Chapter Nine

 

Lieutenant Owen Dunlap, Royal Navy, stooped to exit his tent, braced against the bitter winter wind and was instantly reminded instead of the refuge from gales found within thick forests. As a parallel paradox, he considered his rank, his very uniform, and the obvious irony found with respect to his most uncomfortable, present situation.

Dunlap had years before mastered halyards, cables, footropes and brails and other such gear essential to ship handling. At the same time he had been humbled by the power of the inland seas far to the north above the Sault, standing off the granite cliffs and ancient forests lining Lake Superior. He was, therefore, well familiar with cold, even if less severe and long lasting than that typically encountered along the Michigan Territory’s low lying, marshy and wholly unimpressive shoreline adjacent to Lake Erie. But he had most often nearly always been within sight, if not sound, of the inland seas. One would think he ought much prefer a ship’s wardroom, or Navy Barracks, such as that offered by his former command, Caledonia, or that at the Naval Establishment in Amherstberg, than a tent on the River Raisin. Yet Dunlap, R.N., was not only content, but rather enjoyed his presence that night as a solitary white Canadian in a tent staked in the wilderness far from whitecaps and in the midst of over one hundred rather disappointed, if not surly, native warriors.

As the early winter gloom slid inevitably into dusk, he threw more logs on a fire over which he and four natives of some status among the war parties had just cooked their dinner. The fuel would suffice until he returned later that night.

He noted that his camp enjoyed not even so much as a glimpse of great waters. He had not seen the inland seas nor been within their influence for some four weeks. He further considered, as he watched the sparks fly and the smoke waft up through the intricate branching from the surrounding pines, how it was he had come to regard himself and be recognized by others as an uncommon naval officer. The simple truth was that his last four weeks bore little relationship to the sea—at least to the casual observer.

Dunlap’s December, since having been ordered from Amherstberg so as to render impossible his ‘affair of honor’ scheduled with Fleet for the following dawn, had with the exception of his crossing the Detroit River been spent nearly entirely upon either a horse or a cot. He traveled many miles southwest on a futile march. British troops, accompanied by far more Shawnee and Miami and with very little fighting to show for their effort, made their way slowly back to very nearly where they began. Dunlap fully expected the following day to close with him within sight of, if not back within, Amherstberg, reporting to Captain Hall and having to contend, sadly, with Fleet. Why, then, would a frustrating month in rather miserable conditions, having accomplished nothing of significance for the cause of King and Country, find him in high spirits?

Dunlap accompanied his native allies and discussed with them in their native Miami speech which was also understood by the sole Shawnee among them the time of their departure and intended march the following day. The Shawnee was a representative of Tecumseth; one of the Miami a chosen favorite of Little Turtle. Both chiefs would be disappointed that the string of victories spilling freely from very little blood since the past August had recently evaporated as their combined force approached Fort Wayne in the Indiana Territory. Dunlap would also have to fashion a report to Major Proctor who had, to the extent possible, replaced the late Sir Isaac Brock since his fall at Queenstown Heights some two months before.

As the party entered the shelter of the Shawnee, the conversation soon made its way to their summarizing, respectively, their thoughts as to their collective failure. All of them knew the march was coming to an end. Reports and explanations would soon follow, and while none of them controlled the other, all were intrigued, as human nature often encouraged, with whether their view was shared and their solutions, if any, found any support among others.

The small band produced their pipes, smoke soon swirled among them and the Shawnee began in his native tongue, “Tecumseth was correct in wanting to leave for the Fort at the Miami headwaters earlier in the season.”

One of the Miami who understood both dialects translated for his companion, who responded in Miami, knowing the Shawnee and Dunlap could follow, “Proctor wanted more warriors and after Fort Dearborn it took time to relocate our war parties to what the Americans call Fort Wayne.”

Dunlap thought the comment only partially true. The Miami did not fight alongside the Potawatomi last August at what was now reported throughout the Northwest as a massacre. It may well have taken the Miami some weeks thereafter to determine whether to join the native alliance alongside Tecumseth’s confederation after the disaster at Tippacanoe. Ultimately, Little Turtle had to determine if his people would stand with the British and resist American expansion westward, or instead revenge the deaths of the Miami warriors whose blood soaked the dunes south of Chekagou as Sarah and Trove ran for their lives.

