Boston

Late August 1813

CHAPTER XX

* * *

The dead midafternoon air in Boston was hazy with humidity, and the pounding sun had turned the town into a sweltering oven. Only those who had need were in the streets; all others were inside the buildings—any building—sweating, working with fans, doing anything for relief.

On the waterfront, dockhands were stripped to the waist, sweat dripping as they loaded and unloaded the cargo that was the lifeblood of the town, onto and off of ships while gulls and grebes wheeled and squawked and paraded in the shade beneath the docks, snatching up bits of dead carrion washed up by the sea and garbage thrown overboard by the ship crews.

The office door of the shipping firm of Dunson & Weems stood open while those inside yearned for a breeze to stir the air, but none came. Inside, Billy Weems sat at his desk hunched over one of the large company ledgers making the never-ending business entries of payments received, billings sent out, contract balances, business costs, insurance, payroll, taxes, and the myriad smaller records that had to be kept current. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead, dipped his quill in the ink well, adjusted his bifocals on his nose, and continued transferring figures from the bills and invoices to the various sections of the ledger where they needed to be.

Behind Billy, Matthew sat at his desk, his shirt damp with perspiration, poring over insurance claims, sorting them out by company, type, and amount. To his right, across the aisle, against the far wall, Adam’s desk was vacant, and behind it, the desk used by John had stacks of records listing the crews of the eighteen commercial ships owned and operated by the company. Keeping the ships manned by competent seamen was an unending challenge. John’s chair was pushed back, vacant; it was his day to go to the tavern two hundred yards up the waterfront where the mail was delivered and sorted.

Billy heard the rapid footsteps approaching the front door and raised his head as John walked into the room, past the counter, and back to his desk, carrying the mail. He dropped it in a heap and slumped into his chair, wiping at the perspiration on his face with his shirtsleeve.

“Hottest day of the summer,” he complained.

“Anything in the mail?” Matthew asked.

“Yes. You have a letter from Adam, and Billy has one from Madison.”

Billy’s head snapped up. “Madison? President Madison?”

“President Madison.”

Both men came to John’s desk to get their letters while John began breaking the seals and opening the other business letters.

Billy was back at his desk before he broke the seal and spread the letter flat on his desk. He pushed his bifocals up his nose with one finger and concentrated as he read.

“ . . . and I have confirmation of the fact that Tecumseh is leading many of his Shawnee and also warriors from other tribes north . . . It is my conclusion he intends joining British forces somewhere at the west end of Lake Erie to drive out all Americans and reclaim lands previously ceded to the United States by treaty . . . I deem it imperative that we attempt to deter him from such a course of action . . . It is for that reason that I inquire if you can find Eli Stroud and persuade him to contact Tecumseh with the objective of preventing the bloodshed that will surely follow should he join the British in their attempt to recover their loss of control of Lake Ontario . . .”

Billy pushed the letter away and leaned back in his chair and rounded his mouth to blow air. Find Eli and ask him to walk into that nest of hornets up in Canada?

From behind, Matthew asked, “Bad news?”

Billy turned his chair. “Madison wants me to find Eli and ask him to go up to Lake Erie to talk Tecumseh out of a war.”

Matthew came to a focus. “Tecumseh! Is he up there? Does Madison know?”

“Says he does. Somewhere near the west end of the lake.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair. “Think you can find Eli?”

Billy shrugged. “That’s not the question. The question is do I want to try? What about my obligations here at the office? And at home—Brigitte and the children. Finding Eli could take weeks.”

Matthew wiped at his face with his handkerchief. “We can make do around here if you decide to go.”

Billy studied his quill for several moments before he responded. “Madison wouldn’t ask without need. I think I better go. I’ll talk to Brigitte.”

John stopped working with the mail to interrupt. “Anything to get out of work.” He shook his head. “Two old men out there in the woods. You’ll get lost, certain. Maybe I better go along just to—”

Matthew cut him off. “You’re staying right here.”

John was grinning at his father. “What did Adam have to say?”

Matthew gestured to the letter. “He’ll be a while on the lake with Perry. He’s expecting a major engagement up there on the water. Wanted us to know. He’s written Laura about it.”

John continued. “You ever read that commendation Madison sent to him? For his part in the York harbor fight?”

“Laura showed me. Things got pretty lively in that battle. Adam did well.”

Billy cut in. “You’ll be all right here if I go?”

“We’ll get by.”

Billy began putting his desk in order. “I think I better go home and talk with Brigitte. If she agrees, I might leave tomorrow. No way to know how long it will take to find Eli, and the summer’s about gone.”

It was five minutes past six o’clock, and the sun was reaching for the western horizon when Matthew stood and stretched.

“Let’s lock up for the day. Been too hot. Going to storm soon.”

Billy called John to his desk and pointed at the stacked documents and ledgers as he spoke.

“There’s the shipping schedules for the next four weeks with the cargoes and the ports listed. There’s the contracts and insurance papers. There’s the ledgers with the customer accounts.” He pointed at the west wall, where a huge chart was fastened with the detail of customers, contracts, cargoes, pick up and delivery dates and destinations, ships assigned to each, captains, and number of crew members required. “Keep the ledgers and records current. Make sure they are consistent with the chart, and keep the chart updated every day.”

“I’ll take care of it. Let’s go home.”

Matthew held the door while the other two walked out onto the ancient black timbers of the Boston docks and waited while he locked the door. They went west together, away from the waterfront, and had just reached the intersection where they would separate when Billy stopped and looked at Matthew.

“What’s the best way to the Ohio Valley right now? The lakes or down across New York and Pennsylvania?”

