Fort Detroit, Michigan Territory

July 11, 1812

CHAPTER XVI

* * *

The deep, faint rumble that was felt more than heard came rolling north from Lake Erie, up the Detroit River, to turn the heads of those who had lived in the thick woods or in the tiny village of Detroit long enough to know the signs. They paused in the fierce, humid heat of the midmorning sun to peer south at the low purple hedge of clouds, billowing, shifting, moving steadily up the river, with the flashes inside that for an instant lighted the clouds to all shades of blue, then were gone.

The village blacksmith, white-hair, white beard, face lined with age, stepped from beneath his three-walled lean-to into the dead air and raised one hand to shade his eyes while he studied the horizon to the south.

Been too hot—big ’un comin’—hit here about noon. He glanced west at the high walls of Fort Detroit. Wonder if those soldier boys know they’re in for a lot of noise and a good soakin’. A wry grin crossed his face as he turned back to the large brown mare tied to the post near his forge, nervous, moving her feet, ears twitching. Beyond the mare were three geldings, tied to a hitch rack, unsettled, shifting. They feel ’er comin’—better git the shoes on these animals this mornin’ if them Ohio officers figger to cross the river tomorrow.

Inside the fort, within the headquarters building, General William Hull paced in his small private office, sweating in the stifling heat, hands clasped behind his back, staring unseeing at the floor. For the fifth time in ten minutes he looked at the wind-up clock on the crude mantel above the small, smoke-blackened, stone fireplace.

Nine-fifty, he thought, ten minutes—have they prepared for the crossing?—where are the supplies we were promised?—are the south roads open?—where are the Indians?—what does Brock . . .?

He started at the sudden knock on his door and exclaimed, “Enter.”

The door burst open, and the corporal on duty in the foyer barged in, eyes wide.

“There’s a messenger here, sir. Civilian. Has a paper he says you must see.”

Hull started. “A messenger? Get him in here.”

The corporal turned and signaled, and a young man strode into the room. He was average height, hair awry, sweating, breathing hard, face grim. In his right hand was a paper.

“I’m Thomas Atwater.” He pointed west. “I got a farm out there. This was handed to me this morning by British soldiers. I thought you should see it.” He offered a crumpled paper, and Hull took it and read the signature.

General Isaac Brock, Commander, Fort Malden, His Majesty’s Army.

There was a slight tremor in Hull’s hand as he read the message.

“ . . . I feel it my duty to remind you that the prosperity you have enjoyed is the result of British naval superiority, which has thus far guaranteed Canadians access to world markets. . . . Further, it is but too obvious that once exchanged from the powerful protection of the United Kingdom you must be reannexed to the dominion of France, not the United States. . . . Finally, I respond to the proclamation recently uttered by General William Hull of the United States Army . . . should he, or the United States, undertake to summarily execute Canadian citizens found in alliance with the Indians, it will be deliberate murder, and I give my oath that I will exercise retribution in every quarter of the globe . . .”

Hull blanched, then exclaimed, “Where did you get this?”

Atwater raised one eyebrow in question. “I thought I mentioned it. British soldiers. Came by my farm about an hour ago. They’re handing those out all around.”

Hull brought himself under control. “I see. You were right to bring it here. Is there anything else?”

Atwater shrugged. “Only that a lot of us are caught in the middle of this whole thing. We got your paper saying we should join you, and now the British want us to join them. Looks like we’re in trouble no matter what we do.”

“Return to your farm,” Hull said. “Prepare to assist us when we liberate Fort Malden and Amherstburg.”

Atwater turned and walked out into the foyer, shaking his head all the way. He was reaching to open the front door out into the sunlight when it swung open, and he stepped aside to allow three uniformed colonels to enter, the gold epaulets bright on their shoulders. The corporal at the desk stood and saluted as Atwater walked out and closed the door.

The corporal faced the officers. “I’ll tell the general you’re here,” and his boot heels tapped on the hardwood floor as he hurried to the private office with a crude sign GENERAL HULL at eye level. Two minutes later the three colonels, McArthur, Cass, and Findlay, were inside the private office, seated opposite Hull, facing his desk.

Hull was ramrod straight, voice firm, controlled. “Gentlemen, we cross the river tomorrow morning. I trust your men are prepared.”

There was a silence, and McArthur reached to scratch under his chin.

Hull cleared his throat. “Are your men prepared?”

McArthur shook his head. “Some. Not all. We’ve had a . . . sort of mutiny. Two hundred of them from Ohio say they’re not crossing the river. That would put them out of the United States into foreign territory, and they say they were never authorized to leave the United States. They won’t go.”

Color came into Hull’s face, and his voice raised. “What do they mean, they won’t go? They can be arrested! Shot!”

McArthur shrugged. “They know that. They doubt you’d shoot two hundred of your own men. They won’t go.”

For several seconds Hull sat in unmoving silence, unable to force his thoughts to a conclusion. Then he drew a deep breath and continued.

“Very well. We’ll leave them behind.” He handed the paper he had received from Atwater to McArthur. “Are you aware of this?”

McArthur took it and sat in silence for several seconds reading it. “I heard about it. This is the first I’ve seen it.”

“It’s bound to have an effect,” Hull said. “All of you see to it your men are told of it, and inform them that it has absolutely no bearing on our actions. We cross the river tomorrow, and we will move on Fort Malden and Amherstburg as planned. Do you understand?

McArthur glanced at Cass and Findlay. “Yes, sir.”

Hull bobbed his head once. “Very good. The basic purpose in crossing the river is to be certain the British are not gathering there to attack us.”

He paused for a moment, then went on. “Now, as to our actions after we’ve crossed the river. We have a substantial superiority in numbers over the British, which gives us time to make all preparations for an attack on Fort Malden. We must build cannon carriages if we are to place their fort under siege. You will assign men to construct the carriages and the wheels.”

He paused to look into their faces for some sense of acceptance, support. Their expressions were passive, nearly blank.

Hull continued. “Once on the other side we will establish regular patrols to keep the roads open and to forage for supplies. And we will assign some men to construct a temporary dock and maintain enough longboats to control all traffic on the river.”

He reached for another document and pushed it across the desk. None of them reached to receive it. “That message was received late yesterday. It states that a column of two hundred men left Ohio with loaded supply wagons to be delivered here. They’ve stopped at the River Raisin, thirty-five miles south. They are concerned that Tecumseh and his hostiles will attack them if they come any farther north. They request help. I am dispatching a relief column of one hundred fifty men under command of Major Thomas Van Horne to go there immediately and escort the supply wagons on to this fort. Is there any discussion?”

McArthur casually asked, “When does Van Horne leave?”

“Today.” Hull stopped and drew a heavy breath in the silence, frustration showing in his face and his movements at the indifference he was seeing in his officers. Finally he placed both palms flat on his desk and leaned forward, eyes too bright, voice too high.

