Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  I had been given a bunk in the officers’ quarters, but at first it was virtually impossible to sleep. Every time the ship went on a westerly tack the wind and spray hurled itself against the port side of the ship. My bunk was on the port side and spray poured through a small gap in the planking. My bedding was damp and even though I tried to sleep in all my clothes, I struggled to get warm and comfortable. I remember shifting after something hard dug in my side and then I had the solution to my problem. A couple of sharp raps with the sole of my boot and the hole was plugged. I gave a murmur of thanks to Mrs Procter; while her cake might have been inedible, it made excellent caulking for gaps in a ship’s side!

  Chapter 14

  The British force arrived back in Amherstburg in mid-May. Apart from some thirty warriors with Tecumseh, the Indians had already dispersed back to their homes. They had been given new territory to build their villages on the southern shore of Lake Erie, the land north of Fort Meigs. As soon as we docked the militia poured off the ships and then also disappeared off to their farms. Only the regular soldiers remained and they were fed up and demoralised. Many of them had spoken to American prisoners and knew how close we had been to an easy victory. They were not slow to share their frustrations, leading to anger and resentment. Lives had been lost for no good reason and having walked away from the Americans just when we had them on the verge of defeat, everyone knew that we would have to fight General Harrison and his men again.

  Ironically it was General Procter that they blamed for this mismanagement. It was, I thought, a matter of presentation. Procter looked weary and depressed with an air of defeat about him. He did not share his problems with his senior officers and so most were unaware of his appeal to Tecumseh or his frustration at the retreat. He looked like a man responsible for a debacle and so most people assumed that he was. On the other hand Tecumseh’s natural demeanour gave him the air of the noble savage. Here was a man with vision and courage, who had single-handedly saved the lives of all the American prisoners and whose warriors had led the charge against the enemy. While Procter was short and squat, Tecumseh was tall, slim and, judging from several women who affected to swoon in his presence, good looking. The fact that he spoke little English gave the chief an air of mystery. As a result, most of the soldiers and citizens of Amherstburg were quite happy to believe that the only reason the Indians dispersed when they did, was because Procter had failed to stop them.

  The mood was not improved when news reached the town of the British defeat at York and of Americans massing for a new attack on the Niagara peninsula. I congratulated myself on my decision to move west. It sounded like the Niagara area would soon be a very unhealthy place to be. While we could not capture Fort Meigs, at least the Americans were in no position to attack the British at Amherstburg. A few days later news came that the two forts on the Canadian side of the River Niagara were both in American hands.

  “Perhaps the Great Spirit has turned against the British,” speculated Black Eagle. Certainly the tide of the war seemed to have changed. In the beginning with the capture of Detroit and victory at Queenston, the British were triumphant – to their own surprise as much as their enemies’. But now the difference in numbers seemed to be telling. It was also a matter of supply lines: British military stores had to be sent thousands of miles across the Atlantic and then hundreds of miles across often difficult terrain. The Americans were fighting on their own doorstep with armouries, foundries and boat yards no more than a few hundred miles from their forces.

  I found out precisely how bad things were one evening when I was invited to a formal dinner at Procter’s headquarters. I was by no means among the most senior officers, but I had discovered that Procter kept a coterie of trusted officers of various ranks, with whom he shared opinions; while others – including his second in command – he did not trust and kept in the dark. I am always happy to toady up to a senior officer if it keeps me informed: if the front was about to collapse, I wanted to be among the first to know so that I could plan my escape accordingly.

  I managed to borrow a new captain’s uniform to smarten myself up and was just leaving the inn when I found Black Eagle waiting outside in his most embroidered deerskin tunic, hair oiled and gleaming with three stripes of war paint on each cheek. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I am coming to the dinner,” he replied.

  “But you can’t, you have to be invited. This will be a formal affair with knives and forks, none of your normal gnawing on bones and farting. Trust me, you would not enjoy it.”

  I had expected him to look a bit disappointed but instead he smiled. “But I have been invited.”

  “What?”

  “It is not just whites at this dinner,” he said grinning at the astonishment on my face. “Tecumseh will be there, and several other chiefs. I have been invited to represent the eastern Iroquois.”

  He was right. When we arrived at Procter’s home, which he referred to grandly as Government House, there was an array of brightly dressed individuals milling around outside. In addition to the scarlet coats of the army, there was the blue of the Royal Artillery, some civic leader in a burgundy coat and half a dozen Indians in a riot of colour. Headwear ranged from bicorns, tricorns and shakoes to an aviary of feathers and one cove, who appeared to be wearing an upturned china pot. The doors were eventually thrown open and we were invited inside where a receiving line awaited. First was Procter with a stern and serious demeanour, shaking the hand of every guest as they entered. Beside him was his wife, who twittered superficial greetings while staring nervously at the more exotically dressed guests. To a growl of disapproval from her husband, she actually dropped into a curtsey when Tecumseh’s tall frame appeared in front of her as though he were royalty. Last in the line was a one-armed sailor called Barclay, as guest of honour. He had just arrived to take command of the battered naval fleet.