Matthew reflected for a moment. “I think I’d take the land route. We’re in control of Lake Ontario and have been since the British attacked Sacketts Harbor and lost the battle last May. But they still control Lake Erie. An American ship might run into trouble. I’d go cross-country.”

“That’s what I think.” Billy paused for a moment. “I could be gone in the morning. If I am, would you write a letter to Madison? Tell him I received his. Tell him I’m looking for Eli.

Matthew nodded. “You be careful. Hear? We’re both too old for this business of war.”

Minutes later Billy walked through the front door of his home and Brigitte called from the kitchen, “Billy, is that you? Supper in ten minutes. Get washed.”

Supper was finished, the dishes washed, dried, and in the cupboard, and the remains of a leg of lamb were in the root cellar when the large clock on the mantel sounded half past seven o’clock. Billy led Brigitte into the library and invited her to sit opposite him. She sat erect, focused, aware something had happened.

She spoke first. “Is it Adam?” she asked, and he saw the dread in her eyes.

“Not Adam. I received a letter today from President Madison. He asked me to find Eli and tell him to meet with Tecumseh. The Shawnee are gathering up north, and Madison believes they intend joining with the British to drive us out of Canada. Madison wants Eli to persuade Tecumseh to give it up.”

“He wants you to find Eli? That’s all? Not go to war?”

“That’s all the letter said.”

“How soon?”

Billy drew a deep breath. “It has to be done soon. I’d like to leave in the morning.”

Brigitte stiffened in surprise. “So soon? When will you return?”

He looked her full in the face. “There’s no way to judge. It could be two or three weeks. I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

He saw her shoulders slump and the air go out of her. For a time she sat with her head bowed, looking at her hands folded in her lap. “When will it ever end?” she murmured.

Billy sat back in silence, giving her time. Finally she raised her head, and he saw the resolution in her eyes. “I’ll help you pack,” was all she said.

Clouds had covered the moon, and a breeze was coming in from the Atlantic to stir the curtains at the open windows when Billy finished rolling clothing and cheese and cooked mutton and hardtack inside a blanket and tying it. The mantel clock struck ten times as Billy blew out the lamps and the two of them sought their bed to kneel while Billy offered their nightly prayer. In the quiet darkness they heard the first sound of raindrops through the open windows, and moments later the soft, steady pelting of a summer rain. Brigitte rose to close the windows far enough to hold out the rain, and still leave an opening large enough to let the breeze clear the heat from the house. She returned to the bed, and moved close to Billy with her back to him.

“Hold me,” she said quietly. He could hear the strain in her voice, and he reached to gather her to him, to drift to sleep.

The dawn came gray, and the soft rain was still falling when Billy tied his blanket behind the saddle and mounted a bay gelding with his rifle across the saddle bows. He moved west, away from the dripping town to the narrow neck that connected the peninsula to the mainland, sharing the muddy, rutted dirt roads that wound through the thick forests with great two-wheeled farm carts drawn by horses, moving steadily past him toward Boston, loaded with the summer’s harvest for the markets of the city. He stopped to noon beneath the sheltering arms of a tall pine and hobbled the horse to let it graze while he ate cheese and hardtack and drank from a rain-swollen stream. The heavens cleared in the late afternoon, and at dusk he spread his blanket beneath a huge oak tree and built a small fire over which he heated mutton for his supper with the hobbled horse feeding in tall grass nearby.

With the days growing cooler as he moved inland, away from the humidity of the coast, he angled south of due west to cross the Hudson River thirty miles below Albany, then paid the fare to ferry across the Delaware River into Pennsylvania, well north of Philadelphia. The fourth day he crossed the Susquehanna River and turned just north of due west, winding through the incomparable beauty of the Appalachian Mountains to the Allegheny River, where he rested the horse one day before taking the ferry across to continue into Ohio, and on to the Sandusky River. There he turned north, directly toward the southern shore of Lake Erie.

It was late in the day when he reined in his horse at a trading post in a clearing carved out of the thick woods. One outside wall of the old, weathered log building was covered with a lion pelt and half a dozen out-of-season beaver pelts. Near the front door about twenty rusty beaver traps hung from pegs. A tired old gray mare stood at a hitch rack near the entrance, and Billy tied the bay next to her before he pushed through the rough plank door. He stood for a moment on the dirt floor with his rifle in hand while his eyes adjusted, then walked to his left where two heavy planks were supported by two barrels to form a counter. Behind the counter was an old, thin, gray-haired man with a straggly beard and a withered left arm that hung limp. Seated towards the rear of the room at a rough-cut table with a jug before him and a pewter mug in his hand was a round man with a jowled, bearded face and suspicious eyes.

Billy walked to the old man behind the counter and nodded to him. “I’m in need of some direction. I wonder if you might help.”

The old voice was high, scratchy. “Lost?”

“No. I need to find the nearest place where the military has an outpost.”

“Which army? British or American?”

“American.”

The aged man pointed through the wall behind him. “Straight on north. Can’t miss it. They been gatherin’ up there for days.”

“Who’s been gathering? For what?”

“Soldiers. Militia. Heard they’re expecting a fight up there on the lake. British and Americans.”

“Navy? Ships?”

The man bobbed his head. “Navy and army. Ours against theirs.” He pointed at his useless arm. “It was a fight like that cost this arm. Back in ’81.”

“Where? Which battle?”

“Yorktown. Heard of it?”