“Do any of you have anything to say about all this? We’re surrounded by British redcoats and Indians; we’ve got a supply train stopped thirty-five miles south; we’re dividing our force to go down there to rescue them; we cross the river in the morning into British territory; two hundred of our men have refused direct orders to leave United States soil—there’s nothing you have to say about all this?”

Cass responded. “Not much to be said. We’ve got our orders. Let’s get on with it.”

For a moment Hull looked at McArthur, then Findlay, who remained silent, and Hull tossed one hand into the air. “Very well,” he exclaimed, “you’re dismissed.”

The three officers walked out into the late-morning sunlight and heard the rumble far to the south. They slowed to look above the rough walls of the fort at the purple line that was slowly rising, and to listen to the distant thunder. “Going to have a wet afternoon,” was all they said, and continued on to their quarters for a few moments before walking out through the big gates to their commands, camped in the woods.

The wind rose before eleven o’clock, blustering and heavy, to rip leaves and branches from the thrashing trees. They lost the sun half an hour before noon mess, and the world darkened as the bellies of the thick purple clouds rolled over them. The soldiers at the head of the food lines were filling their pewter plates when the first great drops of rain came slanting. By ten minutes past twelve o’clock the lightning flashes were turning the twilight into brightness, and thunder shook the walls of the fort and every building inside, while the driving rain came so thick men had to bow their heads to breathe. Within minutes the drill field was a morass of mud and water, and everything inside the fort was drenched. Soldiers broke from the food lines to sprint for cover under the eaves of the buildings and the parapets overhead. Cooks abandoned the steaming kettles of stew to crouch beneath wagons or carts and watch as the stew pots filled with rain water. For half an hour the summer cloudburst raged with lightning strikes so close they left the air smelling burned and brought thunderclaps that jolted the ground and deafened the men and left their ears ringing.

The storm rolled on north, toward Lake Huron, and the thick clouds gave way to patches of blue overhead, and then shafts of golden light came streaming through. Within minutes the skies were brilliant, and the sun was turning the world into a wet, steaming mass with endless tiny droplets of clinging water sparkling. Soldiers came from cover to silently survey their ruined midday meal, the mud-spattered, rain-soaked tents and bedrolls and firewood. They sighed and wondered how they were going to set their camp and the fort in order and still be ready to cross the river at four o’clock in the morning. They hitched at their belts and set their teeth, mumbling curses against the harsh reality that ninety-five percent of soldiering was the monotony and dirty work that filled the gap between the battles that were five percent of their lives.

Midafternoon, the knock came at Hull’s door, and he stood at his desk and called out permission to enter.

Major Thomas Van Horne, fully uniformed, with boots muddy halfway to his knees, pushed through the door and saluted.

“We’re prepared to leave, sir.”

Hull reflected for a moment. “I presume you have my written orders.”

“I have a pouch, sir, with your orders inside and paper and quill for sending messages and letters the men might write.”

“Keep the mail pouch available. You may need it. Be alert for Indians. That is all.”

“I shall take personal charge of the mail pouch. Thank you, sir.” Van Horne turned and walked from the room. There were spots of mud from his boots on the floor as he closed the door.

Hull opened the center drawer in his desk and drew out a plug of tobacco and a small knife. He folded the blade out, cut a piece of the pungent brown tobacco, and put it in his mouth, then replaced the knife and tobacco and closed the drawer. He worked the cud between his teeth as he glanced down to locate the shining brass spittoon on the floor at the corner of his desk, then spit a stream of brown liquid and wiped at his mouth and beard before calling the corporal from the foyer.

“Have my brown mare brought from the blacksmith and saddled.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ten minutes later the corporal reported back, and Hull walked out the front door to the hitch rack where the mare was tied in front of the headquarters building. He stooped to raise each hoof to inspect the new shoes, then mounted and rode slogging through the muck of the camp outside the walls of the fort. Sweating soldiers, stripped to the waist and muddy to the knees, were chopping fresh firewood or washing mud-speckled uniforms or hanging them on lines or tree limbs or bushes to dry, while others worked on roasting whole pigs for evening mess. They raised their heads to see the general coming, then paused in surprise. He was among them alone, unannounced. This was not a regularly scheduled inspection, nor was it a surprise inspection with the general escorted by his junior officers. This was a man driven by compulsions that were rapidly reducing him to an enigma that did not conform to the unwritten code governing military leaders. At first it had puzzled the soldiers. Quiet talk had begun around the evening campfires. Then the puzzlement faded, and open concern had crept in. Is this officer fit? Can he lead in battle? We cross the river in the morning—will he attack Fort Malden? Will he?

Few saluted as he passed, ramrod stiff in the saddle, face severe, head turning from side to side, probing. They watched him for a few moments, then went on with their duties, wondering, their concerns bordering on fear of what this man would do when the muskets began rattling and the cannon booming.

The afternoon wore on with the command sweating as they steadily put the camp in order for their river crossing. They went to the evening mess lines to eat hot roast pork and boiled potatoes, then back to their campsites to roll and pack their own clothing, most of it still damp, into their forty-pound backpacks, and count their paper cartridge ration, fifty rounds per man, into the cartridge cases mounted on their belts. Lanterns burned for a time after the ten o’clock taps drum sounded, and no officer came to order them extinguished. It was midnight before the camp and the fort were dark and silent and without movement, save for the pickets who took their rotation at their posts.

By three o’clock in the morning the lanterns in the headquarters building inside the fort walls were casting misshapen rectangles of light out onto the ground while General Hull sat at his desk inside, poring over his notes for the river crossing. Boats—crews—barges for the horses—freight-boats for the cannon—food—gunpowder—cartridges—is the camp prepared?—what if the Indians come swarming?—the British attack?—another summer cloudburst strikes with winds that make crossing the river impossible?—if a boat capsizes?—if . . .

He suddenly straightened, staring at the three-page list as though it were something alive and deadly. What am I doing?—we’ve crossed rivers before—we’ll make this crossing successfully—what am I doing?

He shoved the list aside and rose from his chair to walk from his small private office into the foyer, then on out into the night. He stopped to stare upward at the unending points of light that gleamed in the eternities overhead, and he stood still as a sense of stability and rightness came into him and grew. He turned and walked back into his private office to collect the papers he would need in the next few weeks and pack them into a leather valise ready for the crossing and what would follow.

At four o’clock, the reveille drum rattled, and the camp came alive as men began their morning toilet and then struck their tents to fold them and bind them closed. By six o’clock they were walking to the breakfast lines with bowls and cups for hot oatmeal and steaming coffee. They ate in near total silence, washed their utensils, packed them in their backpacks and tied them shut, and then reported to their squad leaders to begin the massive work of moving more than sixteen hundred men across a river, with all their horses, cannon, tents, and food.

