Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  “Ah, Captain Flashman,” he called as I approached. “You will join us for the attack, I trust?” He spoke as though he were inviting me to the local hunt or some other pleasurable experience, rather than a suicidal charge towards over a hundred waiting soldiers. But I had shirked my way out of far more pressing invitations than that and I was ready for him.

  “I rather think my place is with the Indians, sir, to encourage them to attack to support your assault.” I gestured apologetically towards my clothing. “And as you can see, sir, I am sadly lacking in regimentals. I would let down the smart appearance of your men. I do not even have my sword with me, just a musket and tomahawk.”

  “Nonsense, man,” Procter brushed aside my objections as of no account. “You can join me at the back of the column; no one will see what you are wearing there. We will show those warriors what the British can do, eh?” Without even waiting for a reply he continued. “Now that big Indian you travel with looks a reliable fellow, I have a job for him.”

  “You do, sir?” I asked still reeling from the prospect of being involved in the attack and racking my mind for another means to wriggle out.

  “Yes,” said Procter bending down and picking up a handful of grass. He let the blades slowly drop from his fingers, watching carefully the direction the wind blew them. “There,” he pointed to a spot in the trees opposite the western rampart of the fort. “That tree with the broken trunk that looks like an ‘N’, do you see it?”

  “Yes sir,” I replied, puzzled.

  “Have your man build a fire there and tell him to use damp wood and grass to make lots of smoke. I want great plumes of the stuff to blow across the north-west corner we are going to attack – that should hide our approach until we are right on top of them.” I looked at the old boy with renewed respect; he did seem to know his business after all. He rubbed his hands together, eagerly anticipating the prospect of battle. It was as though he were ten years younger than the tired and frustrated old man who had watched the siege at Fort Meigs. He saw me looking at him and winked. “It is a trick I learned from the Indians years ago, but don’t tell your man that. Let him believe it that it is a British tactic too.”

  Black Eagle went off to do the general’s bidding and soon thick acrid smoke was obscuring the front of the fort. It had been decided that Colonel Warburton would lead the diversionary attack from the south. Procter told him to make the approach at precisely five-thirty and wished him well. Then Warburton led his two hundred men and set off through the tress so that the garrison would not get advance warning of from where the attack would be made. Colonel Short prepared his men for the main attack; ensuring soldiers with axes were at the front, ready to cut through any obstacles. Despite assuring Colonel Short that he would not interfere and would only join the attack in the rear ranks, Procter continued to fuss about. First ensuring that the guns would fire right up to the moment that our men reached the walls, and then warning the men not to cough to alert the garrison as they went through the smoke.

  It was, I thought, a meticulously planned attack, with every chance of success; not that this made me feel any more comfortable about participating in it. At least being right at the back I felt a hell of a lot safer than those at the front led by Colonel Short. As Procter’s watch chimed five-thirty we looked at the smoke blocking our view and imagined the diversionary attack pouring out of the wood to the south. At least half of the garrison should be rushing to meet this new threat. No order was shouted to start the assault, instead a flag was silently raised and two hundred men started to march briskly forward. We covered the first hundred yards with the British battery on our right continuing to fire shot into the now battered corner of the fort. I also heard the ‘whoomp’ of the howitzer as it dropped another shell into the centre courtyard of the bastion, with a resulting crashing explosion as it went off.

  “Your man is doing well with the smoke,” remarked Procter as he strolled along beside me. He looked to have no more care than if he was taking a Sunday saunter in Hyde Park. Only the drawn sword which he held, resting the blade on his shoulder, gave any hint that he was marching into battle. “Can you hear musket fire yet?” he enquired. “The diversionary attack should be drawing their fire at any moment.”

  Black Eagle was still busy fanning flames which produced a prodigious amount of smoke. It completely obscured the fort with only the occasional glimpse of a block house roof. There was no sound of gunfire and I noticed no sound of coughing from within the fort either. I guessed that the smoke was passing just in front of the breach.

  “No I can’t hear a thing,” I replied grimly, my stomach starting to churn as we got ever closer to the unseen fort. Why oh why, I asked myself had I not invented some drama with the Indians that I would have had to resolve. They were all sitting safely in a gully nearby awaiting the outcome of the attack and that was the place for Flashy. It was too late now, of course; Procter had been determined that every British man should be in the attack to show the warriors how civilised soldiers fought. I counted my blessings for the hundredth time in the last few minutes that I was in the rear rank. Fifty yards to go and still the attack seemed undetected by the garrison. They were not fools, I reasoned, and at any moment they would realise that our cannon had just stopped firing. I listened again for any sound of firing towards the diversionary attack. Would the Americans realise that an assault on the breach was likely to come at the same time?

  Thirty yards to go and still not a hint of alarm from the fort. The first ranks must have been taking deep breaths to hold as they disappeared into the smoke. How many, I wondered, were thinking it might be their last. Still no sound of firing to the south. I began to inhale myself as I approached the bank of smoke but then all hell broke loose.