For a moment Billy was back thirty-two years at the edge of the small tobacco-trading village of Yorktown in the dark preceding dawn on that October day when the French and American soldiers stormed the British redoubts numbers nine and ten on the banks of the York River. He was Lieutenant Billy Weems, hearing the roar of the cannon and seeing the flash of the muskets as he led his company leaping over the ditch and sprinting up the rise to the abatis and then over the top, plunging in among the British soldiers. He saw his sergeant, Alvin Turlock, go down in the deadly hand-to-hand melee, and then the British threw down their arms in surrender, and he gathered Turlock into his arms and ran to find the surgeons.

He nodded to the old man in the trading post. “I’ve heard of it.” He paused, then asked, “You’ve seen soldiers passing here going north?”

“Several. Come in bunches. Some stop here. Goin’ up for a battle.”

“See any Indians going north?”

“Don’t hardly ever see ’em on the roads. They move through the woods. Don’t hardly ever see ’em.”       

Billy nodded. “Thanks. I better be going on.”

The man asked, “You need supplies? Salt? Gunpowder?”

“No,” Billy answered, then reconsidered. “You have any brown sugar?”

“Got some. Gone lumpy.”

“I’ll take about a pound. And carrots. Got any carrots?”

A quizzical look crossed the old man’s face. “You’re askin’ for carrots?”

“Got a few?”

“A few. In that barrel over there.”

Minutes later Billy walked out to his waiting bay with a threadbare cloth sack holding lumpy brown sugar and twelve unwashed carrots. He held a large lump of sugar in the flat of his hand and lifted it to the nose of the bay. The long upper lip reached to grasp it, and Billy smiled as the horse worked it in its mouth and then lowered its head looking for more. He fed the horse two more lumps before he mounted and rode on north until dusk, when he set up his camp near a small stream, built a small fire, caught a trout with his hands, cleaned it, and set it on a spit to roast. He spread his blanket nearby and fed the horse three carrots before he hobbled it and let it go to graze through the night.

With the moon rising in the east and the hush of night all around him, he leaned his rifle against the trunk of a sycamore tree and sat down with his knees drawn up, staring into the last, low flames of the dying campfire to work with his thoughts.

If American soldiers and seamen are gathering at some military post up by Lake Erie, they’re expecting a major action, and that means the British are up there waiting. If they are, Eli’s most likely already up there or on his way.

Forty feet across the campfire, two large yellow eyes appeared in the blackness of the woods, and Billy stopped all motion to watch them. In his mind he was unconsciously judging how many seconds it would take to reach the rifle, cock it, bring it to bear, and fire. For three or four seconds the eyes did not move, and then they were gone as suddenly as they had appeared. Billy remained still, watching, listening for more than one minute for any sign of the big cat, and there was nothing. He continued with his thoughts.

If there is a major battle taking shape up there between the Americans and the British, the Shawnee are bound to get into it, and that means Tecumseh will be there. That’s where Eli can find him. The question is, can Eli find him before the fight, and if he does, can he talk him into staying out of it?

Billy pushed dirt over the coals of the fire and sat for a time in the black of the forest, listening for any sound that would tell him a great cat was circling, waiting. The only sounds were the frogs, the soft whisper of the stream, and the ruffle of silken wings of the night birds overhead. He went to his blanket with his rifle at hand and slept the sleep of a tired, aging man.

He awakened with the morning star fading and saddled the bay, hungry to ride north until the sun was directly overhead, when he stopped near a stream to eat what was left of the fish with some cheese and hardtack, and to drink from the stream and let the horse graze for half an hour. It was late afternoon when he caught his first glimpse of Lake Erie, shining in the sunlight in the far distance. He camped on the bank of a river and was up the next morning and mounted on the bay with his rifle across his thighs before sunrise. By late afternoon he was approaching the south shore of the lake, riding through a sprawling camp of men camped in clusters, some in uniform, some in homespun, some in buckskins, a few stripped to the waist, splitting wood or washing clothes or tending huge smoke-blackened kettles dangling over fires from twelve-foot tripods and filled with steaming soup. Some paused in the confusion to watch him pass while he made his way to a large tent with a flagpole and an American flag hanging limp in the still, warm air. He dismounted and approached the tent flap to rap on the front support pole. From inside a voice called, “Wait,” and a minute later a young, blond-haired man with blue eyes and a saber scar on the left side of his neck pushed the flap aside, still buttoning his tunic, with the gold bars of a captain on the shoulders. The man studied Billy for a moment and with narrowed eyes asked, “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. My name is Billy Weems. I’ve been sent to find a man named Eli Stroud. He ought to be somewhere nearby.”

“Who sent you?”

“President James Madison.”

The young officer’s mouth dropped open for a moment, and then he laughed. “President Madison sent you?”

Billy drew the letter from inside his shirt. “Yes. He did. Would you care to read his letter?”

The officer stopped laughing. For long seconds he stared before he reached for the letter. For a time Billy stood quietly while the man read it, and read it again, then raised his eyes to stare in disbelief.

“Who wrote this?”

“President Madison. I need to find Eli Stroud.”

The officer refolded it and handed it back to Billy. He rounded his mouth to blow air for a moment. “Well, that may or may not be a letter from President Madison, but whatever it is, it looks authentic to me. Who is this man? Describe Eli Stroud.”

“Tall. About sixty years old. Raised Iroquois. Should be wearing buckskins. Moccasins. Carries a Pennsylvania rifle and a tomahawk. Fought with distinction thirty-five years ago in the Revolution. Sparse with words. Knows the woods. Good man.”

“He can speak Shawnee?”

“He speaks seven languages.”

The officer gaped. “Seven?”

“Including French and English and all Iroquois dialects.”

“He knows Tecumseh?”

“He knows him well.”

“How do you know this Eli Stroud?”