The Shawnee warrior also knew as much and Dunlap was impressed he let the comment pass without further argument. Rather, the Shawnee warrior moved on, testing the waters among his guests, “This American General… Harrison, who relieved the garrison at Fort Wayne and broke the siege, showed courage in carrying the fight outside and well beyond the walls. He knows how to fight.”

The Miami warrior nodded in agreement. The following moments of silence suggested Dunlap interject. He took a puff from his pipe and with his language skills, combined with his appreciation for the inland seas, demonstrated to his companions why he was, as a Royal Navy officer, trusted by his superiors, challenged by his mission and fascinated by what must, he believed, soon unfold.

Lieutenant James Fleet, R.N. was that evening arriving in Dover Mills along the north shore of Lake Erie and well east of Amherstberg. He accompanied Abigail and Thomas, the latter’s surly attitude, well obvious since their departure a few days before, signaling his disdain for James and outrage at the implications that he, as Abigail’s bodyguard, required assistance from a King’s man, least of all Fleet. Captain Hall had ordered James, however, to continue on to Fort Erie with dispatches and return to the shipyard with a wagon lent to the widow Fleet.

James, of course, would much rather have not had to contend with Thomas, who as a civilian took every opportunity to spurn his rank and authority; worst of all, in front of Abigail. The wagon was heavy and slow. James’ mount chafed at the pace, but the roads were frozen and travel generally faster than would have been possible through the previous autumn, which would have forced them to contend with deep mud and narrow trails yet constricted by foliage. James spent a great deal of his time thinking as the party approached Dover Mills. He was familiar with the hamlet from his time spent there in 1802 with Abigail, her mother and father, who was now deceased, and he was troubled. Those memories of happier times were the last of what few James ever knew.

Abigail tried her best to be cheerful and keep their discourse light as the miles slowly passed. She was well accustomed to jealous men in her midst, even among those who had no chance for her genuine affection; a rare commodity. She favored both James and Thomas with compliments, chided them to be polite to each other and spoke of the joy she would feel in seeing her mother, albeit somewhat feigned.

At dusk upon what had been a sunny Christmas day, 1812, James, Abigail and Thomas halted before the front door to the Wheems family home. Abigail looked objectively at the sizable, dark green clapboard saltbox, with two barns, established in 1794, searching, as any beautiful woman had learned, for ravages of time. James felt strange, recalling the prolonged walks he had taken with Abigail ten years before across the 200 acres awarded Abigail’s father.

The land had been a grant to compensate the Wheems family for the loss of their lands in what had become the United States as a consequence of the Revolutionary War. The Wheems family arrived as Loyalists in the early 1790’s to settle permanently in Upper Canada. The family was one of a movement, a wave of immigration into Canada, calling themselves the “United Empire Loyalists.” They were proud of their loyalty to their King and conferred upon themselves a fair degree of social status as a result of their sacrifice and hardship. A small group of similarly minded grantees founded the hamlet of Dover Mills in that year and like so many of them, the Wheems family began to add the initials “U.E.” after their surnames.

A dim light shone through crude glass pane windows. Smoke poured from the kitchen chimney indicating that Christmas dinner may yet be available. James dismounted, turned to Thomas still on the wagon and, with little consideration and even less respect, ordered, “Take my horse and the wagon to the shed ‘round back. Attend to their needs and we will save you a plate. I will attend Abigail and her smaller trunk. You can bring in the other three at your convenience.”

Even Abigail cringed at the tone. Thomas’s eyes flashed outrage as he swung down from his seat. Abigail caught his glance and she shook her head under her hood and her eyes pleaded with him for restraint. As the wind blew aside Thomas’s cloak, Abigail noticed that while his right hand still held the reins resting atop the wagon seat, his left was drawing his knife from its sheath. James, coming from around the back of the wagon to assist Abigail in dismounting from the other side, did not notice the danger. As she made to stand from the seat of the wagon, she placed her hand upon Thomas’ hand resting on the side of the seat, intending to reassure and calm him with her affection.

Thomas removed his hand from his knife but replied loudly for Fleet to hear, even over the wind, “M’Lady, I am at your disposal… only. How might I help you? If your convenience should happen to distance me from the ‘Little Admiral’, all the better!”