Major Thomas Van Horne reported to General Hull, then led his one-hundred-fifty-man detail south along the crude road the army had cut from Ohio to the fort as they came. General Hull watched them out of sight with one thought bright in his mind. Indians. What happens if Tecumseh finds them?         

At the riverbank, where men were systematically loading crates of food and cannon into longboats, half a dozen wild-eyed horses reared and fought the ropes as they were being led onto the barges, terrified at leaving solid ground to step onto a shifting, rocking thing that was somehow connected to the water. Men grabbed the cheek-straps of their halters while others blindfolded the plunging animals. Then they threw the quivering horses off their feet, tied their legs together, and picked them up like a huge bundle to lay them on their sides atop the barge, still tied and blindfolded. The loading went on hour after hour, with the men shedding their tunics and wiping at the sweat that ran from their faces into their beards. They paused for midday mess and to collapse in shade wherever they could find it, then went back to the heavy labor of loading boats and barges that worked their way across the river, unloaded, and returned, time and time again.

They took their evening mess and returned to the boats for the last two crossings, to finish the long, weary day in late dusk. Tired men built their campfires on British soil and rolled into their blankets to sleep the dreamless sleep of the exhausted beneath the stars, with their tents still tied and stacked.

With smoke from the morning cookfires rising straight up in the still air, General Hull gathered his staff of officers into his tent, where they sat in canvas chairs while he faced them on his side of a small, scarred table. He spat into the spittoon and wiped his mouth and beard before he spoke.

“Gentlemen, commend the men for their performance yesterday. So far as I know we did not lose a man or a horse or any of our freight.”

He glanced at them, waiting for a grin or a smile, or any response at all. There was none, and he went on.

“We have previously detailed the assignments that will be carried out for the next several days. Specifically, Mister McArthur, you will take your men out into the local vicinity to forage for food and observe any activities that might be detrimental to our effort.”

McArthur nodded but said nothing, and Hull moved on.

“Mister Cass, you will maintain your detail here at the river. They will construct a temporary dock and maintain the longboats and intercept all traffic on the river. They will allow passage, up the river or down, only to those vessels friendly to our cause. All others will be confiscated and their crews held until it is determined what shall be done with them.”

Cass said, “Yes, sir.”

“Mister Findlay, your command will construct cannon carriages, and at least every other day a small party will approach Fort Malden to the south to be certain they are not preparing for an attack on us. Be very astute. Do not provoke a fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Findlay said quietly. “We’re prepared.”

“You all understand that it is our intent that our presence here will persuade the Canadians and the Indians that with our force near double that of General Brock at Fort Malden, we will have little trouble subduing him and then all others who oppose us. If they see us preparing for such an attack, it is possible they will desert, and perhaps even surrender without need for firing a shot.”

For a few moments Hull waited for any response, but there was none. He fumbled for a few seconds, knowing what he wanted to say but not knowing how to say it. He cleared his throat and finally asked, “Now that we are here, do any of you have any response to the plan?”

McArthur raised and dropped a hand. “When do we attack Fort Malden? The men want to know.”

Hull locked eyes with him. “That is undetermined. If the Indians and Canadians do not join the British at Fort Malden, we will attack soon. Otherwise, we will have to wait until our own reinforcements arrive. That is all I can say at this time.”

“May I tell the men that?” McArthur asked.

“You may. Is there anything else?”

The officers shook their heads.

“You are dismissed.”

The officers pushed through the tent flap and each went his own way to his command to give orders. For a long time, Hull sat in his chair with a rising knot of fear in his middle. Can those men be trusted in an emergency?—what happens if the Indians do join the British?—will they fight?

He stood and gathered his papers with his thoughts running. What is General Isaac Brock doing at Fort Malden at this minute? His patrols have reported our crossing by now—what’s in his mind?—what does he mean to do about it?—how will he strike back?

Twenty miles south, on the banks of the Detroit River, British general Isaac Brock sat at his desk facing Major Dennis Courtney. Between them was a large map of central Canada. Brock spoke.

“You’re aware our scouts reported the Americans have crossed the Detroit River. They’re camped twenty miles north of us on Canadian soil. They’re making cannon carriages and doing all they can to influence the citizenry up there against us. It’s obvious they’re getting ready to attack.”

“I know about it, sir.”

“Good. Let me tell you why you’re here. General Hull is depending on his ability to get help from both north and south.” Brock leaned forward to tap the map with a finger, and Courtney rose to lean over the desk, studying the Great Lakes intently.

“Here,” Brock said. “Right here. At the top of Lake Huron. Do you see this small island?”

“Yes, sir,” Courtney replied.

“The Americans have a fort up there. Fort Michilimackinac. Some call it Mackinac. Hull is certain that in an emergency he can bring troops from there down to here. I intend removing that possibility.”

Courtney began to smile, and Brock continued.

“You will pick two hundred men who can travel light and fast, and lead them on a forced march from here to Fort Michilimackinac. As you go, gather as many Canadians and Indians as will volunteer, and attack the fort and subdue it. That will cut off any hope General Hull and his Americans have for help from the north.”

“I understand, sir.”

Brock went on. “Right now there is an American supply train camped at the River Raisin, across the river and thirty-five miles south.”

“I know of it, sir.”

“Yesterday a detachment of American soldiers started south to escort them on into Fort Detroit.”

“I know of that, too, sir.”

“I have already sent a detachment to catch that American relief column and stop them. If we do, Hull is going to conclude that he is trapped. He can’t get help from either north or south. From there, we’ll just have to wait and see what he does. If necessary, we’ll cross the river and attack Fort Detroit.”

Courtney was beaming. “Very good, sir. Very good. When do you want me to leave?”

“As soon as you can get your men picked and supplied.”

“I can be ready by morning, sir.”

“Good. Avoid being seen by the Americans if you can.”

“I shall, sir.”

“Excellent. Carry on.”

In the black stillness of four o’clock am, the gates of Fort Malden slowly swung open and Major Dennis Courtney sat his gray horse to lead two hundred picked men out into the starry night. Each had his backpack stripped to the bare essentials and his musket and wore the crimson tunic known to every nation in the world. They moved rapidly due east, then north to pass the American camp unnoticed, then back west to cross the St. Clair River into the United States territory of Michigan. As they traveled, they sent men scouting ahead, stopping at the log cabins and the tiny villages, with a single message: Come with us! We’re going to drive the Americans from Fort Michilimackinac. Come join us!

As if by magic, armed Canadians began to appear from nowhere to fall in behind the column, eager, ready. On the third day, half a dozen buckskin-clad Indians appeared, followed by others in twos and threes, solemn, stone-faced, armed, some with scalps dangling from their belts. They spoke little English, but it was plain they meant to be rid of the Americans up north.

