Fort Malden, Canada

July 3, 1812

CHAPTER XIII

* * *

Of the links that formed the great highway of water that reached west from the Atlantic Ocean nearly halfway across the North American continent, none were more strategically located nor critically important than those that connected the lower four Great Lakes. There were two such links, both relatively small rivers. The Detroit River at the south end of Lake Huron drained Lake Michigan, Lake Superior, and Lake Huron into Lake Erie, to connect the upper half of the great waterway with the lower half. The Niagara River at the east end of Lake Erie drained into Lake Ontario, thence into the mighty St. Lawrence River and on eastward to Hudson Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, making the chain complete—from Lake Superior to the great ocean. The result was that whoever controlled the Detroit River or the Niagara River, had the power to stop the commerce that fed and sustained most of the northeast section of the continent.

To protect their claims to the rights of navigation on the two rivers that were the indispensable keys to the northern sections of the continent, the Americans had built Fort Detroit on the west side of the Detroit River at the west end of Lake Erie, on United States soil in the territory of Michigan; and the British had built their opposing Fort Malden on the east side of the Detroit River, on English soil in what was called Upper Canada. At the other end of Lake Erie, the east end, the Americans had built Fort Niagara on the west side of the Niagara River on soil belonging to the state of New York, and the British had built Fort George on the east side of the Niagara River on Canadian soil.

Twenty miles south of Fort Malden, on the Detroit River, the village of Amherstburg had sprung up, where the British had created a small shipyard for construction of their gunboats that patrolled the Great Lakes.

Thus, in the early months of 1812, with unbearable tension gripping those on both sides of the entire waterway, Great Britain and the United States stood toe to toe and face to face across the two key rivers in what had suddenly become a stand-or-fall confrontation for possession and control of the Detroit River and the Niagara River, and, consequently, the great waterway and Canada.

In early July, Fort Malden stood wilted and sweltering in the hot, dead, midmorning humid air. The proud Union Jack with its royal blue field and red and white crosses hung limp and unmoving from the seventy-foot flagpole at the huge gates into the square, efficient fort with its log buildings constructed around the great parade ground in the center. Sweating soldiers in proper British rank and file cursed their crimson wool tunics and their ten-pound Brown Bess muskets as they mechanically executed the barked orders of their drill sergeant. The drill field was planted in grass that was thick and green in April and May, but with winter and spring past, was now fast disappearing under the relentless tread of British boots in daily drill. The firm steps of the marching soldiers raised tiny curls of dust as they marched on.

Along the north wall of the east-facing fort, women with cloths tied to hold their hair back and clothed in ankle- and wrist-length dresses and high-top black leather shoes that were soaked, perspired as they carried water in wooden buckets from the fort well to steaming, blackened kettles hung from chains on nine-foot tripods for the weekly washing of the clothing of the entire fort. Some fetched armloads of split kindling to feed the fires beneath the kettles. Some scrubbed clothing on corrugated washboards in heavy wooden tubs filled with hot water and strong, homemade lye soap that left their hands raw and cracked. Some hung the dripping, laundered clothing on wires strung between posts. Others gathered those already dried to make way for the wet ones coming. All paused from time to time to wipe at the perspiration and steal a moment to watch the soldiers make their oblique movements and their left and right flanking maneuvers, before they turned back to the unrelenting, sweaty work of keeping clean clothing available to a disciplined, orderly military presence in the wilderness.

None wished to suffer the consequence of dereliction of duty that would provoke Major General Isaac Brock, the commander of the fort and of British subjects in the area. Tall, hair golden in the sunlight, powerful in the shoulders and arms, with strong, regular features, Brock was a fair man, and a just man, who gave rewards when earned and punishment when deserved. He never asked a soldier or a civilian to do a thing he would not do himself and had earned the respect of every man in his command. Perhaps not their friendship, but always their respect. In battle, he was brilliant to a fault, leading his men into combat where his peers would not go, inspiring them, driving his command on to victories that made them the envy of the British army.

Just days earlier, an exhausted messenger on a weary horse had delivered a message to General Brock that left him shaking his head in stunned disbelief. On June 18, the United States had declared war on England! For long minutes he had sat at his desk, reading the message over and over again as the stark realization settled in. The Americans have invited their own demise! They’ve thrown the spark into the powder barrel. When and where will the explosion come? Then General Brock had stood and squared his shoulders and set his jaw and made his resolve. If it comes here, we’ll be ready. We’ll be ready.

He was seated at his plain desk in his office reading the morning sick-call report when a loud, rapid, urgent knock at his door brought his head up. He closed the report and leaned back in his chair.