Fleet hated the nickname. Thomas had just recently employed it, to his knowledge, since leaving Amherstberg. The nickname inflicted twice the pain by simultaneously ridiculing his lowly rank while suggesting he acted above it, and reminding Abigail of her late husband, the man James had loathed. Abigail asked that Thomas not use it, at least in front of James, but in that request, Thomas was non compliant; further evidence of an all together dysfunctional party enduring an unpleasant journey.

James allowed Thomas no satisfaction, however, purposefully placing his hands on the small of Abigail’s waist, pretending to assist in her dismounting the wagon while signaling to Thomas that James was now well positioned to take liberties which Thomas never could. Thomas could not rationally explain the sharp pain he felt deep in the pit of his stomach. Undeniably it was jealously from witnessing the gesture, and he consciously wondered at the foolish emotion of an old man given his age and relative station.

Abigail replied, “Thomas, just get the horses out of the wind and come in to meet my mother. Everything else can wait until after we enjoy this homecoming on Christmas Day.” Thomas was mollified that his mistress had saved his respect and Abigail made the few steps necessary with James to the door and nodded for him to rap with the knocker.

Lieutenant Dunlap looked at each of his companions purposefully letting the moments pass so to emphasize what he hoped would be viewed as profound. In the dim light of the fire he both advised and cautioned, slowly, as his capabilities with the Shawnee dialect allowed. “My brothers, General Harrison is one of the American’s best chiefs, one of a very small circle of leaders who know how to fight.”

Dunlap caught the Shawnee and one of the Miami nodding as his comments were translated to the other. It was a good start, agreeing with Tecumseth’s representative and his host, while affording their common enemy some degree of respect, thus heaping status upon each of them and bringing honor to their struggle. He continued, “But these inland seas are the key to securing your homelands; not the forests.” Dunlap knew the natives had been told this before yet were uncomfortable with that strategy, not fully understanding the economic realities as applied to settling the Northwest. The native tribes had no means to wage war on the seas as did the British and Americans, and the natives did not like the suggestion their valiant efforts were no longer relevant.

As they sat uncomfortably, Dunlap explained, “The Americans need freedom to sail the inland seas. They need to trade and transport a large amount of goods; much more than your large canoes could ever carry. The Americans can only do that in large ships and with many of them. The narrow trails through your forests are not as important to their plans and their future.”

The Shawnee warrior nodded and voiced his agreement, encouraging Dunlap’s speech.

“While Harrison can harass us, but little more, on land, my King’s ships are in control of the Lakes. The British are the better warriors on the water.” The natives nodded in obvious agreement, having been told tales of glorious English victories involving hundreds of large ships and witnessing just months ago the capture of many of the American merchant vessels. Dunlap added, “Do not falter or doubt. When the ice melts, English ships will deprive the Americans of the supply routes they require so in order to invade your lands further west.”

Dunlap now saw the Miami take some hope, sit a bit straighter and more attentively. It was time for his conclusion; the single point that he hoped all of them would include within their narratives to their respective chiefs. He lowered his voice and his plea became impassioned, “My brothers, the Americans are many and your fight against them brings you honor. This summer, my King will defeat the Americans on the inland seas which surround and lie along your homelands. Together our efforts will leave the Americans no desire and no ships with which to seize your forests and meadows.”

The natives were, it seemed, assured, confident and prepared to report back to their Chief’s that while the American defenses deep within the forests withstood recent attacks, the Americans could not hold out so long as British ships controlled the surrounding waters. The native peoples had merely to keep up the pressure and victory would be theirs.

Dunlap puffed on his pipe, satisfied with his allies’ commitment, and as the natives began to speak excitedly of the coming campaign, he wondered only whether he should, that night, add just one more important caution.

Fleet stood on the ramparts of Fort Erie just four days after delivering Abigail and shedding Thomas in Dover Mills. He had departed the following morning, leaving Abigail to settle in with her mother for the balance of the winter. He would return to retrieve the wagon in just a few days as he made his way back to Amherstberg.

In the bright early morning sun, Fleet strained to view the American efforts across the Niagara River at the shipyard from which the cutting out expedition was launched, using the diversion of a fire raft, just three months before. The low angle of the sun shone in his eyes and the glare from the ice and snow made seeing difficult. But despite the obstacles the sun presented the gunners were practiced and the 18 pound long gun roared and delivered a most unwelcome greeting upon what was an otherwise beautiful, quiet, morning. The gun’s carriage recoiled violently, indicating a prodigious charge required by the long range. The ball struck in the midst of ongoing work, and Fleet saw American tradesmen across the Niagara scattering, to the delight of his fellow British observers.