Courtney’s line of march corrected to northwest for two days, then due north in a straight line toward the northern tip of Lake Huron and Michilimackinac Island, just east of the junction of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan. The morning their advance scouting party sighted the shores of the huge lake, the two-hundred-man column that had left Fort Malden had grown into a one-thousand-man column, nearly half of them Indians with tomahawks in their belts and a fierce light in their eyes.

The main column caught up with their scouts by noon. Before dusk, Courtney had scouted the shoreline and knew the concentration of Americans and the location of the fort on the island and had gathered canoes and longboats for twenty miles up and down the lake. All night men cut and stripped trees and lashed cleats to the trunks for use in scaling the walls of the fort, while others silently made the crossing to the island, back and forth. In the dark before dawn the entire force was crouched in the woods facing the American fort, scaling ladders in place.

The Indians talked to each other with bird calls so authentic the British soldiers looked about to locate the birds, with Courtney waiting until his Indian scouts nodded to him that everything was in place. With the eastern sky just beginning to show a sun not yet risen, Courtney took a deep breath and broke from cover.

“All right,” he shouted. “Follow me, lads! Follow me!”

Instantly the night was filled with the battle cry of five hundred fighting men and the terrifying screams of nearly five hundred Indians, and within seconds they hit the front gates of the sleeping fort. The scaling ladders came banging against the wall, and with stunned pickets staring in stark disbelief, the first of the redcoats and Indians were over the top and on the parapets and then swarming inside the fort. Within minutes the defending Americans were waving the white flag of surrender, with their muskets on the ground and their hands in the air. Half an hour later, Courtney handed a written message to a sergeant and a picked squad of four enlisted men.

“Leave now and take this back to General Brock. It is critical that he knows we have taken this fort and that we are leaving a small detachment here to hold it while we return with the prisoners of war and about eight hundred Indians and Canadians who have joined us.”

The sergeant, still heady from the brief fight, took the document and shoved it inside his tunic. “Yes, sir.”

Within the hour the small detail was on its knees in a large, light, birchbark, Huron Indian war canoe, digging the paddles deep into the waters of Lake Huron as they sped south, one mile from the Michigan shoreline. Two days later they beached the canoe on the Canadian side of the Detroit River, six miles above the fort, and disappeared into the forest. The following morning they hailed the pickets at Fort Malden and the gates swung open. Two minutes later they were standing at attention before General Brock. They were disheveled, unshaven, in uniforms that showed days and nights of traveling fast, but their shoulders were square, their chins were sucked in, their heels were clacked together, and their eyes were bright with pride as they stared straight ahead.

“Sir,” the sergeant said, “Major Colonel Courtney wished to have this delivered to you earliest.” He drew out the document and General Brock took it eagerly. He broke the seal and read it twice before he raised his eyes back to the sergeant.

“You know the contents of this message?”

“No, sir. It was sealed.”

“It says your force took Fort Michilimackinac in less than half an hour. You had hundreds of Canadians and Indians join you.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant could not repress a grin. “Good fight, while it lasted, sir.”

“I would like to have been there,” Brock said. A quizzical look crossed his face. “You came from Michilimackinac in three days?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“Canoe most of the way, sir. Colonel Courtney suggested you were waiting for this report.”

“I was. It’s vital. When did you eat last? Sleep?”

For a moment the sergeant pondered. “We ate yesterday morning, sir. We slept two days ago. I think.”

Brock pointed. “Take your detail to the mess hall and tell the officer in charge I said to prepare anything you want. Then go on over to the barracks and tell the officer you’re to be given bunks to sleep. Get a bath. Have the laundry clean your uniforms. You have done well, Sergeant, you and your detail.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The five-man squad turned on its heels and marched from the room.

Brock stepped back to his desk and spread a map of the area to study it, tracing roads and rivers with a finger. All right, General Hull—you’ve lost Michilimackinac to the north. Now we’ll see how matters develop here.

* * * * *

Twenty miles north, on Canadian soil just east of the Detroit River, the American cooks were setting the tripods and great black kettles on chains over cookfires to boil cabbages and turnips for evening mess when a shout came from the men assigned to control the river.

“Longboat approaching from Fort Detroit!”

Inside his tent, General Hull sat bolt upright, then listened as the call came a second time. “Longboat approaching from Fort Detroit!”

Longboat? Who is it? No one was ordered to make the crossing. He stood, clamped his tricorn on his head, and pushed the tent flap aside to walk out into the late afternoon sunlight. He strode rapidly to the makeshift dock his men had built and shaded his eyes against the western sun, studying the oncoming boat. It was thirty yards from the dock before Hull recognized Major Thomas Van Horne sitting on the middle bench. Hull met him as he stepped from the boat onto the dock. Van Horne came to attention and saluted but could not bring his eyes to meet Hull’s.

Hull stammered when he asked the fearful question. “Did you bring the column and the supplies from the River Raisin?”

Van Horne glanced about at the silent men staring at him, waiting for his answer. “Sir,” he began quietly, “this matter should be handled in your tent.”

Hull’s face went white, and he ignored Van Horne’s plea for privacy. “I’ll take your answer here and now. Did you bring them?”

Van Horne straightened and looked directly into Hull’s face. There was an edge in his voice. “No, sir. I did not. We had not yet reached them when we were surrounded and attacked by Shawnee Indians with a force far in excess of our own. We think Tecumseh led them. We took cover and formed ranks and returned fire. The battle carried into the second day, when we regrouped and broke through their lines to return to Fort Detroit. We were in a running fight with them for twenty miles before they withdrew and disappeared. There was no possibility of our reaching the supply column. We sustained thirteen casualties. My command is across the river at the fort.”

For long seconds Hull stood in shocked silence, his mind paralyzed, unable to function. Then he suddenly came to himself and looked about at the men gathered around, watching, listening, visibly shaken by one of their greatest fears.

Tecumseh! The Shawnee have gathered! How many? When do they strike us?

Only then did Hull realize why Van Horne had requested that he make his report in the privacy of Hull’s tent. Within minutes every man in camp would know that Tecumseh and his warriors had surrounded the Ohio supply column and had ambushed Van Horne’s relief force—driven them back in a running fight. What had happened to the two hundred men and the supplies south of them on the River Raisin? Did they escape? Make a run—a retreat—for Ohio? Dead? Massacred?

For several seconds the only sounds were of birds in the woods and the lapping of the river against the longboat and the dock. Then Hull said, “I will take your report in my tent.” He turned, and Van Horne followed him back up the incline to the camp, and on into Hull’s tent where both men took chairs on either side of Hull’s small table.

“Give me the details,” Hull demanded.

“They caught us at dawn. Came from nowhere. Half a dozen of my men were down before we knew what was going on. For a time it was hand-to-hand before we drove them back into the woods and regrouped and took cover. We could hear them all around us, but we couldn’t see them. For most of the day it was them firing from cover and us shooting back at the musket smoke. We tried twice to form and break out of the circle, but each time they were there in numbers at least double ours. We finally broke out the second morning and made a run with them following. We lost thirteen men. Four of them we had to leave behind.”