“Enter.”

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the slender, sweated, red-faced, winded, wide-eyed lieutenant who pulled up short and jerked his hand up in a salute, then dropped it as Brock recognized him.

“Sir,” the man panted, “I have just come from the river. There’s an enemy ship out there coming this way. She’s—”

Brock held up his hand and smiled calmly. “Slow down, Lieutenant Webb. Start at the beginning. Something’s happened. Tell me.”

The young man took a deep breath. “Sorry, sir. It caught us by surprise. Captain Morton thought you should know and sent me. It’s an American ship. A schooner. The Cuyahoga. Commercial, we think. Not carrying cannon we can see. She’s moving north in the Detroit River. She’ll be under our guns in a few minutes. If I understood it right, sir, the United States has just lately declared war on us. We are not quite sure what to do about a civilian ship moving north. It’s certain she’s headed for Detroit, most likely to bring supplies to the Americans there. Respectfully, sir, what are your orders?”

Brock’s forehead wrinkled in question. “An American commercial schooner? Voluntarily coming under our guns?” For a moment he stared at his desktop. “I would almost wager her captain doesn’t know about the declaration of war.” He paused for just a moment. “Board her and bring her to our docks. Do not use cannon or muskets unless absolutely necessary. Bring her war chest and all paperwork here to me. I want to know if they’re aware America has declared war on us.”

“Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant blurted and turned on his heel and fairly ran from the room, then turned left to sprint down the boardwalk to the great gates. He seized the reins of his horse from the startled private who had been holding the bay gelding and vaulted into the saddle. He pulled the head around and jammed his blunted spurs into the flanks of the animal, and in three jumps the horse was at a dead run down the narrow dirt trail that wound through the dense forest to the British gun emplacements dug into the banks of the river. He hauled the winded horse to a sliding stop and was shouting General Brock’s orders to Captain Morton before he hit the ground, pointing to the light schooner, still four hundred yards to the south, steadily moving up the river under a light breeze.

“Sir, General Brock orders us to take the Cuyahoga. Bring her to our dock. Get the war chest and all the papers of her captain and take them to the general. Do not use cannon or musket if it can be avoided.”

Instantly the captain turned and trotted down to the dock on the riverbank to drop into a longboat with six seamen in position on the cross-benches, oars shipped, and a helmsman seated at the rear, hand on the tiller, all ready and waiting. The captain used his horn to bellow his orders to the gun crews on shore. “Guns one, two, and three. I’m going out there. At my signal, each of you fire one shot over the bow of the Cuyahoga. I will demand they tie up at our dock peacefully. If she refuses or if she shows cannon that we have not seen, all batteries open fire at once and continue until she is disabled. Do not sink her if it can be avoided. We want her crew alive and all her papers.” He lowered his horn and then raised it again while a wry grin crossed his face. “Should any of your cannonballs come within twenty yards of this longboat, that crew will be hung just before evening mess. Am I clear?”

Chuckling gun crews reached for powder ladles and budge barrels and commenced loading their cannon.

Morton lowered his horn and gave orders to the longboat crew. “Cast off! Take us out into the mainstream, well ahead of the American ship.”

The long oars dropped from their upright position and rattled as they were shoved into the oarlocks. The three men on the right held their oar blades above the water while the three on the left dug theirs deep and grunted as they threw their backs into it to turn the boat. On the fourth stroke all six oars were in the dark waters of the Detroit River, and the boat was skimming out into the smooth current. Morton waited until he was directly north of the oncoming schooner before he turned to face his waiting shore batteries and raised his horn.

“Numbers one, two, and three. Fire!”

Three seconds later white smoke leaped from the cannon muzzles. The booming blasts and the concussion came rolling across the open water and an instant later three geysers erupted twenty yards past the bow of the oncoming ship. Morton raised his telescope to study the scramble of confusion on the deck of the little ship and waited until the echo of the cannon roar died before he raised his horn.

“Hello, the Cuyahoga,” he shouted. “I am Captain Reginald Morton of the British Royal Navy. I command you to change course and dock your schooner at the pier on the east bank of the river. If you refuse I have ordered my cannon crews to destroy you immediately. Do it now or bear the consequences.”

While Morton watched, a man pushed his way through the shaken crew on the little schooner and stood spread-legged at the railing on the ship’s bow. His voice came high, shocked, belligerent, defensive.

“This is not a gunboat! We are commercial! By what right have you fired on us? By what right do you demand our surrender?”