Billy paused for a moment. “I fought beside him in the Revolution. I was a lieutenant in the Continental Army.”

Surprise showed in the young officer’s face. “What’s your name?”

“Billy Weems. From Boston.”

“Well, all right, Weems. I’ve not seen Stroud but that doesn’t mean I won’t. If I do I’ll tell him you’re here looking for him. You might go on over to command headquarters about half a mile west of here and ask. Someone might have seen him.”

Billy nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Good luck.”

Billy remounted the bay and reined it west at a walk, studying the men and the camps on both sides as he went. Halfway to the headquarters tent he passed the largest rope horse corral he had ever seen. He judged there must be fifteen hundred saddle mounts inside, and camped next to it was a great spread of tents on the lake shore and in the woods, and men in homespun and buckskins with a flag declaring them to be from Kentucky. Some stared as he rode by. He passed smaller camps with flags from Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, and Michigan. He stopped in front of the largest tent, with an American flag hanging from a sixty-foot flagpole to one side. He rapped on the support pole and waited until a man wearing the gold epaulets of a colonel opened it to stare at Billy, impatient, scowling.

“What is it?”

“I was sent here by a captain in this camp to ask about a man named Eli Stroud.”

“A soldier? An officer?”

“No. A civilian.”

The colonel shook his head. “I don’t have time right now. Wait here.” The tent flap closed, and Eli heard brusque orders given inside, and a young lieutenant emerged.

It took Billy five minutes to explain himself, in which time the young lieutenant read Madison’s letter, looked skeptically at Billy, returned the letter, and said, “I am Lieutenant Uriah Ellington. You’re looking for this man Stroud?”

“I am.”

“I have not seen him. The best I can do is inform all the other officers and hope one of them will see him. Where will you be if that happens?”

“I’ll check with you every day, if that’s all right.”

“I’ll be available. Was there anything else?”

“Yes. How many men are gathered here?”

“About five thousand. More coming.”

“For what?”

Lieutenant Ellington took a deep breath and launched into it, pointing north across the lake.

“Weeks ago we cut off the supply routes to the British forces across the lake. There are thousands of Indians over there—men and women and children—all dependent on the British for food, and since we stopped the supplies, the British can no longer feed them. They’re starving—getting unruly. Captain Barclay—Robert H. Barclay—is the naval commander of the British warships on the lake. He lost one arm in a sea battle years ago, but he’s capable. Right now his sailors are on half rations. He’s desperate. We’re expecting him try to reopen the British supply lines, and to do that he’ll have to defeat our naval forces on the lake. We think he’ll attack sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Does that explain what’s going on here?”

“Most of it. Who commands our naval forces?”

“Captain Oliver Hazard Perry. He’s young, but he’s good. He has nine gunboats, and they’re out there right now, waiting for Barclay.”

Billy came to a focus. “Do you know the names of the American ships out there? Is there one named the Margaret?”

The young lieutenant’s forehead wrinkled. “Is she a commissioned naval ship?”

“No. A volunteer. Civilian.”

“I only know about the commissioned ships. There isn’t one named the Margaret.”

Billy shifted his feet. “Thanks. Ask your officers about Eli Stroud. I’ll check back.”

The lieutenant disappeared back into the tent, and Billy led the bay away, further west to the fringes of the great camp, where the tents and the men thinned. He stopped just inside the woods to unsaddle the bay and buckle on the hobbles to let it graze while he sat down to eat what was left of his cheese and hardtack. Finished, he arranged the saddle beneath a tree with his blanket next to it, led the bay to a tiny brook to let it drink, then led it back to his saddle and hobbled it nearby in the grass, tied to a twelve-foot picket rope.

With the sun setting, he watched the men gather for their evening mess and took his wooden bowl to stand in the line with the Pennsylvanians, listening to the excited talk of the battle that was coming. He saw in them the rise of tension that was a strange, contradictory mix of impatience to get into the shooting and a fear of the death and destruction the shooting would bring.

The man ahead of him in line turned to ask, “New in camp?”

“Just arrived.”

“From where?”

“Boston. I haven’t seen a Massachusetts flag. Hope you don’t mind me being in your mess line.”

The man shrugged. “Don’t matter much. Some of our boys are over with the Kentucky bunch right now, in their mess line.”

Billy asked, “Where are our ships? Where’s this big battle to take place?”

The man pointed due north at Lake Erie. “Our ships are right out there at Put-in-Bay in the Bass Islands. Can’t see ’em from this side of the lake. On over on the British side, Barclay and his navy is about starved out. He’s got to do something, and it looks like tomorrow is the big day.”

The cooks didn’t even look up when they shoved a piece of hard brown bread into Billy’s hand and dumped a large dipper of odorous, brown, steaming stew into his bowl, and he moved on. He returned to his saddle and blankets to sit with his back against the tree while he gingerly poked at the steaming stew with his wooden spoon, then blew on it before he took the first taste. He could identify possum, wild turkey, raccoon, and wild boar in the mix, along with strong turnips and cabbage, and the bread was stale and unsalted, but he ate it all and it stayed down.

With the stars coming alive overhead, he checked the horse, then sat down with his back against the tree, working with his thoughts.

What day is this? He paused to count from the morning he left Boston. Thursday. September 9. How long will I be here?—no way to know—big battle on the lake tomorrow—is Adam there?—will he be all right?—where’s Eli?—how do I find him?—Indians over there starving—is Tecumseh there?—will he talk with Eli?

His thoughts came to Brigitte. When will I see her again?—when will women be spared seeing their men go off to war?—they’re the ones who pay the real price—at home—not knowing if we’re alive or dead—or crippled—how do they bear it?