Van Horne stopped and for several seconds looked down to study his hands, working them together, while in his mind he was seeing what Indians do to the bodies of their enemy dead. He raised his eyes. “That’s about all. Sir.”

“Did you bring back your mail pouch with my written orders in it?”

“No, sir. It was lost in the ambush. The bag and some notes I entered in a log, and a few letters written by the soldiers, and your letter to Secretary Eustis.”

“Do the British have it, then?”

Van Horne shook his head. “I don’t know. It was there. I don’t know if they found it.”

Van Horne saw the panic enter Hull’s eyes as he spoke. “Return to your command at the fort and make a written report. I will expect it by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No. You are dismissed.”

Van Horne walked from the tent and down to the waiting longboat, aware of the men who slowed from their work and eyed him, murmuring quietly. He saw the fear in their faces and the question in their eyes.

Evening mess was finished when General Hull sent a written message to Lieutenant Colonel James Miller.

“Come to my tent at once.”

Lanterns were glowing in deep dusk when Miller appeared at the flap of Hull’s tent, and Hull invited him in.

“Colonel Miller, you are ordered to lead a force of six hundred to find the supply column now waiting at the Raisin River. As circumstances will allow, either bring them here, or return with them to Ohio. In any event, they must be rescued. Am I clear?”

Miller’s pulse raced. “When, sir?”

“Tomorrow, before noon. You can begin selecting your men and supplying them yet tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

At midmorning the following day, Miller’s hand-picked column marched down the slope to the dock, and the longboats began the monotony of crossing the Detroit River to the Michigan side loaded, to return empty, reload, and repeat it over and over again. It was late afternoon before the last boat emptied on the Michigan side and Miller formed his command into a column, four abreast, each man with his backpack and musket. With Miller mounted on a bay gelding, they had marched six miles before he stopped them in the dusky light and ordered them to build their cookfires for evening mess.

Sunrise found the column five miles farther south, and four hours later Miller reined in his horse to call a fifteen-minute halt. The men left the wagon-ruts they called a road to drop their backpacks and lie flat on the ground, eyes closed, not caring about the mosquitoes and biting insects that came swarming to the scent of their sweat.

The sun was past its zenith when Miller stopped the column for their midday mess of biscuits and fried sowbelly from their backpacks. They drank tepid water from their canteens and once again sprawled in the green undergrowth to rest muscles that had labored for eight hours. Twenty minutes later Miller came to his feet and mounted his horse, and his orders rang in the trees.

“Form the column. We’re marching.”

Mumbling curses against heat, mosquitoes, officers, and marching, the men stood and reached for their backpacks. An instant later the first high, warbling Shawnee war whoop froze them in their tracks, and then the forest was filled with musket fire while painted Indians came leaping, screaming invectives, stripped to the waist, tomahawks high and swinging. Behind them came red-coated British regulars, muskets firing and bayonets flashing in the sun, cutting down and scattering the Americans in the forest. In the first volley, Miller heard a musket ball strike and felt the give as his horse stuck its nose into the ground and went down with a broken neck, sending Miller rolling.

He scrambled to his feet shouting, “Into the road, into the road! Form in battle ranks! Into the road! Battle ranks!”

The Americans gathered in the road and formed into four ranks, two facing each direction. The two outside ranks took the kneeling position while the two inside ranks remained standing, and they began a rotation, the kneeling ranks firing their volley and then reloading while the standing ranks fired their volley over their heads and reloaded while the kneeling ranks fired their next volley.

As quickly as they had appeared, the Indians and British fell back into the forest, and then the deadly sniping began. The only thing the Americans saw was the blossom of white smoke in the deep green of the thick forest, and then they heard the sharp report of the musket and the whack of the musket ball hitting. In fear and frustration they returned fire at targets they never saw.

Miller was crouched behind the carcass of his dead horse, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, seeing the hopelessness of being caught in the open roadbed by an enemy force that might be double the count of his own. For seconds that seemed an eternity, he watched in the desperate hope the Shawnee and British would fade and disappear as quickly as they had struck, but the cracking of their muskets settled into a steady stream of deadly fire tearing into his men. He saw the terror and the panic rise in their faces, and he knew that within minutes they would bolt and scatter and run—the worst thing they could do.

He made his decision. He leaped to his feet shouting, “Fall back, fall back! Hold your ranks and maintain your fire! Hold your ranks! Walk! Do not run! Keep your heads! Fire in volleys! Steady. Move north, back up the road. Move! Do not break ranks!”           

Time was forgotten as the column gave ground, retreating north, firing in volleys, reloading, firing again. Slowly the musket blasts from the forest dwindled, and then became sporadic, and then died altogether. Miller moved among his men on foot, sword still in his hand, bellowing orders.

“Keep moving! Leave the dead! Forget your backpacks! Keep moving!”

Daylight faded into dusk, and dusk yielded to the black of night beneath a quarter-moon, but Miller refused to halt his column. They moved steadily north on the twisting road, afraid to stop, muskets at the ready, listening to the sounds of night in the forest, eyes straining in the darkness, seeing and hearing Indians and redcoats that were not there. The march continued until the eastern skyline changed from black to deep purple and then gray, and when Miller could see individual branches on the trees flanking both sides of the narrow road, he called his first halt. Nervous men held cocked muskets in one hand while they drank from their canteens with the other, and they ignored the gnawing hunger in their bellies and stayed on their feet, waiting for the order to move on. Miller judged time and distance to Fort Detroit and then the mood of his men. Morning cookfires and a hot morning mess were both forgotten; they wanted only to be out of the forest, away from any possibility of the world erupting in their faces with screaming Indians wielding tomahawks and knives.

After a brief rest, Miller called out, “Form the column!” and the weary and wary men moved on into the sunrise. At noon they rounded the last turn in the road. Less than a quarter mile before them was the huge American camp and beyond were the south and west walls of Fort Detroit. Miller led his men into camp, where soldiers gathered to meet them and stare in wide-eyed silence as the incoming column slumped to the ground, dirty, sweated, many of them bloodied, beaten in body and soul. Miller stopped long enough to give orders to the camp cooks to feed them, then walked on to the fort to get the fort surgeon and every nurse he could find to tend his wounded. Then he walked down to the dock and ordered a longboat and crew to carry him across the river, where he went directly to the tent of General William Hull. The corporal standing picket at the tent flat stared in disbelief as he approached.

Miller spoke first. “Is General Hull inside?”

“Yes . . . uh . . . he’s . . . yes, sir, he’s inside.”

Miller did not wait for the corporal to inform Hull of his presence. He pushed the tent flap aside and stepped inside to face Hull, who was seated behind his desk.

