Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  “Come quickly, Little Father,” urged Black Eagle. He was standing on the same rope and must have felt the tremor as I put my foot on it. Instinctively I looked out to where he was standing and could not help but notice the height we were above the lake.

  “Oh Jesus,” I gasped as I switched my weight onto the rope and hugged the top of the yardarm like some long lost lover. Bent over, clutching the wooden spar, I looked down. The deck seemed ridiculously small beneath me, the crew moving about like insects. I raised my head to look astern and there was the Niagara, getting even closer and evidently planning to open fire at almost point blank range. We would all be dead if we could not separate the ships and so I edged slowly further out on the yard, hand over white-knuckled, trembling hand. It seemed to take an age but eventually Black Eagle was beside me.

  “Here,” he called passing me a rope as casually as if he stood on a street corner. “Hold this tight so that I can cut it.” I grabbed hold of the rope and pulled it while still crouched over the yardarm. The big warrior leaned back. Keeping his balance with just one hand and grabbing his tomahawk with the other, he parted the rope in one blow. “Hold on,” he said calmly as though I could actually grip any harder. “It looks like the American ship is about to fire.”

  I glanced down and the Niagara was indeed finally bracing round, its gun muzzles glinting in the sun as they pointed to the sterns of the British ships. When they fired the guns were so close you did not so much hear the cannon as feel the booming in your chest. The yard arm bucked as the ship below us was nearly torn apart by the impact of those huge thirty-two-pound balls of iron. As the ringing in my ears died away, it was replaced by the screams and shrieks of agony from the poor devils on the deck below. Mercifully the cloud of gun smoke shrouded much of the destruction.

  “She’s moving,” shouted Black Eagle, who was pointing down at the Queen Charlotte. The force of the American gunnery had succeeded where our efforts had failed. The two British ships were at last slowly starting to drift apart.

  “That rope is still attached,” I shouted, pointing. One stuck cable would be all it would take to pull the ships back together again.

  Black Eagle edged out to the very far end of the yard. “I will grab the rope, you cut it,” he shouted over his shoulder. I eased out a few more steps, wondering how on earth I could cut a rope and hold on at the same time. Then the Niagara fired again and it ceased to matter.

  To this day I am not entirely sure what happened: whether one of their guns had actually aimed at the rigging or whether it was a ball that had ricocheted from one of our cannons below. All I know is that one moment I was edging along the yard, and the next Black Eagle and I were holding on to the end of the yard arm that was falling through space. I must have let go of the spar on the way down. I don’t remember yelling as I fell but I probably did. But I do recall feeling a sense of relief as I saw the sea and not the deck beneath me and then I hit the water hard, feet first. All the air was knocked out of me but as I opened my eyes underwater I got a good view of the fresh timber on the underside of the Detroit. I pulled hard for the surface and came up gasping for air. For a second I was alone and then Black Eagle bobbed up like a cork ten yards away. Between us floated an eight foot length of yardarm, with several ropes still attached.

  “Can you swim?” I asked the warrior as I swam towards the wood.

  “Yes Little Father,” he gasped back. “But not as far as the shore.”

  I glanced around. The shore looked even further at sea level, but I remembered it was no more than a mile away and the surface of the lake did not have much of a swell. I could hear timbers still being smashed on both the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte; there would be no refuge on those ships. Beyond them I could see that the rest of the British fleet was scattering before the wind, but already the fast American schooners were chasing them down. We would either have to swim for it or be taken prisoner. I still did not trust the Americans dealing with prisoners, especially if I was found with an Indian. “Grab the wood,” I told him. “We will use that as a float, so we can rest. Now help me point it to the shore and then we will start swimming.”