“Sir,” Morton went on in his steady monotone, “the United States has declared war on Great Britain.” He paused and saw the entire crew on the Cuyahoga come to a standstill, silent, unbelieving, and then he went on. “Do you understand? A state of war exists between the United States and Great Britain. I am taking your ship as a prize of war and your crew as our prisoners. Turn to starboard now, or my shore batteries will reduce you to kindling. Should you elect to destroy any part of your cargo, or your war chest, or your manifest papers, you will all be hanged before nightfall. You have ten seconds.”

Morton counted slowly to ten and was turning with his horn to shout orders to the shore batteries when the helmsman called, “Sir, they’re coming about to starboard.”

On Morton’s command, the six oarsmen turned the longboat, and with Morton watching like a hawk, they led the schooner back to the docks that served Fort Malden, where Morton waited while the schooner cast her hawsers and British hands looped them in the inverted figure eight to secure them to the cleats on the heavy planking. Morton waited impatiently until the gangplank was lowered, then marched up to the deck of the ship.

“Your name, sir,” he demanded of the captain, an aging, bearded, burly man who had shed his tunic in the heat of the morning and was standing in a white shirt damp with perspiration. His face was a red mix of anger, disbelief, insult, and terror. He ignored Morton’s question and his words came hot, fast, with an unmistakable New England inflection.

“What do you mean, a state of war? What declaration of war? I own this ship, not the United States. We’re unarmed! I was hired to bring possessions and personal belongings north to Fort Detroit! I got no part of any war!”

Morton’s expression did not change. “I understand, sir, but the fact remains, we are in a state of war. This ship now belongs to Great Britain, and you and your crew are our prisoners. Your cargo is ours. My men will inspect it immediately, and we shall do with it as we see fit. You will order your men to follow mine to the fort just behind us, where you will be placed in cells and extended every courtesy afforded prisoners of war. I will have your name, sir.”

There was hatred in the man’s eyes and voice as he answered. “Beltran. Andrew Beltran.”

“Thank you, sir. If there is nothing else, let us move. Now.”

Captain Morton led up the winding trail from the river to the gates of the fort with Beltran behind, followed by his bewildered crew, muttering blasphemies against England, Captain Morton, and a world that had turned hostile in an instant. The ramparts were filled with both officers and enlisted who had heard the cannon blasts and were peering over the top of the fort walls, waiting to see what had happened. Lieutenant Webb threw open the gates, excited, face flushed with the thrill of action and the capture of an enemy ship, choosing to ignore the fact that the American crew had blundered into a war of which they knew nothing and the ship was a small commercial schooner filled with someone’s personal belongings and not one cannon.

Morton hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Lieutenant, this is Captain Andrew Beltran. Take charge of him and his crew. Extend every courtesy due prisoners of war, but be certain they’re locked up.”

“Yes, sir,” Webb exclaimed. “Captain Beltran, you and your crew will follow me.”

Morton walked on to the headquarters of General Brock, was cleared by the general’s assistant at the front desk, rapped on the door, and was ordered to come in.

Morton stepped inside, saluted, and waited for Brock to speak.

“Report.”

“The ship is a commercial schooner owned by a man named Andrew Beltran. The crew is American. Beltran said he did not know America had declared war on us, and I believe him. He claims his cargo is personal belongings he contracted to carry north to Fort Detroit.”

Brock considered for a moment. “Whose personal property?”

Morton smiled. “That, sir, I thought might be most interesting. May I have a squad of men to find out?”

“Immediately. Report when you know.”

Less than one hour later, Morton and two enlisted men carrying heavy wooden crates were back at Brock’s office in the low, square, sparse office building.

Morton held the door while the two enlisted men entered, wondering how they were going to salute their commanding officer without setting the boxes down, and if they did put the boxes down, where was the proper place. Morton rescued them.

“General,” he explained, “we have here some documents which I think will be of interest to you. May we set them on your desk?”

Brock nodded and pointed, and the enlisted men quickly set them on the desk, stepped back, and snapped a salute. Morton said, “You are both dismissed,” and they both heaved sighs of relief as they hurried back out the door and closed it behind them.

The top document in the nearest box was a large ledger, and Brock had it open on his desk before the door thumped shut, reading the first page of scrolled handwriting. He raised his eyes to Morton.

“A daily log made by Governor William Hull of Michigan.” His forehead wrinkled in question. “This has to be the same William Hull who fought in the Revolution thirty years ago. He must be sixty by this time.”

He laid the ledger down, lifted a file from the box, opened it, and for thirty seconds studied the first few pages.

“This appears to be records of an army he’s been commissioned to command.”

Morton broke into a broad smile. “It is, sir. And it gets better.” He lifted a document from the near box and handed it to Brock, who studied it for a few moments.