General William Hull gaped. “What are you . . . you’re supposed to be . . .” He caught himself and started again. “I presume you succeeded in bringing the supplies in from the River Raisin.”

Miller shook his head emphatically. “No, sir. I did not. We were ambushed by Shawnee and redcoats.”

Hull came to his feet. “You defeated them?”

“No, sir. We returned to the fort.”

Hull’s head thrust forward. “Retreated?”

“Yes, sir. We were outnumbered and surrounded. It took us overnight to break out. We returned without stopping. We had to leave our dead behind. The men are across the river at the fort right now, being fed. The fort surgeon and nurses are among them, doing what they can. I came here to make this report.”

“What of the supply train at the Raisin?”

“I do not know, sir. We never got there.”

“How many dead?”

“I don’t have an accurate count. Several. Too many.”

“Was it Tecumseh? Do you know if it was Tecumseh?”

“They were Shawnee. That’s all I know. I don’t think we saw more than one hundred of them. They were in the trees. We saw some British regulars with them.”

“Do you know the size of their force?”

“No. They were on both sides of us, the full length of our column. It had to be several hundred. Perhaps more than a thousand.”

Hull started. “A thousand?”

“It could have been.”

Hull licked dry lips and said, “I need a written report. Today.”

Miller shook his head. “All due respect, sir, I can’t have it today. I’ve got men across the river that I’m responsible for.”

Hull’s voice was strained. “By morning. You must have it by morning.”

“I will, sir.”

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

Hull watched Miller disappear through the tent flap, and he stood there with his mind reeling, thoughts running wild. Thousands! Surrounded by thousands of those savages! Led by Tecumseh! If they attack Fort Detroit . . .

His thoughts were cut off by the picket at the tent flap. He rapped on the pole and waited until Hull called, “Enter.”

“Sir, there’s a messenger from up north. Fort Michilimackinac. Says it’s urgent.”

Hull recoiled. “Send him in.”

The bearded civilian was dressed in buckskins and beaded moccasins. He carried a Pennsylvania long rifle, and had a tomahawk thrust through his weapons belt. He faced Hull without saluting, his deep-set eyes steady, firm.

“Yes,” Hull said, “what is it?”

“I come to tell you Fort Michilimackinac fell. British and Indians. They got prisoners up there.”

Hull’s head jerked forward and for a moment his mouth trembled as though he were trying to speak and could not. Finally he muttered, “When?”

The man shrugged. “Six, seven days ago. I lost track.”

Hull’s mind locked. His thoughts disintegrated and for several moments he could not speak. He forced out the words, “Your name?”

“Samuel Laughlin. I was a scout up there. Hid in the trees. Got out in a canoe at night. Came here. Figgered you ought to know so you can send a force up there to take the fort back. Or at least get the prisoners released.”

Hull could not force coherence to his thoughts and shook his head. “You are dismissed.”

Laughlin peered at him. “You all right?”

Hull repeated, “You are dismissed.”

Laughlin raised a hand and dropped it. “As you wish.” He ducked through the tent flap and walked away, down toward the river and his canoe.

For a time Hull stood still, struggling to force some sense of logic and reason into his thoughts. Finally, he straightened and called the corporal at his tent flap.

“Bring colonels Findlay and Cass and McArthur here at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

While he waited for their arrival, Hull opened the desk drawer and carefully cut a small cud of tobacco. He was just tucking it into his cheek when the three officers entered. He gestured, and they sat in crude chairs opposite him. They could not miss seeing the controlled panic in his face.

“Gentlemen, a scout just reported that Fort Michilimackinac to the north has fallen. Our northern support is gone.”

The three colonels remained motionless, their faces dead, and Hull went on. “I’ve also been informed that a large force of Indians and British attacked and routed Colonel Miller’s command, preventing him from finding and rescuing the supply column now waiting at the Raisin River. With Michilimackinac gone, a hive of Indians has been loosed and are swarming down in every direction. My purpose in calling you here now is to receive your advice on a proposal.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “As it now stands, the total force of British and Canadians and Indians opposing us is larger than our own—much larger. They are on all sides. To the south at Fort Malden, across the river to the west and north, gathered here to destroy us. The supply train we were depending on is still on the River Raisin. Two columns I sent to relieve them—Van Horne and Miller—were driven back with casualties.”

He paused long enough for the information to sink in then proceeded: “I have heard nothing of the efforts of General Dearborn to take control of the Niagara River or Montreal to the east of us and must presume the worst for them. Had that operation succeeded, I would surely have been told. I can only conclude we have no support from the east. We are simply surrounded by hostiles, and must look to ourselves for relief. We must reopen our communication and supply lines back to Ohio. To do that I propose we build blockhouses at Brownstown and on the River Raisin.”

He stopped, and a tension began to build among the colonels before he went on.

“When we crossed the river, it was our intent to attack Fort Malden. It is still my intent, but I cannot do it under present conditions. I have no wish to lead a bayonet charge of undisciplined militia to storm walls fourteen feet high, and with twenty-four cannon to protect them. I conclude we have two choices. We must wait until we have sufficient of our own cannon available and in place to breach those walls before we send our troops in, or we must consider a full retreat back to Ohio until we are ready. I need your response.”

McArthur glanced at Cass and Findlay for a moment, then turned to Hull. “I have my doubts, sir. The men are sullen. They don’t know why we didn’t attack Fort Malden the day after we crossed the river. If a full retreat is ordered, clear back to Ohio, I think this entire command will melt away and be gone. They’re of the opinion they can’t rely on their officers.”

Hull caught the thinly veiled insinuation that his command had lost confidence, that they would not support him. For a moment the tension was electric, and then Hull asked, “What are you suggesting? Can you guarantee the obedience of your men to direct orders?”

McArthur hesitated for only a moment. “No, sir. I cannot.” He turned to Cass and Findlay, who both shook their heads but remained silent.

Hull leaned forward. “Are they cowards? Afraid of battle?”

“No, sir,” McArthur replied, heatedly. “They are not cowards.”

Hull went on. “If a retreat to Ohio is unacceptable, then we must get on with the plan to attack Fort Malden. I propose that we cannot consider it until we have artillery in place to breach those walls. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. We will continue preparations to put our artillery in place, and then we will proceed. We’ll find out if those men are soldiers or cowards. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is one more matter. Twice I have tried to reach the supply train down on the Raisin. We must reopen that road and bring those men here at the earliest time possible. I intend assigning four hundred picked men to try one more time, under command of yourself, Colonel McArthur, and Colonel Cass. Do you agree with me?”

There was a pause before McArthur answered. “Yes.”

“Pick your men as soon as possible and leave. Are there any questions?”

There were none.

“All right. Carry on with your assignments. You are dismissed.”

Hull watched them leave his tent, and for a time sat without moving, sick in the feeling that he no longer had the respect or the support of his command. With bowed head he pondered, What of General Brock and his redcoats and Indians—what are they doing?—do we have time to get our artillery ready?