  Chapter 20

  It took us two hours to swim ashore. The wooden yardarm undoubtedly slowed us down, but it gave us both comfort that we could rest when we wanted. Several times we stopped, holding on to that spar and watched as the battle reached its resolution behind us. The Detroit and the Queen Charlotte both struck their colours a short while after we had swum away. Holes gaped through the bulwarks and the two ships looked like shattered wrecks. We thought some of the smaller ships might escape, but as we watched each one was overhauled and captured. The entire British fleet had been lost.

  Floating low on the surface of the lake we could not see everything, but we did notice the American flag rise once more to the top of the flag jack on the Lawrence and then a short while later Perry’s commodore’s pennant reappeared at the mast head of what was left of his flagship. It was the most complete victory. As I watched I wondered whether Barclay was still alive and I was not sure if I wished he were. We saw a few smaller boats rowing around the bigger ships picking up survivors but none of them noticed us and we certainly did not hail them. Captivity was not an enticing prospect.

  The lake water was not too cold and as the ships receded behind us we scanned the shore searching for a good place to land. There was not a sign of civilisation anywhere, just mile after mile of forest. We had sailed past this land to attack Fort Stephenson. Put-in-Bay was close to the mouth of the Sandusky and that was American territory. But if we moved along the coast to the west then we would find the land that Tecumseh’s people occupied and from there we could get back to Amherstburg.

  We staggered out of the water exhausted. Apart from the soaked clothes we stood up in, all we had was my small telescope and my tomahawk which miraculously had stayed in my belt when I hit the water. The telescope had been in my tunic pocket, but had still cracked on impact with the water.

  “We will need a fire tonight to get warm and dry our clothes,” stated Black Eagle, “We would be best to go into the forest so that it cannot be seen.”

  “But we haven’t a flint or anything to spark a fire,” I pointed out, before receiving a withering look from the big Indian.

  “Leave making the fire to me,” he said wearily before leading the way into the trees. He found a good place to camp and sent me into the trees with my tomahawk to cut some dry wood to burn. By the time I came back a small fire was already burning on some kindling which he was feeding with dry twigs.

  “I’m hungry. Is there anything around here we can eat?” I asked. Without a word Black Eagle took the tomahawk out of my hand and disappeared into the trees. I sat by the fire and slowly fed it wood, feeling pretty helpless in this environment. Once we had reached shore I had relaxed, thinking that we had only to walk to find help. But this was a hostile place without supplies or weapons. It would probably take at least two days to reach the mouth of the Maumee River, where Tecumseh’s people could be found. Until then, I thought, we would struggle to feed and defend ourselves with just one tomahawk, especially if the Americans sent out patrols. Black Eagle appeared a short while later and hopes that he had found a tasty rabbit were dashed when I saw he had two washed pieces of root in his hand.

  “You can eat this,” he declared passing one to me and sitting beside me to gnaw on the other. You have probably not tried to eat a tightly balled roll of wool stockings soaked in sour goat’s milk – neither had I – but that is what the root tasted like. I did not want to look ungrateful and so I gamely tried chewing on the thing to get some sustenance but it was foul. I looked at Black Eagle and he was clearly enjoying it as much as I. We caught each other’s eye, grinned and spat the muck out. “The women normally boil this root,” he explained. “Now I understand why, but we have no pot.”

  “We could try roasting it on a stone by the fire,” I suggested.

  “It will take more than a fire to
make that edible,” said the Indian. “I found a track when I was hunting, it looks well used. In the morning we will go along it and see what we can find. We will get something better to eat tomorrow.”

  We settled down resigned to hunger, but I reflected at least we were alive and free, which was more than could be claimed for the rest of the crew of the British fleet. It was just starting to get dark when we heard the unmistakeable sound of a horse whinny. Black Eagle was up in a flash and kicking dirt over the fire to put it out. “Someone is riding along that track,” he whispered. “Come on.” He was off moving silently through the trees so quickly that I struggled to keep up and see where I was going in the gloom under the tree canopy. Once, I stepped on a branch that snapped loudly. I could imagine Black Eagle silently cursing my clumsiness, but there was no shout of alarm. Suddenly I burst through the trees and found myself out in the open on the track. I caught a brief glimpse of some dark shadows moving away from me before I felt a hand grab my deerskin tunic and pull me back.