The great, sprawling camp slowly settled and quieted, and lanterns inside tents began winking out. In the solitude, Billy sought his blankets and for a time lay on his back studying the vastness of the heavens and the stars overhead, and drifted to sleep awed, humbled by his own smallness.

He was up at dawn to feed the horse the last of the carrots, rubbing its neck while he listened to it grind them between yellow teeth and bump Billy’s chest with his head for more. He led it to the stream to drink, then back to hobble it on a picket rope in the grass. He stood in the line for morning mess of mush and burned sowbelly and was washing his wooden bowl in the stream when the shout came high and excited from near the lake.

“They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Within minutes, the lake shore was jammed with men standing tall, hands raised to shield their eyes against the morning sun as they peered north across the still waters of the lake, straining to see sails that were not there. The officers came among them, giving commands.

“Back to your companies. Back to your duties. There’s nothing to see. The British ships are on the lake but you can’t see them from here.”

Reluctantly the soldiers turned back to their campsites, talking, pointing, turning to peer back at the lake, anxious, apprehensive. Billy waited, then stopped a captain who was returning to his command.

“How many British ships?”

“The message said six. Against our nine.”

“Where?”

“Last seen moving south from somewhere around Fort Malden, towards Put-in-Bay.”

“How much time before they meet? Ours and theirs.”

“Soon.”

Billy walked back to his campsite and leaned his rifle against the tree, then sat down on his blanket cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees. Is Adam out there? Will he be in the fight? He stared north, knowing the Bass Islands and the ships were too far away to be seen, but unable to stop looking.

Out on the lake, under clear morning skies and bright sunshine, a light wind was quartering in from the southeast to ruffle the dark waters as it moved from the American shore northwest, past the Bass Islands and Put-in-Bay, on to the British shore. The American fleet lay anchored just north of the islands, rocking gently on the slow swells, waiting, with men and extended telescopes in every crow’s nest, intently scouring the north horizon, waiting for the first fleck that would be a British ship leading a squadron from Fort Malden harbor to do battle. Neither side had illusions of the stakes at risk. Both understood only too well that control of the entire northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean, was to be decided that day; and whoever controlled that waterway held the fate of the war in their hands.

Perry was ready. He had taken command of his largest man-of-war, the Lawrence, and had given command of his next largest ship, the Niagara, to Lieutenant Jesse Elliott. Behind the Niagara, at the request of Captain Adam Dunson, came the Margaret, the volunteer commercial ship converted to a gunboat, and behind the Margaret, in order, came the smaller, flat-bottomed gunboats with but one deck, that Perry had built during the summer under the direction of Noah Brown, master naval architect. Perry had spent months scavenging for ship crews, and had gathered an odd, rag-tag assembly of ex-soldiers, civilians, Negroes, and a few trained seamen.

In the dark hours of early morning, when the message reached him that the British squadron had left Fort Malden during the night, sailing south, Perry had divided his men among the ships and ordered them to spread sand on all decks to avoid slipping when the decks were drenched with water or blood. Then he ordered every gun to be loaded, with the gun crews at the ready.

And he had given clear, emphatic orders to his captains that he, Perry, commanding the Lawrence, would lead them into battle, with the Niagara right behind, the Margaret following, and the lesser ships in order. Under no circumstance were they to break the battle line.

With hands shading their eyes against the bright morning sun, the American crews crowded against the railings, peering north, nervous, anxious, quiet, waiting through the morning. It was approaching noon when the man in the crow’s nest of the Lawrence shouted, “Sail. Due north. Two . . . three. . . . six sails! Looks like the whole British squadron!”

Perry barked orders to his first mate, and instantly he ran the prepared signal flags up the mainmast with the message: “British approaching. Follow me.”

Perry turned to shout commands to his crew. Seamen threw their weight against the windlass, and the anchor chain rattled as the anchor left the bottom of the lake and started to rise. Barefoot sailors scrambled up the ladders to the overhead arms to walk the ropes outward. They jerked the knots loose, and the sails unfurled to catch the wind quartering in from behind. They billowed and popped, and while the deck crew secured the anchor, the ships became as living things, falling into their places in the battle line, gaining speed as they moved north, directly toward the oncoming British.

Adam stood in the bow of the Margaret, telescope extended, his view partially blocked by the two ships ahead of him while he watched every move of the British ships as they tacked into the wind, moving into their battle line.

Our nine against their six, and we have the wind in our favor. What’s going through Barclay’s mind? He’s got courage, but the odds are strong against him.

On the quarterdeck of the HMS Detroit, the flagship of his command, Captain Robert Barclay counted the sails of the approaching American squadron, then studied the build of each of the ships.

The first three—men-o’-war—heavy guns—but the last six—only light schooners—few guns—single deck—if we can disable the first three, the last six are ours.

He ran the signals up his mainmast. “Wait for my command to fire, then broadside the first three when you can.”

As in a dream, the distance between the two enemy fleets was suddenly half a mile, then six hundred yards, and Barclay ran the signal high on his mainmast.

FIRE!

The heavy, long-range British guns blasted, and the white smoke was swept away by the wind to reveal most of the cannonballs raising fifteen-foot geysers in the sea around the first three American ships. A few punched holes in the sails; one or two hit the railings to blow them to kindling.

Instantly, the long-range guns on the Lawrence and Niagara and Margaret answered. With the deafening roar of the cannon and the smell and sight of the white smoke and the whistling of incoming cannonballs, the crews on both the British and American ships moved past their frayed nerves and fears into the strange world of calm precision, loading and firing mechanically, without thought.