* * * * *

Twenty miles south, in the headquarters building of Fort Malden, General Brock raised his head at the sound of the knock on his door.

“Enter.”

“Sir, there’s a Lieutenant Richardson here to see you. He has a bag.”

“Send him in.”

Short, muscular, uniform rumpled and stained from days in the woods, Richardson approached Brock’s desk and saluted. Beneath his left arm was a dirty, tattered canvas bag.

Brock stood. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry about my appearance, sir. I just returned from the River Raisin. We found this bag among the things left behind when the Americans retreated. I think it’s a mail sack, sir. I thought you might be interested.”

Brock reached for it. “Have you looked inside?”

“No, sir. We thought that was for you to do.”

“Very good. Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Your force performed admirably. Thank you for delivering the bag. You are dismissed.”

Brock was opening the pouch as Richardson closed the door. Among the documents was a sealed letter written by Hull. It was addressed to the Honorable William Eustis, Esq. United States secretary of war, Washington, D.C. Brock puzzled for a moment before he understood that Hull had intended the letter to be delivered by Van Horne to a mail carrier among the Americans stranded on the River Raisin, to be carried back to Ohio, thence on to Washington, D.C. Eagerly, Brock broke the seal and carefully read it, then reread it.

“ . . . troops dispirited . . . rebellious . . . openly talking against myself . . . officers discussing plans to replace me with one of their own . . . only the refusal of Colonel Miller to cooperate with them avoided an incident in which I would have been required to hang some of my own officers . . . the enlisted are talking of wholesale desertion . . . never seen morale so low in any military unit . . . I believe they will mutiny if changes are not made immediately . . .”

Brock closed his eyes to concentrate, then picked up his quill and began to write. He finished, signed the document, dropped melted wax onto the flap and pressed it with his seal. He closed it inside a leather message satchel, and called to his aide.

“Could you bring an experienced mail rider?”

He sorted through the remainder of the American mail pouch until the mail rider rapped at his door, and Brock called for him to enter.

“You wanted me, sir?”

“Yes. You’ve carried the mails?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the routes?”

“Yes, sir. Just about all of them, from Amherstburg to Fort George.”

“You know the places to expect American patrols?”

“Yes, sir. And I know just about when the patrols are active. I can avoid them, if that’s what you mean.”

Brock smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Only this time, don’t avoid them. Time it so you will meet one of them. When you do, turn your horse and make a run, but be certain you lose this leather satchel in plain sight. Can you manage that?”

A puzzled look crossed the rider’s face. “Do I understand this right, sir? You want me to lose that satchel so they can find it?”

“Exactly. The trick is, don’t get shot doing it.”

The rider shook his head. “I don’t know what this is all about, sir, but if you want that satchel in their hands, I can do it. And I most certainly intend to keep from getting shot!”

“Good. Excellent. Leave in the morning and report back when you’ve completed the assignment. And by the way, tell no one of this.”

“I understand, sir.”

Late the following afternoon, while the redcoated troops were lining up for evening mess, the mail rider rapped on Geneal Brock’s door and entered on command.

“Sir,” he said, “I just returned and I’m reporting as ordered. The American patrol saw me and I dropped the satchel and made a run. I stopped in the woods long enough to see them pick it up. They have it, sir.”

Brock raised a fist in triumph. “Good. Excellent. Was there any trouble? Shooting?”

“Yes, sir. They shot, but me and my horse was moving fast enough I don’t think the musket balls caught up with us.”

Brock chuckled. “Thank you. Go get in line for evening mess.”

“That I can do, sir.”

Brock was still smiling as the door closed and he sat down. Well, General Hull, you should have that fake letter sometime soon. What are you going to do about it?

He pondered for a time, then called his aide.

“Would you bring the war council here for a brief meeting?”

Within twenty minutes, six officers were gathered around Brock’s desk, wondering at being summoned without notice.

“Gentlemen,” Brock explained, “get your men ready. It is my guess we are going to march north soon. We’ll cross the river about two miles south of Fort Detroit and move on up to surround it and attack.”

Smiles appeared, and murmurs of approval were exchanged.

“I don’t know precisely when, but soon. Have your men ready to march on half an hour’s notice. With artillery. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

* * * * *

Twenty miles north, General Hull watched as the last of four hundred men loaded into the waiting longboats and pushed off into the smooth flow of the Detroit River. They made the crossing, and for a time Hull studied them with his telescope as they unloaded their baggage. In fading twilight they fell into a column and disappeared on the road leading south. Hull turned and walked back to his tent, keenly aware that there was a large, vacant gap in the campground where four hundred of his fighting force had been.

Too few remain, he pondered. If Brock and the Indians were to come now . . . He shuddered and did not finish the thought.

The following day, with the heat of the sun directly overhead, a winded sergeant with the leather satchel in his left hand stood impatiently at the flap of General Hull’s tent, waiting until the picket gave him permission to enter. Inside, he saluted the general, surprised at the tobacco stains in the man’s beard and the spots on his tunic. The general did not stand.

“Yes, Sergeant, what is it?”

“Late yesterday we intercepted a British mail carrier. He dropped this satchel. I thought you might want it, sir.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know sir. I didn’t open it.”

“Lay it on my desk. Is there anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

The sergeant turned and walked out without looking back, aware there was something very wrong inside the tent.

General Hull spat tobacco juice into the spittoon before he opened the satchel and drew out the single sealed document. It was addressed to Major General Henry Montgomery. Hull’s hands were trembling as he broke the seal and read the signature of General Isaac Brock, Commander, Fort Malden. His breathing came shallow as he read.

“ . . . advise you that Chief Tecumseh is gathering three thousand Indian warriors from the Shawnee, Miami, Ojibwa, and Wyandot tribes to arrive here within three days . . . request that you bring your sixteen hundred regulars immediately, primarily to create a fighting force of at least five thousand, and secondarily to help control the Indians . . . it is impossible to predict what they will do once we have taken the force presently on the west side of the Detroit River under command of General William Hull and also Fort Detroit itself, on the east side of the river . . . we must do all possible to prevent a wholesale massacre of the Americans and those friendly to their cause . . . we will move north imminently with our artillery to commence the attack . . .”

It did not occur to Hull that he had never heard of a British Major General named Henry Montgomery, nor did he consider the possibility that no such person existed. Hull sat in shock before he leaped to his feet and charged out the flap of his tent to confront the first officer he saw.

“Assemble the war council in my tent immediately,” he ordered. Tobacco juice oozed from the corners of his mouth as he talked. “Get them here. Go! Now!”

The officer backed up one step, staring at the wild look in the eyes of his commanding officer.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered and turned to run.

They came singly, until seven of them were in the tent facing Hull. Not one of them saluted. Hull stood rigid on his side of the desk as he spoke. His voice was high, nearly out of control.

