Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  My assailant must have assumed that, like the others, I had already fired my gun as he showed little alarm when I jerked up the barrel and cocked it. His chest was just inches from the muzzle when I pulled the trigger. His gun flew harmlessly over my head while his body dropped backwards, snatched away by the impact of the ball. I glanced over my shoulder as I got up on one knee. Everywhere I looked there were fighting Indians, in pairs or groups, with no quarter being shown by either side. The warriors fighting Smoke Johnson and Black Eagle were concentrating on their own battles and now Johnson gave a cry of alarm as one of his opponents tripped him. The man sprang forward over my friend as Johnson tried to twist away. Without thinking I dropped the musket and pulled the pistol from my belt, thumbed back the flint and, aiming for the enemy warrior’s groin, I pulled the trigger. As I had anticipated the gun kicked up and the ball passed through the man’s side. He screamed as he went down, distracting his comrade just long enough for Johnson to tomahawk him in the leg, damn near taking his foot off. With both assailants down, Johnson was back on his feet and plunging into a melee to his left.

  I got to my feet too and drew my sword. There was no escape here and I had a dim memory of an old Danish sailor exhorting me to die with a weapon in my hand. The familiar grip felt good and I reached down with my left hand to pull my tomahawk from my belt. With no alternative, it was time to fight. I turned towards Black Eagle, who was still fending off two men with a tomahawk and his musket. The big man’s muscles flexed as he scythed the gun butt through the air to keep his opponents at bay, but he was slowing and now the nearest adversary darted towards him. The attacker was concentrating on his foe as Black Eagle desperately tried to reverse his swing in time. Neither of them noticed me until my sword blade sliced up under the enemy warrior’s ribs.

  “Thank you, Little Father,” gasped Black Eagle as he concentrated his attention on his remaining enemy, who had darted back out of both of our reach. The man I had struck made a mewing sound as he sank to his knees, one of his hands clawing at his wounded side. I had to twist the blade to free it, which caused him to scream before he collapsed to the floor. The remaining attacker let out another war whoop and glanced desperately around the trees for reinforcements. I saw now that he had a strip of white cloth tied to one arm and so did the other American warriors that lay in the clearing. Indeed, staring about me the ground was littered with the dead and dying. Some had the white arm bands but while I could still see Norton and Johnson fighting in the distance, there were several nearby that I recognised from Brant’s Ford. The battle was more spread out now, with dozens of figures running to and fro through the trees.

  There seemed only the one American warrior near us, who was still gazing around for help rather than attacking. For a brief moment I thought we might have a chance of getting away, but that hope was dashed when another volley of shots rang out from the trees in front of us. One of the balls was close enough for me to hear it buzz past my ear, but Black Eagle was not so fortunate. I heard him give a grunt as his musket clattered to the ground. Turning to him I saw that he had a jagged hole at the top of his left arm, which now hung loosely at his side. He still had a tomahawk in his right fist, however, and as we heard more warriors crashing through the trees towards us, we both took a step towards each other so that we were standing side by side.

  We cannot have been a particularly awe-inspiring sight to the three new warriors that appeared on the scene. The newcomers gazed at us and gave a new whoop of triumph, in no rush to finish us off. Their painted faces split into grins as they spread out with the earlier attacker, to make sure we did not escape. Black Eagle did not even bother to reply with a cry of his own. He just stood there watching them through eyes half closed in pain as I stood next to him, covering his wounded side.

  “It seems the Great Spirit has decided our time is up,” he whispered to me.

  “No,” I replied and I think I even managed to grin. “Not yet.” For at that moment I had a strong feeling, no, a certainty, that I was not going to die. It was strange and I cannot explain it. Perhaps I had overdosed on fear and found my courage, or perhaps the Great Spirit had spoken to me after all. I don’t know, but I felt a new strength course through my limbs and I tensed myself for what would be the fight of my life. I stood with my tomahawk raised in my left hand but I kept my sword down by my side, half hidden behind my legs. It was my only advantage and I needed to make the most of it. I watched the two men circling to our left while Black Eagle watched the two to our right.

  If there was a signal between them I did not see it, but in the blink of an eye they were shrieking and charging forward. I knew what I had to do. Instead of standing still or backing away, I sprang towards them. The man on my extreme left was caught off guard and had to check his run but it was the man next to him I was concentrating on. His tomahawk was raised above his head and he had no defence to the razor sharp Damascus steel blade that suddenly appeared before him. The sharpened reverse edge eviscerated him before he realised what was happening. I heard him shriek but I did not see him fall for I was already twisting away to my right. I remember hearing the swish of my blade through the air and seeing a spray of fine blood droplets fly of its tip. Then it was biting deep into flesh again, this time the neck of one of the men facing Black Eagle. I wrenched the steel free and turned again, looking for the first man I had caught off guard. It was too late; he was already behind me and then, out of the corner of my eye I saw the vicious axe head swinging towards me. I hurled myself to one side and swung the sword wildly in his direction. Then I heard rather than felt the crack of steel on bone and the world went black.

