “Now you are ready,” he announced.

  The noise of battle continued in front of us and I was in no hurry to stumble across some trigger-happy Shawnee or cornered militia man. We stalked forward slowly and silently, listening as the sound of combat ebbed and flowed ahead of us. Black Eagle wanted to go faster but I made him go at my pace. I was happy for the battle to pass us by, but after a minute of silent stalking, something crashing through the undergrowth indicated that it was coming to find us.

  They had to be militia making that noise and my suspicions were confirmed when I heard one call, “This way, Jeb.” Black Eagle and I both knelt behind a large fallen tree with our muskets levelled to cover their approach. We were on one side of a small clearing, perhaps ten yards across to give us a clear field of fire. They were getting closer; I could hear them scrabbling desperately up a short bank that we had climbed earlier. Then there was an Indian war whoop close by.