The lead ships were less than three hundred yards apart when suddenly the Niagara, just ahead of Adam on the Margaret, began to slow, then angled to port, leaving the battle line. Ahead of the Niagara, Perry held the Lawrence at full speed dead ahead, on a collision course with the oncoming Detroit.

Stunned, Adam’s thoughts raced. What is Elliott doing leaving the battle line—abandoning the Lawrence?

While Adam watched, Captain Elliott spilled his mainsails. The ship slowed and came to a near stop, with its long guns still blasting. Adam held the Margaret behind the Niagara with his cannon firing, torn between a compulsion to break away to support Perry and the Lawrence, and his direct orders to maintain his place behind the Niagara. Heat waves were rising from the gun barrels, and frantic crews were throwing buckets of lake water on them to cool them enough to keep them from igniting the gunpowder while they were ramming it down the muzzles.

In the next minute, the Lawrence disappeared in the thick cloud of gun smoke hanging between the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte, and the sound of the cannon became one continuous roar, echoing to both shores of the lake as the lone ship traded broadsides with both of the British ships, one on each side.

Adam stood horrified. He hasn’t got a chance! They’ll cut him to pieces!

He could take no more. He pivoted and shouted to the helmsman, “Hard to starboard!” He used his horn to shout to his first mate, “Make all sail! Now!”

Men leaped to the rope ladders and scrambled up the three masts to the arms, and out on the ropes to release the sails. They caught the wind and snapped tight, and the Margaret surged ahead in a hard turn to starboard, breaking from behind the Niagara, directly toward the British ships that were pounding the Lawrence into rubble.

Adam shouted to his gun crews, “Fire when you come to bear!”

Behind him, Elliott stood on the quarterdeck of the Niagara, startled to see Adam and the Margaret break from the battle line and set all sails to close with the British ships, cannon blasting as she went.

What is Dunson doing? He knows his orders! What’s he doing?

Then Elliott stopped short. He suddenly realized that, for reasons he could never explain, he had suffered a mental lapse that had sent Perry and his ship and crew into the heart of the British squadron alone, without support. He had broken the battle line! He had sent Perry into a death trap! Shocked, sick in his heart, Elliott shouted his orders. Within minutes the Niagara was in a hard turn to starboard, all sails unfurled and full, following the Margaret straight at the British men-of-war.

The Margaret swept past the bow of the Detroit, with every cannon on the port side of the Margaret raking the British ship in order, and Adam saw the Lawrence for the first time since she had disappeared between the two large British warships. Her masts were shattered, her spars on her deck, her sails shredded and dragging. Her railings were blasted to splinters, her quarterdeck strewn with wreckage, and her hull showed more than twenty black holes where British cannonballs had smashed through.

For ten seconds Adam searched through the smoke and wreckage before he saw Perry. He was there on the quarterdeck, with the blood and carnage of his dead and wounded all around, still shouting to his gun crews to load and fire. Adam groaned and then shouted to his own helmsman, “Hard to port!”

The Margaret leaned hard to starboard as she made her turn to port, coming in between the Queen Charlotte and the Lawrence, all nineteen guns on her starboard side loaded and waiting, and as he came alongside the British ship, fewer than forty yards to his starboard side, he watched the British crew frantically reloading their guns.

In the instant before the British crews seized the ropes to pull their cannon into the gunports, Adam shouted to his gun crews, “Fire!”

All nineteen of the heavy cannon bucked and roared, and the white cloud of smoke hid the British ship for several seconds as the American cannonballs and canister shot hit broadside at point-blank range. Two of the masts on the British ship slowly tilted and then toppled, and the broken spars and riddled sails hit the wreckage that littered the deck, among the dead and dying British seamen. The smoke cleared as the Margaret passed the crippled Queen Charlotte, and Adam saw the quarterdeck on the British ship, shot to pieces, with her captain down, not moving.

Instantly he turned to find the Detroit, off his port stern, on the far side of the Lawrence. Beyond the Detroit, he saw the Niagara coming under full sail, closing with the British ship, and Adam shouted orders to his helmsman.

“Hard port! Come about between the Lawrence and the Detroit!” Then he turned to his gun crews. “Reload! Stand ready!”

Again the Margaret leaned as she came hard to port, around the bow of the battered Lawrence, on toward the Detroit, yet three hundred yards distant.

Onboard the British ship, Captain Barclay saw the Niagara coming from his starboard and the Margaret coming hard on his port stern, and gave the command he thought would avoid the trap.

“Hard to port!”

The British ship was far into its left turn before Barclay saw the Queen Charlotte, crippled, her captain and first mate dead, only one mast standing, less than fifty yards away, on a collision course with the Detroit. In desperation he shouted at his helmsman, “Hard to starboard—hard to starboard!” and the big man-of-war straightened, then began its turn, but too late. The Queen Charlotte plowed into the Detroit amidships, and her masts and spars and tattered sails caught in the splintered railings. The Detroit continued her violent turn to starboard, trying to break from the Queen Charlotte, but the ropes and the sails would not disengage, and Barclay felt the jolt as the Detroit was jerked to port and slowed to a near standstill by the dead weight of the crippled ship clinging to his port side.

Adam saw it all, and beyond the two fouled British ships, he saw Elliott bringing the Niagara alongside the Detroit at less than one hundred yards. He turned to his own helmsman.

“Hold your bearing, dead ahead.”

Less than one minute later the cannon on the Niagara blasted a broadside to the starboard of the Detroit. The sound had not died when Adam shouted orders to his gun crews, and his starboard guns delivered a broadside that caught the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit on their port sides. When the smoke cleared, the two British ships were still entangled, and Adam turned once more to his helmsman.