Fleet was not so impressed by the damage caused by the shot, but inwardly more excited by the sulfur smoke in his nostrils, the belch of wadding spewing out over the wall, the shower of sparks and roar of death.

Fleet was assured by the gunners and their Captain, showing off somewhat for his Navy comrade, that this routine was fairly typical and constituted great fun among the entire garrison. While the Americans had captured and adequately safeguarded Caledonia, their progress in completing other vessels ordered by Master Commandant Elliott was slowed and frustrated for all of the shipyard trades. While the British could not bombard continually, the artillery was harassing and sometimes, in finding its mark, a ball would prove either destructive or fatal.

Fleet snapped his glass shut, turned to the gun captain, congratulated him and assured himself, as had many, that the Royal Navy, despite its thin ranks throughout Upper Canada, would easily rule the inland seas in the coming season and throughout this conflict. The Americans could not easily rebuild what had already been taken from them; ships capable of serving as platforms from which to assert power and will under the threat of airborne metal.

Abigail, in Dover Mills, handed yet another letter to Thomas, requesting that he post the same to Lord Castlereagh. While it may take months to reach its destination, she wanted to assure Robert that she was well and enjoying a visit with her mother, her business with James now concluded.

Exactly how matters with James were concluded, she was not yet sure, or rather, had not yet decided. James would likely do as she desired. Marrying James would undoubtedly be easier than bringing about the ‘facts’ triggering the ‘law’ as surrounded Article Twenty First of the trust document, in turn requiring disagreeable dealings with Mr. Wellstone. But Abigail detected in James serious flaws, some of which she recognized she may well have created, if not encouraged. He was insecure and volatile, small and immature, angry and dangerous to all with whom he came into contact. His obsession with her was a plus, along with his impressive new found wealth, to be sure. His name, status, influence and rank were, viewed most objectively, of some potential. But all of that was regarded by her, on balance, as perhaps insufficient for her to suffer such dangerous shortcomings.

Abigail knew not what she would finally determine and was in no great hurry to decide. She only knew that at some point, the outcome would reflect her will, irrespective of the feelings and preferences of James. Thomas was as yet loyal to her and his hatred of James was made fast as mortar from nothing more than a few days spent together on a King’s highway in her presence.

As Dunlap strode across the wood plank porch of Captain Hall’s offices at the shipyard at Amherstberg, he reflected upon still another sign that he was of two worlds—he had utterly forgotten to observe Christmas. His company that day, natives of the Northwest Territory, of course did not recognize the Holy Day. But strangely, his own background seemed to fade when he fell within their presence.

The marine guards acknowledged his approach, ushered him inside and Captain Hall offered a warm welcome. After offering a full chronology, details, and presenting a written report for forwarding to Major Proctor, Dunlap summarized his conclusion, “The inland seas hold the key to this conflict. The Royal Navy’s position is secure, our squadron on Lake Erie will sail amidst little opposition this coming season and the Americans will face insurmountable difficulties in trying to build, outfit, launch and employ new vessels sufficient to challenge our dominance.”

Hall interjected, “I understand they will try.”

Dunlap nodded, but Captain Hall detected hesitation. Dunlap, when pressed, confessed, “Our supply lines are thin, our position is remote and should the brutality of our native allies not be held in check, needless bloodshed and lack of honor will only rally our enemy and strengthen their resolve.”

Captain Hall nodded and asked, “Your recommendation, Lieutenant, so to avoid such pitfalls?”

Dunlap was prepared and decisive, “Sir, first acquire all that you can, as soon as you can, for the construction, provisioning and arming of additional vessels. Improve our supply lines and assure ample stores, everything from nails to long guns. Second, keep a British presence among the natives at the River Raisin. I fear should the natives I observed ever engage the enemy, it could easily deteriorate into a massacre; a repeat of Fort Dearborn.”

Captain Hall nodded thoughtfully, waved him ‘dismissed’ and sat and considered as he stared out the window. Just seven days before the new year. Hall regarded Dunlap’s second concern likely overstated or not particularly relevant. As to stores and supply lines, procurement and improvement was easier said than done. Indeed, his dispatches sent with Fleet just days before made that very point to Major Proctor.

And after all, Captain Hall suspected the Americans suffered from the very same deficiencies and weaknesses as caused him to so frequently lie awake.