“The British are gathering three thousand Indian warriors. Shawnee, Miami, Ojibwa, Wyandot. Sixteen hundred British regulars are joining them. They are going to attack us here, then Fort Detroit. With artillery. Our force is reduced by one third. We must—must—get a message to Colonels Cass and McArthur to return! Immediately. Select two riders on the best horses we have and dispatch them within the hour. They are to ride without stopping until they have delivered the message and returned to inform us of it.”             

He paused to wipe the tobacco juice onto his sleeve. “While the messenger is gone, prepare your men to cross back to Fort Detroit! I do not know if such a crossing will occur, but should it become necessary, time will be against us. We must prepare, now!”

In the late afternoon, American patrols returned to make reports. There’s activity out in the woods—saw Indians—red-coated regulars—some horses—six cannon—they’re coming! Reluctant officers carried the messages to Hull, who began to mutter under his breath, spraying tobacco juice, wiping it on his sleeves, giving incoherent orders.       

He took evening mess in his tent, ate none of it, and paced the floor, pointing, gesturing, exclaiming to no one. Outside, the pickets and the officers who passed his tent paused in wonder, then continued, fearful their commander had lost his sanity.

The moon had risen and the nighthawks were darting overhead when the messenger hauled an exhausted horse to a stop before Hull’s tent and the picket gave him entrance.

“Sir,” the winded messenger blurted, “I delivered your message. To Cass and McArthur, personal. Both said to tell you they will not be returning to this camp.”

“What!” Hull stood stock still. “Refused to return? Refused a direct order? A written order?”

“All I can tell you, sir, is they said no, and ordered me to return.”

“Rouse the camp,” Hull shouted. “Everybody. Get the officers here!”

Without a word the messenger fled the tent and ran to his regimental officer. “General Hull’s in trouble, sir. He wants the entire camp roused. Now. I have no idea why.”

Half an hour later Hull stepped out of his tent to face his war council in the flickering yellow light of great fires.

“Colonels Cass and McArthur refuse to return. We are being surrounded by Indians! Break camp. Now. Tonight. Cross back to Fort Detroit! In the name of the Almighty, we have women and children over there! We cannot leave them to be massacred!”

By morning the crossing was completed. Hull cowered inside the walls of the fort, mumbling incoherently. A woman found him crouched beneath a stair casing, hands thrown over his head to avoid incoming cannonballs that were not there. The woman shook her head and walked away. Talk against Hull was no longer subdued, it was open, rampant.

Within the hour, pickets on the walls shouted, “British and Indians are in the woods. They have artillery!”

Then came the thunder of cannon and the white smoke, and cannonballs ripped into the walls of Fort Detroit. Some cleared the walls, landing on the parade grounds and smashing into the buildings. For thirty minutes the shelling continued, then ceased. When the white smoke cleared, two British soldiers under a white flag marched to the gates of the fort.

“A message from General Isaac Brock,” they announced, and delivered it to the American officers waiting at the gate.

Hull was cowering in his private office when the knock came at his door. He did not answer, and the two officers walked in. Hull was on his knees in the corner, his back to the door, his head held in his hands.

“From General Brock, sir.”

Hull jerked upright. His hands were shaking so hard he could hardly open and hold the document, and he slumped into the chair behind his desk to hold the message flat while he read it, mumbling incoherently.

“ . . . It is far from my inclination to join in a war of extermination, but you must be aware that the numerous body of Indians who have attached themselves to my troops will be beyond control the moment the contest commences . . .”

He read it again, then sat with his head tilted forward, staring at the document. A full minute passed before the officers before him moved, then spoke.

“Sir, are there any orders?”

Hull did not move, nor did he give any sign he had even heard them. One officer looked at the other, and the two of them turned and walked out of the office. They had no sooner reached the parade ground than Hull came barging out behind them.

“Get a white flag!” he raged. “Get it now!”

One officer, a captain, turned to confront him. “A white flag? For what? Are we surrendering the fort?”

“Get it. Now!”

“A white towel? Will that do?”

“A dirty towel?” Hull exclaimed. “Not a dirty towel! A sheet. A clean white sheet!”

Again the officer asked, “Sir, are we surrendering the fort?”

Hull roared, “Get a clean white sheet!”

Minutes later, while Hull knelt in the corner of his office with his back to the door, trembling, talking to the wall, incoherent, three officers opened the gates of Fort Detroit and marched out under a clean white bed sheet, held high on a pole. They were met by a detail of British officers who accepted their swords in surrender, including the fort and every soul within, as well as the men under command of Cass and Findlay, who were not present. Those men were hidden in the woods nearby, close enough to have come to the aid of those inside Fort Detroit, but refusing to do so.

The moon was up, and Americans were on the parade ground outside the headquarters building, openly accusing General Hull of cowardice and treason when Isaac Brock sat at Hull’s desk by lantern light with his daily log before him. Thoughtfully he dipped Hull’s quill in the ink well and wrote:

“August 16, 1812. This date General William Hull of the United States Army surrendered Fort Detroit and all personnel, present or in the field, to British and Indian forces. The battle was minimal and casualties were light. General Hull is thought to be suffering from mental and physical exhaustion, due to a stroke suffered by him some two years since, with possible effects of alcohol or narcotics. The occupation of Fort Detroit and vicinity brings control of the western front of the American offensive into our hands . . .”

Notes

The very complicated chronology of events by which the United States lost Fort Detroit and dominance on the western front of the three-pronged American invasion of Canada to the British is virtually as herein described. The command of the American force sent from Ohio to Fort Detroit with the intent of crossing the Detroit River to capture the British Fort Malden and then the town of Amherstburg was first offered to General William Hull, governor of Michigan Territory and aging Revolutionary War hero, who refused, then to Jacob Kingsbury who also refused. Finally, President Madison persuaded William Hull to accept it. Hull marched north with a force of about two thousand troops, cutting a new road as he went. The circumstances of that expedition and the misfortune of Hull’s papers being seized are accurately represented herein, as is the incident of a supply column being sent, with the subsequent ambush by Indians. The events of this period in the War of 1812 are historically accurate, including the derision in which Hull was held by his command. General Hull’s mental and physical collapse is accurately described. His surrender was completed on August 16, 1812. Many of the messages sent by both sides, as they appear herein, are verbatim quotes, or abridgements of verbatim quotes.

See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 80–84; Stagg, Mister Madison’s War, pp. 196–205; Wills, James Madison, 100–103; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, pp. 28–29.

For a painting of British General Isaac Brock see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 83.

The reader may be interested to know that later, after General Hull was returned to the United States in an exchange of prisoners of war, he was tried by a court-martial for cowardice and neglect of duty, convicted, and sentenced to death, with a recommendation, however, for mercy, because of his “revolutionary services and advanced age.” President Madison approved the sentence and remitted the punishment. See Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 84.