  Most of the Indians looked out of place and awkward in the refined setting of Mrs Procter’s drawing room, but Tecumseh seemed entirely at home. With Elliot his interpreter alongside, he talked to those around him with his lively eyes darting among the gathering. Like the rest of the warriors he was wearing deerskin leggings and while most of the Indians had matching tunics he wore another of his European shirts and a red cloak. Everyone was armed; officers had swords dangling at their hip but the Indians invariably had pistols, knives and even tomahawks tucked into their belts.

  As we moved into the ornate dining room Tecumseh took his place on Procter’s left while Barclay sat on his right. To get comfortable the Indian pulled out his pistols and put them on either side of his plate while his big hunting knife and tomahawk were placed just beyond his spoons. Other warriors followed his lead, and with a loud clatter a small armoury of weapons was deposited down the middle of the table. If that behaviour seemed unusual to the white diners present, then the array of Mrs Procter’s best silver cutlery was equally incongruous for the Indians. I was sitting next to Black Eagle, who looked with bemusement at the array of knives, forks and spoons around his place setting. This was a man who normally ate with a hunting knife and his fingers or occasionally a single spoon.

  A beef consommé arrived as the first course, or ‘meat water’ as Black Eagle dismissed it. I just about stopped him drinking from the bowl, but he soon decided that spooning the liquid was not worth the effort. Then a course of steamed lake fish was presented, which the big warrior polished off in two mouthfuls. He was relieved to learn that the meat course was next and probably expected the roasted side of an ox to be delivered. He did not bother to hide his disappointment at the few slices of beef and vegetables that did appear.

  “What feast is this?” he grumbled. “There is not enough food to feed a wren never mind a man and my glass has been drier than an old crone’s tit all night.” Procter had wisely decided to serve one glass per course to avoid the warriors getting drunk, although I noticed that Tecumseh did not drink at all, preferring water. Glasses of custards arr
ived next and as I pointed out his custard spoon Black Eagle snorted in disgust. He picked up the glass, which looked tiny in his big hand, and holding it to his mouth, sucked up the dessert in a single mouthful.

  As the last of the food was cleared away Procter called the gathering to order, stilling the various conversations around the table. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “I invited you here to update you on events and to discuss our future strategy.” He paused to allow Elliot, sitting on the other side of Tecumseh, to translate his words for the Indians present. “I must first welcome Captain Barclay, who will command our ships. I had hoped he would come with many sailors for our fleet, but despite my highlighting our urgent need of men and supplies, only a surgeon and six sailors could be spared.”

  He paused again and then proceeded to explain the precarious situation that his command was in. The American attack on York had destroyed naval stores and supplies that were desperately needed by his flotilla. But more importantly the American invasion of the Niagara peninsula was making it harder to get other supplies too. Powder and ball was already running low and food would also soon be in short supply if they could not maintain control of Lake Erie. He announced that Barclay would be sailing to the port of Presque Isle in Pennsylvania to gauge the readiness of the American fleet being built there. Then he leaned forward and gazed defiantly around the table, before once again proposing a combined attack to destroy the enemy flotilla before it could set sail. Then the British general sat back in his chair while those around the table either listened to the end of the translation or murmured among themselves at the situation Procter had outlined.

  I had known things were tough, but not as bad as that. Rumour had it that the Iroquois and the British had stemmed the American advance on the Niagara, but if supplies stopped getting through then we would be forced to retreat or starve during the long winter. I thought Procter had put forward a clear and logical case for an attack on Presque Isle, but Tecumseh did not seem stirred. He listened impassively to the British commander and then after a moment’s thought he started his reply.

  “I too welcome the Father with the One Arm,” Elliot translated. The chief looked calmly at Procter as he continued. “In a few weeks Dickson the Redhead will bring fourteen hundred warriors to Amherstburg. They come from many tribes in the west and some will bring their families. They will all need food and supplies to fight the Americans.” Procter slowly shook his head in anguish at the thought of this many extra mouths to feed with his limited supplies. But Tecumseh was not finished. “Warriors who have travelled so far must not wait long to fight the enemy. My people have been given land on the southern shore of the lake, north of Fort Meigs. The Americans from the fort are raiding my villages, which must be the priority. Instead of attacking the American big canoes I say that we should attack again Fort Meigs.”

  You could have heard a pin drop when the translator had finished, the only noise was a curious ‘chink’ sound, which came from Procter. He had not said a word while Elliot delivered Tecumseh’s response but his face was getting steadily redder with supressed rage. Diplomacy demanded that he deal with the Indian war leader respectfully, but you got the strong impression that if left to his own devices, he would like nothing more than to bludgeon the chief’s serenely calm face with one of the many tomahawks scattered down the table. After taking a deep breath Procter announced that they would hold a council meeting to discuss the matter further. As those around the table got up to take their leave, I noticed Procter gesture to one of the men waiting on the table. He opened his fist and dropped onto the man’s tray two halves of the glass that he had evidently snapped in his hand as Tecumseh proposed his own objective.