“Pass them and turn to starboard around the bow of the Detroit.”

While he watched, Elliott circled the Niagara around the stern of the two British ships to come in on their port side. Adam was counting seconds in the hope that both the American ships would be in position before the British ships could separate and bring their guns to bear. With fewer than fifty yards yet to go, he saw the hawsers snap and the sails rip, and the two ships begin to drift apart. The British gun crews had their cannon half loaded when both the American ships came into position and their cannon fired. Solid shot and canister tore into the two British ships and their crews from both sides. Adam saw Barclay stagger back and topple over, then try to rise to his knees before he slumped forward, trying to support his body with his one arm. But even at eighty yards, Adam could see that it was shattered. Instantly four British seamen raised their captain to his feet and carried him to the nearest hatch and disappeared below decks.

For the first time in half an hour, Adam turned to peer at the Lawrence, less than one hundred yards over his stern. She was a battered hulk. Her masts were cut in two, her spars broken and lying on the decks, her sails ripped and torn by solid and canister shot, almost of all her crew down, but she had not struck her colors. She was still in the fight. He searched for Captain Perry, but he was not there, and then Adam gaped at a sight that would remain with him forever.

Captain Perry was lowering himself into a longboat with six oarsmen waiting. The moment his feet hit the bottom of the boat the oarsmen threw their backs into it, and Perry wrenched the rudder around to set a course for the Niagara. Some of the smaller British gunboats believed that the Lawrence must be sinking and that Perry had surrendered her, and made ready to attach hawsers to claim their prize. When they saw Perry in the longboat trying to reach the Niagara, they brought their ships around to fire on him. With cannonballs and grapeshot raising geysers all around the longboat, Perry remained on his feet, holding the rudder, pointing, while the oarsmen set their oars deep and pulled with all their strength.

Adam found himself muttering, “Pull—pull—you can make it—pull!”

No one in the fight could believe it when Perry’s longboat slammed into the side of the Niagara, and he leaped to catch the netting thrown to him and pulled himself up and onto her deck. Seconds later he was on the quarterdeck, in command, and the ship came around the bow of the Detroit to rake her from bow to stern, while the Margaret came in from the stern to blast both the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte.

The four lesser British gunboats made a brave attempt to rescue the two heavy ships, but the seven small American gunboats met them head-on. For three minutes the cannons roared before the British realized it was hopeless. The captains and first mates on all six of their ships were either dead or totally disabled. Their two largest gunboats were shattered, floating hulks. Barclay was below decks in delirious, fever-ridden pain while his ship’s surgeon futilely worked to save his one arm, then conceded it could not be done.

Four of the British ships struck their colors, and the Americans came in beside them to claim them. Two of the smaller gunboats turned north, trying to run with the wind to escape surrender, but Adam was there, ahead of them, broadside, waiting. The fleeing ships slowed, then turned back, struck their colors, and surrendered.

It was over.

With the battle ended, the crews on all ships came back to reality. Four of the English ships were shot to pieces. Every English officer was either dead or critically wounded. More than half of all British crew members were dead or wounded. The American Lawrence was hardly recognizable, and eighty percent of her crew were dead. Every ship in the battle had holes in its hull and sails, with spars and arms broken and dangling and shattered railings and hatches. When the Americans boarded the British Detroit, they faced a pet brown bear that was licking at the blood on the decks. In the hold they found two Indians cowering in a dark corner.

While the ships made their way south toward the American base at Put-in-Bay, seamen gathered the dead to cover them with canvas, while others did what they could to stop the bleeding and give comfort to the wounded. The sun was setting when the ships dropped anchor amid the cheers of hundreds of men who had listened to the distant rumble of cannon for more than three hours, not knowing who had won and who had lost when the guns fell silent.

On board the Niagara, Captain Perry rummaged in the captain’s quarters until he found an old, rumpled letter and a lead pencil. He pondered for a moment before he turned the letter over and wrote on the back side:

“We have met the enemy and they are ours: two ships, two brigs, one schooner & one sloop.” He stuffed the report into his pocket for delivery to William Henry Harrison, commander of the northern forces of the United States.

The battered ships entered Put-in-Bay at sunset and dropped anchor close to the docks. Through dusk and twilight the longboats carried the wounded ashore to the surgeons and nurses, and then the bodies of the dead to be placed side by side in any buildings where space could be made. On Perry’s orders, every military courtesy was extended to the British. Their wounded were taken ashore along with the American wounded, and their seamen were allowed to carry their dead officers ashore with British flags covering their remains. The camp cooks had roasted quarters of beef on spits, and they held evening mess hot until the somber work of caring for the wounded and dead was finished, and the remainder of the ship crews came to the mess lines, quiet and bone-weary.

Adam had finished his evening mess and was rinsing his plate in the officer’s mess hall when a rangy sergeant approached him.

“Cap’n Perry wants you at command headquarters.”

Adam put his plate and utensils in the large wooden tub for the cleanup crew and walked out into the soft night air. Mosquitoes were in the air, and frogs on the small streams nearby were well into their nightly chorus as he walked past men moving among the tents with lanterns glowing inside. He entered the log headquarters building, and the corporal at the front desk pointed. Adam walked to the door and knocked.

“Enter.”

He stepped inside and closed the door. Seated on the far side of a worn desk, in the small, crude office, Perry, young, charismatic, eager, raised his head from a document he was drafting, laid down his quill, stood, and gestured.

“Please have a seat, Captain.”

Adam sat down on a simple hard-backed chair facing the desk, and Perry sat back down facing him. In the yellow lamplight, Perry came directly to it.