  “There are four horsemen,” Black Eagle whispered in my ear. “Americans I think, as they have two Indians with them tied up as prisoners. Look, they are going that way, heading towards Sandusky.”

  “Four of them, you say,” I repeated nervously. I had been hoping for some solitary traveller we could rob. But if they had prisoners then these men were probably armed militia who would be on their guard. “They are heading in the wrong direction for us....” I started to deter my friend from planning any rash move, but it was already too late for that.

  “They must make camp soon,” growled the Indian and when they do, we will free our brothers and attack.” He grinned, his teeth shining white in the darkness, “Come on. Keep to the edge of the path so that they cannot see you.” I had no choice but to follow in the Indian’s wake. At least with a break in the trees over the path allowing some moonlight to shine down, it was much easier to see where I was going.

  As it turned out the big warrior was wrong. The Americans were not aiming to make camp; they had a far more comfortable arrangement in mind. The path crossed a much wider road through the forest and there at the crossing was a large wooden cabin. For the middle of nowhere it was quite a luxurious timber building, at least three rooms with a porch around the door. Two pitch torches illuminated a portly middle-aged matron standing at the front of the building, while two younger women peered through the doorway behind her. The militia men had dismounted and were all standing on the ground in front of the porch. One of them seemed to be trying to sell a bow, quiver of arrows and a thick necklace he had taken from the Indian prisoners.

  “What are they doing?” asked Black Eagle.

  “I don’t know. Let’s get closer so that we can hear them.” We crept further forward through the trees, keeping to the darker shadows.

  The militia man with the bow handed the weapon and other items to the older woman. “You can see it is quality work,” I could just about hear him say. “One of these fellas is a war chief,” he said gesturing to his prisoners, who were now being tied to a nearby tree. “That there necklace is made of wampum, made of tiny bits of shell. Indians really value wampum, worth more than its weight in gold, that is.”

  “Do I look like a god damn Indian?” the woman snorted. “She threw the bow, quiver and necklace contemptuously away into the bushes at the end of the porch. “If you want my girls it is gold or silver and not any of your god damn native beads.”

  The militia man who had offered the goods looked crestfallen, while his fellows hooted with laughter. I was shaking my head in amazement. “We have only gone and found ourselves a knocking shop in the middle of the woods,” I whispered to Black Eagle.

  “What is this ‘knocking shop’?” he asked.

  “A whorehouse. A brothel,” I offered.

  The Indian smiled and nodded in understanding. “I know what a whorehouse is. Now they will be too interested in the women to be on their guard.” As we watched it looked like he was right. The first militia man had already reached reluctantly for his purse.

  “Half now, half afterwards,” insisted the fellow stubbornly. There is a cove familiar with the shadier practices of cat lane I thought. A second militia man stepped up with coins too and both went inside with the girls. The other two men settled themselves on chairs on the porch and yelled at their comrades not to be too long. A minute later the madam brought these two a jug of drink and then she too disappeared inside.

  Black Eagle watched all this silently and then he turned to me with one of the most evil grins I have ever seen. “Now we will have some fun, Little Father. Keep your eye on the prisoners for a moment.” With that he gave what I thought was an excellent impression of the call of the screech owl. The damn things had made me jump when I was first in Canada, but now I was used to them. The noise sounded good to me but something about it alerted the prisoners. If I had not been watching I would have missed it, but they both stiffened at the call and glanced at each other. While the militia men had ignored the sound completely, the prisoners evidently knew that the creature responsible was a lot bigger than an owl.

  “Give me your tomahawk,” whispered Black Eagle. “We need to free those Indians and I want to get that bow and an arrow.” I passed him the weapon and settled down to watch, glad that he was taking all the risk.