“Are these what they appear to be?” he asked. “Orders from the United States Congress directing Hull to march an army up here to Fort Detroit? And what’s this about Niagara? And Montreal?”

“General,” Morton exclaimed, “I think we have intercepted the entire plan of the United States for their conquest of Canada. All of it! The commanding officers, their orders, the number of men they will command, the timing of their movements, their objectives, their strategies—all of it.”

Brock suddenly sat down in his chair, confounded by what he considered the incomprehensible stupidity he was seeing before him.

“You mean,” he said quietly, “Hull trusted all of this to be carried on that schooner right under our guns, on to Fort Detroit? Is the man insane?”

Morton shook his head. “No, sir, I doubt it. I think he received his marching orders before the declaration of war was signed and was well on his way to Fort Detroit before it was made public. I think he was ignorant of it when he put all this on the schooner to take to his new headquarters at Fort Detroit, and most likely still doesn’t know the United States is in a state of war with us. From what little I’ve seen of those documents so far, it is my guess we have the entire American offensive spelled out in detail. If we act quickly, it is probable we can hand General Hull and his Americans some very disheartening surprises.”

Thoughtfully Brock asked, “Did you see what else was in the hold of that ship?”

“Generally, yes. Clothing and personal property. I think we are in possession of most of the personal property of General Hull.”

For a time Brock sat in silence while his mind raced. “Captain Morton, leave these things with me. Do not speak of what we have to anyone else until I’ve had time to put this all together. I’ll call you when I have finished. It may be tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Morton replied. “Would you like to have the other items brought from the ship and locked in storage here?”

Brock shook his head. “Not yet. Post sentries to guard the ship round the clock, and wait.”

“Yes, sir.” Morton turned to go, and Brock stopped him.

“Captain, well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The afternoon passed with Brock seated at his desk, poring over the ledgers and papers taken from the Cuyahoga. He set them aside to take his evening meal at the officer’s mess, where he invited Captain Morton to be at his office at eight o’clock the following morning. At precisely eight, the rap came at his door.

“Enter.”

“Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Take a seat.” Brock pointed to the two stacks of ledgers and papers on his desk. “You were correct, sir. We have intercepted the entire plan by which the Americans intend reducing Canada to an American territory. That includes this fort and this command.”

Morton leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowed as he concentrated. Brock went on.

“General William Hull is leading a force of about two thousand from Ohio to Fort Detroit, across the river. They left weeks ago. They are cutting a road north from Urbana to Fort Detroit. I expect they will arrive within the next two or three days. Their orders give Hull authority to cross the river and take possession of this fort, in any manner he deems appropriate. At about the same time, to the east of us, General Dearborn is under orders to cross the Niagara River and take Fort George, and further east, cross the St. Lawrence River and take Montreal.”

He stopped speaking to watch the changing expressions on Captain Morton’s face as he considered the information, and then went on.

“They intend to supply these armies by land, over the roads now in existence, with the new one from Urbana and a few others they intend building.”

Morton stiffened. “Through the woods? The forests? Not by water?”

“Yes,” Brock answered, “through the woods. It appears the thought just entered your mind as it did mine yesterday evening. Tecumseh. Am I right?”

“Yes. He’s back, and he’s ready. Tecumseh and about eighteen hundred of his warriors.”

Brock nodded. “Correct.”

“May I inquire, sir,” Morton exclaimed, “what is your proposal in all this?”

“Wait. Let them come to us. Let them cross the river and make the march down here. With a little thought and preparation, I intend giving them a warm welcome.”

Notes

General William Hull, Governor of the territory of Michigan, was appointed to assemble a fighting force consisting of soldiers, state militia, and Indians, and march north from Ohio to Fort Detroit. He assembled about two thousand men and began the march in early June, prior to the declaration of war by the United States against England. He cut his own road through the woods. When he reached the Maumee River, a tributary of the Detroit River, he hired the small commercial schooner Cuyahoga to transport all his personal belongings, including the critically important papers from both Congress and President Madison in which the entire offensive plan of the American armed forces were defined in detail, ahead of him to Fort Detroit. At the time, he did not know that the United States had declared war. The British at Fort Malden, under command of Major General Isaac Brock, one of the finest in the British military, knew of the declaration of war and took the Cuyahoga as a prize of war on July 3, 1812, along with her crew and the entire cargo of General Hull’s personal property and official government papers. The papers gave the British the entire American plan, including the number of troops, their condition, their proposed supply and communication lines, the timing of their attacks, and all other critically important information.

See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–81; Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 200–201; Wills, James Madison, pp. 100–102.