  Chapter 15

  Over the coming weeks the relationship between Procter and Tecumseh became even more strained. In an effort to quell acts of rebellion by the American population of Detroit, Procter had several of the agitators sent to Quebec in chains. Mindful that his Indian villages would need to exist alongside Detroit, Tecumseh intervened in several cases, resulting in reprieves for those concerned. The Americans had already heard how the chief had saved the prisoners at Fort Meigs. Despite the fact that he was their enemy, Tecumseh’s standing grew even further in the eyes of the Americans, while Procter was seen as a heartless oppressor.

  The British general was an increasingly bitter and frustrated man. He was starved of supplies and support by the governor general in Quebec, who expected him to rely heavily on the large Indian force at his disposal. What his superiors did not appreciate was that his native allies had goals of their own, which did not always tie in with those of Britain. Even his own officers did not give him their full support, although this was partly because he took few of them into his confidence. Most of his senior commanders were not present at the dinner with Tecumseh and only found out their general’s views from the few more junior officers he did trust. As a result most were openly critical of their commander, with a widely expressed view that he was incompetent and out of his depth.

  Things did not improve with the council meeting Procter had promised to decide the way forward. He explained that the large cannon used in the earlier assault were no longer available. As no new ordinance was being sent from the east, these would be loaded into his new flagship the Detroit. He pointed out that the Americans had undoubtedly spent the time since the last siege strengthening Fort Meigs. If his larger guns could not breach the fort before, then clearly the smaller guns left to him would certainly not. Tecumseh just ignored this objection and claimed that if the British gave the Indians spades they would dig their way into the fort if necessary. Meanwhile Barclay reported from his reconnaissance voyage that the American fleet looked ready to sail and would be bigger than his own, which was desperately short of skilled seamen. He joined Procter in pressing for an attack on the American anchorage, but the chief would not be moved. His villages had to be protected and he wanted to take his large Indian force to attack General Harrison, for whom he felt a particular animosity.

  It was an ugly tense meeting. At one point Procter rounded on Elliot over the supplies they were providing to feed and equip the Indians. The two threatened to come to blows before they were pulled apart. In the end the general was forced to agree to Tecumseh’s request, if for no other reason than he wanted the Indians away from Amherstburg. A shortage of supplies had already seen some warriors raiding local Canadian farms and the militia refused to leave their land as they had to protect their families. A further fourteen hundred warriors and their families in the town would have made the situation much worse. If he agreed to the attack then at least the Indians would join those on the southern shore of Lake Erie, formerly American territory, and away from Canadian property.

  Procter’s army officers were understandably outraged when they learned of the new attack. The few six-pounder cannon they had left would never breach the walls and while there would be more Indians in the attack, this time the militia refused to travel. Procter was roundly condemned by all and sundry. Most still blamed him for allowing the Indians to abandon the first siege on the cusp of victory and now this new venture was seen as the ultimate folly.

  While the army descended into virtual mutiny, militia men fortified their farms against their former allies and the Indians complained that the Great Father was neglecting them with poor supplies; it seemed that the only person who was not frustrated and angry was my trusty companion - who had a growing enthusiasm in, of all things, the navy. I knew Black Eagle had spent some time at the dockyard watching the masts being raised on the new Detroit, but one afternoon he came up to me his eyes bright with excitement. He handed me a handbill and asked me to read it. I have the paper still, it is with my other mementoes from my campaigning and so I can copy it exactly as follows:

  HMS Detroit

  All able-bodied seamen and sturdy landsmen willing to serve His Majesty

  and enrich themselves are invited forthwith to enter for His Majesty’s ship

  Detroit, Capt
ain Robert Barclay commanding. She will be ready to sail in

  a few weeks and labour will be required to help fit her out.

  Those fond of pumping and hard work had better not apply

  – the Detroit is as tight as a bottle, sails like a witch, scuds

  like a Mudian and lays like a Gannet. She has one deck to

  sleep under and another to dine on. Dry hammocks, regular

  meals and plenty of grog – the mainbrace is always spliced

  when it rains or blows hard.

  It went on to give details of the joining bounties available, which for landsmen – and Indians – was one pound sixteen shillings.

  “Is this true about the easy life and the money?” asked Black Eagle. “Morag thinks I should join – that money would buy a lot in the village – but what is a mudian?”

  I could not help but laugh at his naïve enthusiasm. “Very little of it is true,” I told him. “You might get the bounty if you live and gold is sent for the pay chest, but there are bound to be deductions. As for the rest, with so few skilled seamen aboard, that ship will sail like a bucket. You heard at the dinner that if there is a battle the British fleet will be outnumbered. Trust me,” I said with feeling, “you cannot hide on a small ship and in battle it is not the cannon balls that kill, but the splinters that they send scything across the decks.”

  The big warrior looked disappointed and went off to give Morag the bad tidings. But my curiosity was aroused and I strolled off to the dockyard to look at the new ship. The vessel was not yet afloat and it looked like there would be at least a month’s work before its timbers got wet. I was turning away when a voice called out my name.