“Captain Dunson,” he said quietly, “I felt it appropriate to tell you. Out there on the lake today, we gained control of the northern campaign in the war. Already the fight is being hailed as the pivotal battle of the war. We now command the northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean. It means our military forces can now turn their full energies on the southern campaign.”

He stopped to gesture at the unfinished document before him. “I am writing my report. In it will be the detail of the battle. Captain Elliott’s mistake—leaving the battle line and leading seven ships astray—would have been fatal. It was your ship, the Margaret, that saved us. If you had not broken away from the Niagara and attacked both the Detroit and the Queen Charlotte as you did, the entire affair would have gone against us.”

He paused to order his thoughts. “I have talked with Captain Elliott. He has no explanation for why he disobeyed his orders. I trust you understand, such things happen in the heat of battle. Elliott frankly asked that he face a court-martial for his lapse. I told him no, he had redeemed himself when he came to his senses. He requested that I tell you, he knows you gave him his chance for redemption and saving his career. He is most grateful. So am I.”

Adam dropped his eyes for a moment but said nothing.

Perry went on. “Your name will appear prominently in this report. I speak for myself and for a grateful country when I tell you we are beholden. Accept my deepest thanks. It has been my honor to serve with you.”

Perry stood and extended his hand across the old desk, and Adam stood and reached to grasp it.

“Thank you, sir,” Adam said. “The honor and the privilege are mine.”

That rare thing that sometimes passes between men who have faced death shoulder-to-shoulder and won, was silently exchanged between the two of them, and Adam nodded and turned and walked out of the room, back into the night.

It was later, after the drum had rattled taps and the lamps were turned off, that Adam lay on his back in his bunk in the officers’ quarters, hands clasped behind his head, staring into the blackness.

We won—reports will be sent—newspapers will make headlines of glory—honors will be given—the country will make much of it—but little will be said about the price—the hundreds of men who died out there today—the hundreds who are crippled and maimed for life—the women and children with fatherless homes—the mothers with sons they will never see again—the pain—the suffering—who will tell it the way it was?—the way it is . . .

He turned on his side and closed his eyes. His last conscious thoughts were of Laura, at home, waiting, not knowing if he was dead or alive, and he felt the deep yearning to be there with her, away from the horror of war—just Adam Dunson, a citizen quietly helping his brothers and Billy Weems to run a shipping company.

It was much later that he drifted into a troubled sleep, seeing the flash of cannon and the destruction of ships, and men falling, crippled, mortally wounded.

Notes

On September 10, 1813, the pivotal sea battle of the War of 1812 was fought on Lake Erie between nine American ships anchored at the American port at Put-in-Bay in the Bass Islands at the west end of Lake Erie, under command of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, and six British ships anchored at or near Fort Malden on the Canadian side of Lake Erie, under command of Captain Robert Hale Barclay. The names of all ships in this chapter are actual, except the Margaret, which is a fictional ship.

The Americans had taken control of Lake Ontario to the east and cut the British supply and communication lines. Thousands of Indians, including women and children, had gathered at Fort Malden, and the British were responsible to feed them. When supplies ran out, the Indians were starving and threatening revolt. British regulars were on half rations. Barclay had but one choice, and that was to break out, take control of Lake Erie, and reestablish the supply lines. To do so he would have to defeat Perry and the American fleet.

That Friday morning he left Fort Malden to engage the Americans. The two forces met in the open water, and Perry, commanding the Lawrence, sailed straight into them. Captain Jesse Elliott, commanding the second ship, the Niagara, failed to follow him into the battle and contrary to orders, held back, using his long-range cannon. Elliott never did give an explanation of what caused him to fail to follow Perry into the midst of the British ships. As a result, Perry’s ship was shot to pieces; however, in the process, he badly damaged both British gunboats, the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit. It was only then that Elliott realized what he had done and came into the fight head-on. Between the two American ships, they succeeded in taking both the large British ships out of action.

In the process, Perry lost eighty percent of his crew, and his ship was reduced to a shattered hulk. He did in fact board a longboat, and a crew rowed him to the Niagara, where he took command. Some of the smaller British ships thought he had surrendered and were prepared to board the Lawrence. During the same time, the Queen Charlotte and the Detroit collided and became entangled, and before they could completely separate, the Americans shot them to pieces.

Musket fire was given and received by every ship. Every British captain was either killed or badly disabled. Barclay, with one arm missing from a prior sea battle, lost his remaining arm. Four of the British ships struck their colors and surrendered. Two made a run for freedom but were stopped and surrendered. When the Americans boarded the Detroit, they in fact observed a pet bear licking the blood on the decks and found two Indians in the hold, who had been brought on board as marksmen but had hidden when the gunfire became unbearable.

Perry found an old letter and on the back of it wrote the message he would later send to William Henry Harrison, commander of the American northern forces: “We have met the enemy and they are ours; two ships, two brigs, one schooner & one sloop.” The first nine words of the message became immortalized, and Perry instantly became a shining hero. The battle is regarded as the single most important sea battle in the war, since it gave complete control of the northern waterway, from Lake Superior to the Atlantic Ocean, to the Americans, allowing all military forces to be concentrated on campaigns to the south.

See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 131–35; Wills, James Madison, pp. 124–25; Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 196–98; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, pp. 328–30; Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 141–56; Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 286–88.

Adam Dunson and the ship Margaret are both fictional. Most of the action ascribed to them in this chapter was actually performed by Captain Elliott and the Niagara, only, however, after Captain Elliott finally came to Perry’s rescue.

For a likeness drawn of Captain Perry by artist George Delleker, see Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 134.