  Black Eagle told me afterwards that the bank of smoke had drifted in the wind and stopped some fifteen paces from the wall. A tantalisingly short distance, but every single one of the one hundred and fifty American regulars had their weapons trained on the smoke. Inexplicably the diversionary attack had not even appeared when the first ranks of redcoats emerged. An initial crackle of musketry rang out. The first screams were heard from our forward ranks and then more fire as the Americans aimed blindly through the smoke, correctly guessing that more men would be following on behind. My eyes were just starting to sting from the smoke when I heard the first shots and I felt something pluck at my sleeve. For a second I thought it was Procter, but he was a yard away, pushing forward, waving his sword and yelling at the men to advance. Staring at the sleeve of my buckskin tunic I saw a neat round hole of a musket ball that must have missed my flesh by a fraction of an inch. I was now alone in the last rank of the attack and I did what any sensible person would do in those circumstances: I threw myself to the ground hunting for any shelter I could find.

  The smoke was thinner at ground level and I saw a forest of legs moving forward ahead of me; some stumbling over prone bodies and others toppling like fallen trees as they were hit. Musket balls whirred above my head like lethal hornets and for a moment I just pressed myself into the ground. Deliverance arrived in the unlikely form of a portly corporal with half his skull shot away. He crashed to the ground just a few yards ahead. I crawled forward, grabbed his arm to pull him up on his side and then huddled in to shelter behind his lifeless corpse. I could hear Procter still bawling at the men to advance, but they could do it without me. As the American fire began to die away as men started to reload, the surviving British surged forward once more out of the smoke.

  “Axe men to the front,” shouted someone. Then another voice, Colonel Short, I think, yelled, “Come on, my brave boys, show the damned Yankees how the British fight.” There was a full-throated roar from the men in front of me and despite the slaughter they had suffered, I heard them charging forward. I could picture them crowding into the ditch and up the other side with axes swinging to remove the last obstacles in their way. It was at this moment that the American six-pounder cannon fired. It must have been in
the blockhouse overlooking the ditch, loaded with grape shot and musket balls. There was a chorus of agonising screams and yells as the lethal discharge swept through the ditch packed with soldiers trying to enter the fort.

  “Oh dear God, fall back!” It was Procter’s voice. He must have come out on the other side of the smoke and seen the carnage before him. It was obvious that the assault had failed; half the attackers were lying dead and wounded about him and Procter did not hesitate to order the withdrawal. “Fall back,” I heard him repeat and then, “No, run back though the smoke… here let me help you.” A stampede of boots started to pass my prone body, but I did not join it. I knew at any moment the soldiers would have reloaded and then another lethal hail would be fired into the smoke. I kept the corpse beside me lying on its side to give me as much cover as possible and waited. A second or two later another crackling fusillade started. It lasted nearly a minute and twice I felt the corpse next to me jerk as further balls hit it. Then the rate of fire began to slow, ironically to stop only when a shout went up that there were more British to the south. I was up then and running back the way we had come. As I left the bank of smoke I almost ran in to a man stumbling along clutching a wound in his chest, which was bleeding profusely.

  Procter was there as well, encouraging the last of his men still able to retreat back towards the British camp. He glanced up when he saw me and then he cocked his head to listen. A distant crackle of musketry was now coming from the south. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “Captain Flashman, I would be obliged if you would have one of your Indians inform Colonel Warburton that his diversion is no longer required.

  “Right away, sir,” I replied and moved swiftly on towards the edge of the trees where some Indians were watching. After several paces something made me look back at Procter. He had dropped down onto his knees, his head was in his hands and I could see that his knuckles were white as he squeezed on his own skull. He started to rock backwards and forwards, silently at first and then he started to repeat a word, getting louder and louder.

  “Bastards…. Bastards…. Bastards!” he shouted. To this day I am not sure whether he meant the American garrison, the Indians who had pressed for the attack or Warburton’s mistimed diversion.

  Chapter 17

  Colonel Short and another twenty-six men were left dead in the ditch at Fort Stephenson while another twenty-six were so badly injured they were unable to get away and were captured. Many of those died of their wounds. A further forty-four injured managed to return to the British camp although several of those later also died of their injuries. In all, half of the initial attack force were either killed or injured. Procter, while physically intact, seemed a broken man. Compared to his earlier renewed enthusiasm he plunged into the grip of depression and despair. He ordered the immediate withdrawal of the British force back to Amherstburg and once on board ship, locked himself away in his cabin.

  One of the few people he did invite to see him was me. Many of his officers had been wounded and killed and he needed replacements. I venture that he chose me as he thought I was someone he could trust, and so we must add poor judgement to his many faults. I was invited to take command of the survivors from one company involved in the main attack. I accepted with ease. The general exuded an air of defeat and I could sense that he was not going to be launching any further attacks for a while. I could stay with the army if it chose to retreat north to the British centre and I thought being in the army would stop me getting dragged into any desperate action on the lake itself.