  I can only have been out for a second or two but when I came round I was lying on my back with two evil painted villains staring down on me in a blurry world. I blinked and shook my head and the two warriors merged into one, the bastard who had hit me. He had put his tomahawk back in his belt and I saw him draw a knife instead, standing over me grinning.

  “Oh Christ,” I murmured for I knew what the knife was for: the swine was going to scalp me with it. The devil laughed when he saw the realisation cross my face. I had no idea if he planned to kill me before taking my hair and no great wish to find out. “No, please,” I held out my hand to fend him off. “I am a British officer.” He had to understand English, but he showed no interest in my pleading. I looked around for one of my weapons and winced as a shooting pain shot down my neck as I turned it. My tomahawk was just out of reach but the warrior kicked it further away. There was no pity in that painted face. He was enjoying the terror he was inflicting and was in no rush to end it. “Please,” I repeated desperately, but then his expression did change.

  His mouth opened in a silent look of surprise and then he dropped down on one knee. I tried to shuffle back away from him thinking he was going to reach forward with his knife, but he made no effort to stop me. Then over his shoulder I saw Morag looking down at me.

  “Wait here,” she said curtly as though there was a chance I might take an afternoon stroll.

  There are times, especially when your head has been hit with a tomahawk, when your brain struggles to keep up with events. That was one for me. I could not understand what Morag was doing there. For an insane moment I wondered why she was helping the American warrior. Then she moved away. As I slumped back on the ground, out of the corner of my eye I saw her picking up an abandoned musket by the barrel and start to swing it. A moment later there was a sickening crunch as several pounds of English oak bound in brass connected with a skull, like a spoon going through a boiled egg.

  The next thing I remember was Black Eagle lifting me up into a half-sitting position with his good arm. “Are you all right, Little Father?”

  As I stared about me again I noticed my former scalper now lying on his side. It was only then that I saw the end of the spear protruding out of his back. I was still feeling bewildered and struggled to understand what was happening. But I managed to mutter, “My head hurts and I feel sick.
Are there any more of them?”

  There was still the sound of fighting in the forest, shouts, whoops and screams, but they were more distant now. When I looked through the trees I only saw one figure running between the trunks and that was away from us. The clearing we were in was a different matter; it was littered with the dead and dying. I realised with a touch of pride that I must have accounted for at least four of them myself.

  I felt fingers touching the back of my head. “It is just a deep cut, nothing more,” reassured Morag over my shoulder. “Now we should get away from here, before some of those warriors come back.”

  “Go towards the clearing,” I ordered. “Once we are out of these trees and with the soldiers, they will protect us from any more Indian attacks.” Never had I wanted more to be out of a forest. Any tree or bush could have hidden an attacker. I yearned for some open land.

  Black Eagle looked doubtful. “The sound of battle is moving northwards,” he declared cocking his ear to listen. “I think the British are losing.”

  “Fools,” muttered Morag. “The edge of the forest is where the Americans will be. They will be taking their prisoners for the white soldiers to see and celebrating their victory. We need to go deeper into the forest to hide. Now, can you stand?”

  Between them they hauled me to my feet. I took a few unsteady steps but the forest seemed to spin around me. Black Eagle stooped and with his good arm picked me up and rested me over his shoulder. Morag picked up our fallen weapons and we made our way deeper into the woods. As I bounced away hanging down Black Eagle’s back, I looked up and saw Morag following on behind. The normally stern and disapproving face was softer and she had tears in her eyes. Despite everything that had happened, it was possibly the most surprising thing I had seen that day. When she saw me watching her she reached forward and squeezed my hand.

  “Thank you for saving him,” she whispered.

  “Thank you for saving me,” I answered. I thought again that she seemed more mellow than normal somehow, as though being with child had changed this fearsome woman. But then I remembered that she had just killed a man with a spear and dashed out the brains of another with a musket butt, so perhaps it had not changed her that much after all.

  Chapter 31

  In the end we found a dry stream bed which formed a shallow gorge through the forest and then we hid under an overhang. We were invisible to anyone who was not walking along the stream. Morag searched in her bag for a poultice and first bandaged Black Eagle’s shoulder and then wrapped another strip of cloth around my head.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked her as she tied off the end of the bandage. “I thought you had stayed in the camp.”

  “No, a few of us women followed the war band into the trees. When we heard the Americans attack I ran through the trees – I was not having my child born fatherless. None of their warriors thought a woman was worth killing. Then I saw you, waving that big knife of yours around.”

  “Well I am glad you did,” I said with feeling. Morag offered me some dried meat but I did not feel like eating. We just sat quietly, having reloaded our weapons, and waited for the day to pass. Twice we heard war bands moving through the trees. They were talking loudly about their victories and there was the odd groan either from their wounded or prisoners, but none came close enough to discover us. We also heard the noise of battle continue to recede in the distance and it seemed like Black Eagle was right about the outcome.