  As I watched his form melt into the shadows, I reflected that there probably was not a great deal of risk involved. A year ago and I might have been worried, but I had seen how easily the Indians disappeared into the forest. Hell if you were foolish enough to sit down among the trees, they could probably pick your pocket without you noticing, although they were just as likely to kill you and take your scalp too.

  The first inkling I had of what Black Eagle was up to was a slight glint of metal in the air followed by a ‘chunk’ sound. Suddenly my tomahawk was embedded low in the trunk that the two Indians were tied to. A moment later and a pair of tied hands were already reaching out to grab it. I looked across to the militia. They were still chortling over some joke, apparently without a care in the world. They were not bothering to look about them; I suspected that the blazing torches illuminating the porch had already ruined their night vision.

  Only by continuously watching where the arrows had been thrown did I manage to see Black Eagle again, a fleeting shadow as he grabbed what he wanted and slipped away. Then for an age nothing seemed to happen at all. I guessed we were waiting for the prisoners to cut themselves free, but I became impatient. I would show Black Eagle that I could creep about too. Lowering myself down on my belly I started to wriggle forward, following the line of a shadow from a tree trunk to the shadow of a bush halfway between the trees and the house. I had nearly got there when suddenly the prisoners started grunting loudly and rocking about, still apparently with their hands behind their backs. They had been gagged as well as tied, but now they seemed to be trying to shout through the cloth.

  “Shut yer damn row,” called one of the militia men on the porch. The prisoners took no notice and continued to try and yell through their gags. “If you don’t shut up I will shut yer up myself,” shouted the same militia man. I watched lying prone in the shadows as he stood, hitched his trousers a little and after picking up his musket started striding towards the prisoners. He had covered half the distance when suddenly everything happened at once. One of the prisoners sprang to his feet. The militia man gave a surprised shout of alarm as he realised that the Indian’s hands were no longer tied. He may have even glimpsed the tomahawk flying through the air before it embedded itself just above his groin. His comrade has risen at the first shout, but from out of the darkness an arrow flashed, hitting him in the arm.

  “Indians!” the militia man yelled in warning. He stared in shock for a moment at the arrow protruding from his arm, unsure what to do. Then Black Eagle’s war cry rent the air, followed a second later by cries from the two prisoners who had now removed their gags. The militia man recovered from his shock pretty quickly after that.
In a moment he was vaulting over the porch rail with the arrow still embedded in his limb. As he disappeared into the darkness, he did not pause as he yelled, “Indian attack!” again to his friends inside the building.

  I started to get up but then dropped down again. I had long since learned never to be first through a door if any enemy was waiting on the other side. I expected the militia to try to cover the doors and windows of the cabin with their guns, but instead they panicked. The shutters on both sides of the cabin were flung open. On the side nearest to me the militia man must have dropped down almost in Black Eagle’s lap. A shriek indicated that he would not live long to regret his mistake. On the other side of the cabin I had the briefest glimpse of a man running bare arsed in just a shirt with a musket in his hands, as he hurtled towards the cover of the trees. The two former prisoners were already standing over the man they had attacked and I saw the tomahawk rise and fall as he was despatched.

  I was up and running now. With the militia men dead or running, that just left the women and I felt confident I could deal with them. It was the gallant Flashy to the rescue, to protect these damsels in distress from the savage Indian. If I played my cards right, I thought, instead of a hungry night in the forest, I could satisfy all my appetites in a nice warm bed.

  It was only as I started to push open the door that I dimly remembered my golden rule about not being the first into a potential ambush. With heightened senses I heard that familiar click of a gun lock, but I was already throwing myself to the floor. In the confined space of the cabin the discharge from the gun was both blinding and deafening. I felt the disturbance of air over my neck as a hail of gunshot and assorted ironmongery disintegrated the top part of the door. As I looked up through the acrid smoke I saw the madam falling to the floor with the recoil, a big double-barrelled gun still in her hands.