  One person that Procter definitely did not want to see was Warburton. The good colonel did not reappear until the middle of the night after the battle, claiming he was pinned down by enemy fire in a ditch until he was able to escape in the dark. There was never a satisfactory explanation of why the diversionary strike was late. Warburton claimed that Procter had started his assault too soon, but some hinted that the colonel had deliberately tried to sabotage the attack. All I know is that Warburton had not been among the few that Procter had normally included in his confidence and that after Fort Stephenson Procter never trusted Warburton again.

  Morale among the remnants of the British force plumbed new depths as we sailed back across Lake Erie. Blame and recrimination flew about, mostly aimed at the hidden away Procter and Warburton. Despite insisting on the second fruitless attack on Fort Meigs, Tecumseh was rarely mentioned. The few Indians travelling with us sat about and morosely complained that it was clear that the Great Spirit had abandoned the British. Privately many of the soldiers, and I suspect Procter too, would have agreed. The mood of gloom and despondency only got worse when we reached Amherstburg, for there more bad news waited. The American fleet on Lake Erie had got over the sandbar and was patrolling the lake.

  If Procter thought his position was grim before, now it was truly desperate. Most of his food and ammunition was sent by boat down the lake and now the larger American fleet cut this critical supply route. With thousands of extra Indians and their families to feed, even with rationing, provisions would only last a few weeks. Ball and powder was also in short supply and unless the route could be re-opened the western Canadian force would soon be able to offer little resistance to any American attack. Procter turned to Barclay and implored him to do whatever he could to clear away the American fleet.

  The new flagship Detroit was now afloat and the dockyard was working feverishly to get her ready to sail but they were still desperately short of materials. When Barclay had written to the governor general to highlight his urgent need for ropes, canvas, tar, cannons, gunpowder, cannonballs, pulleys and a thousand other things needed for a ship, he was told brusquely that none were available and he would have to capture what he needed from the enemy.

  Copies of Barclay’s recruitment handbills started to appear around the town and while they gathered some initial interest, a few days later the new American fleet appeared off Amherstburg and patrolled just out of range of the few guns left in the fort. Even the most dim-witted landsman could see that there were nine ships flying the American flag, while there were only six ships in the British fleet.

  The few guns left in the Amherstburg fort fired a warning shot on the first day that the American fleet appeared to encourage them to stand off, away from the town. It was fortunate that the Americans did not press inshore to test our gunnery as what appeared to be guns in most of the gun ports were in fact painted logs. The original weapons had been rolled carefully out of the fort and down to the dockyard to be loaded aboard the Detroit. With them went nearly all of the cannon balls and the remaining gunpowder.

  Rations for the garrison were cut again over the next few days as supplies began to run low. Something had to be done – and quickly. Procter and Barclay had no choice but to risk all on one last gamble: that they could beat the American fleet – if only they could get the men to sail it.

  There was inevitability to my next summons to see Procter. I went with a sense of grim foreboding about what he would now ask of me; something that was only confirmed when I saw a grinning naval officer standing beside him.

  “Barclay here tells me that you were once a naval officer involved in some famous naval victories,” said Procter staring at me curiously. “Naval officer, army officer, spy and trusted emissary of the Iroquois: you are a man of many abilities, Captain.”

  “As I explained to Captain Barclay, my rank in the navy was an honorary one; I have no experience of sailing a ship.”

  “But you do have experience of fighting on one and that is more than the rest of my command,” Procter pointed out, smiling. “All most of us know of life at sea is the journey in the transport to these shores.”

  “The general has offered to provide some soldiers to help crew my ships,” interrupted Barclay. “When he asked who I wanted I remembered that you had sailed with Cochrane.” I inwardly cursed my talkative nature as the sailor continued. “I need all the experience I can get and I will happily take you and your company as well as tha
t big Indian who you travel with. He is already skilled in moving about the rigging.”

  “Of course, gentlemen,” I answered while making up my mind that I would go nowhere near their damned ships. “I would be happy to serve wherever I can be of the most use.”

  “Excellent,” Procter beamed at me. “Barclay thinks that he has the means to beat the Americans. If he can succeed then it will transform our situation here.”

  “But don’t they greatly outnumber us in both ships and guns?” I asked.

  “Yes but most of their guns are effective only at short range,” explained Barclay. “The guns we have from the fort can be fired over a much longer distance. Most of the gunners from the fort have also joined the crews and so our fire should be accurate. If I can keep the American ships just within our range then we can batter them and take very little in reply.”

  Barclay sounded surprisingly upbeat for someone whose flagship had been cobbled together from bits of rope and spars found in the dockyard. Certainly our gunners were skilled, but I was not fooled. His strategy relied on having the wind advantage and that was notoriously fickle on the lakes. The Americans also had more schooners, which could sail closer to the wind and get behind us. No, I thought, the British fleet would be beaten and there was no way I was being dragged into a maelstrom of splinters in the middle of the lake.