  I discovered later that the grey-jacketed troops were not militia, but regular soldiers who had been given intensive training by my old friend from Queenston, Winfield Scott. He had prepared them for battle in every respect but one. When he ordered new uniforms it was discovered that there was no blue cloth available and so they had to have the short grey jackets instead. Riall discovered the hard way that he was up against regulars when his attack was firmly rebuffed. He also learned then that Fort Erie had surrendered without putting up a fight, enabling the Americans to bring over three thousand men to Chippawa and not the few hundred men that Riall had been expecting.

  I dozed a little that afternoon but as the sun went down Black Eagle shook me awake: it was time to head north. If the forest had been a frightening place in the daytime, it was little better at night. Every hoot from an owl seemed to be some enemy signal that would cause my muscles to tense. But we saw no one as we silently made our way through the trees. Eventually we hit the Chippawa River. It was nearly seventy yards wide, but calm and we managed to wade and swim across. Once on the far shore I felt a little safer. The Americans were unlikely to have crossed to the other side after the battle. There was only one bridge near the town of Chippawa. Even a commander as inexperienced as Riall was bound to have left a rear guard covering it, or perhaps he had destroyed it. We continued our way north and eventually came across a British patrol. Taking in our appearance they directed us to the Indian camp, but I asked them to give me directions to Riall’s headquarters.

  “I need to report to the general,” I told Black Eagle. “In case Norton did not make it back.” Riall would certainly expect the man he viewed as his Indian force commander to update him on what had happened in the forest. I also thought it would do no harm for him to see me in my battle-weary state. It would remind him of the risks I had taken and how deserving I was of leave. Black Eagle insisted he would come with me, but Morag decided to press on to the Indian camp and rest before what seemed an inevitable further retreat.

  It was dawn by the time Black Eagle and I emerged from the trees into the camp of the regular army. There was an avenue of tents leading to a larger bivouac in the middle, which I guessed must be Riall’s headquarters. Around those was a collection of other tents, some obviously home made from canvas or leather and all manner of other makeshift shelters. We made our way down the main thoroughfare leading towards the centre of the camp. We must have looked a disreputable pair– our war paint was smudged from sweat and the river crossing, we both sported blood-stained bandages and we were festooned with weapons. We both had our muskets and tomahawks while I had my sword and a pistol stuck in my belt too. We had got halfway to Riall’s tent before someone tried to stop us.

  “Oi, you two,” shouted a burley sergeant marching across the path to cut us off. “The Indian camp is a mile in that direction,” he said pointing. “So sling your ’ook and get out of ’ere.”

  I was tired and weary and while I would normally have enjoyed putting the man in his place, this time I did not have the energy. I was just considering the easiest way to make the man stand down when a voice spoke out to my right.

  “Steady on, Sergeant, they look like they have been in the wars too.”

  It was a tall sandy-haired officer sitting outside his tent shaving, with his face covered in a soapy lather. I smiled my gratitude to him, but the sergeant was not prepared to let the matter drop.

  “With respect, you don’t know ’em, sir. Thievin’ bastards the lot of them. You would be lucky to keep that silver razor if they got in the camp, sir, like bloody magpies for a bit o’ glitter, they are.” He turned to me and added, “Now shove off before I kick your sorry arse out of the camp.”

  That was it, I really lost my temper. “Damn your eyes, man, I am a British officer, a bloody major and you will stand to attention and salute me or I will have the hide flogged off you.”

  “An officer?” repeated the sergeant in astonishment as several heads popped out of nearby tents to look curiously on the scene.

  “Yes, a bloody officer,” I fumed as I wrenched my sword half out of its scabbard. “Since when have you seen an Indian with one of these?”

  The sergeant stood to attention and saluted stiffly to guffaws of amusement from several of the onlookers.

  “Where did you get that sword?” It was the officer whose face was covered in soap. He was standing now and his eyes glared angrily over the suds. “Tell me where you got that sword. I knew the man who used to own it.”

  “Do I know you?” I asked. �
�I have had this sword since I killed its owner in India.”

  The officer stared at me then as though he had seen a ghost. “No it can’t be… Flashman, is that really you?”

  I stared at the man. I knew the voice then but my mind struggled to comprehend that he could be here of all places. Then he started to wipe away the soap and I immediately recognised that lantern jaw. “Campbell!”

  We threw our arms around each other and hugged. Campbell was one of my oldest friends. We had known each other in India and throughout my time on the Spanish peninsula.

  “My God,” cried Campbell gripping my shoulders and pushing me back a pace. “Let me look at you. Why, I thought you were killed chasing after that fool Grant in Spain and now I find you alive and well on the other side of the world. However did you get here?”

  “Didn’t Grant mention that I was in Paris with him or that I had escaped France on an American ship?”

  “You were in Paris?” repeated Campbell astonished. “No, he never mentioned you at all. We all thought you were dead.”