Fort Amherstburg, Detroit River, Canada

Mid-September 1813

CHAPTER XXI

* * *

The five British officers came to the large, rustic headquarters building inside the high walls of Fort Amherstburg in the late afternoon, one at a time, silent, with a deep sense of dark foreboding. They entered the battered door, and the uniformed sergeant at the foyer desk pointed each of them into the plain, square, private council room of General Sir Henry Procter, commander of British forces in northwestern Canada. They took chairs on two sides of the rough table to sit rigid, quiet, in scarlet uniforms that were slightly faded and threadbare at the cuffs and the tops of their erect, rigid collars. Their black boots lacked luster, and the gold epaulets on their shoulders had long since become dulled by the harsh Canadian winters and the sun and storms of summer.

They flinched at the sound of the foyer door closing too hard, and moments later they watched Matthew Elliott enter the twilight of the singled-windowed room. All nodded to him, but none spoke as Elliott slowly walked to the end of the table, laboring under the weight of his eighty years. Bent, wrinkled, white-haired, hands gnarled and twisted with age, the old man eased himself painfully onto the chair, then looked up at the officers and returned their nod. As head of the British Indian Department, he was dressed in the garb of a civilian, not a military officer. The British Parliament had ordered him to Amherstburg in a desperate attempt to save the tenuous, trembling alliance between England and the Indians. Each man at the table understood that should the Indians turn on the British, the six of them would be witness to the most horrifying massacre in the history of the North American continent. They sat in silence, nervous, moving their hands, eyes downcast, waiting.

They heard the foyer door open and close once more, then listened to the sound of leather heels on the floor planking, and General Procter entered. The five officers came to their feet and stood at attention.

Average height, blocky build, face unremarkable and square, dark wavy hair combed straight back, sideburns prominent, Procter took his place at the head of the table and laid a rolled map and several documents to one side. His eyes were dead, a mask covering the turmoil and fear that were destroying him inside. A tension began to grow in the austere room.

Procter cut through the usual protocol of greeting.

“Be seated. Gentlemen, I believe a review is in order for what is coming.” He paused long enough to pick up a sheaf of hand-written notes, which he glanced at as he spoke.

“You know about the naval battle on Lake Erie four days ago. Two days ago I sent an agent from the Department of Indians with four natives in a canoe to determine the results. They returned. The news is disastrous. Captain Barclay and his entire squadron were defeated and captured by the Americans. There are four American ships at Put-in-Bay being repaired from the battle. All other American ships are anchored at the mouth of the Portage River on the American side of Lake Erie. It is obvious they are preparing to transport General Harrison and his army to this side of the lake.”

He paused to watch the officers’ breathing slow and their eyes widen.

“We are cut off. Isolated. All water routes are closed. We have no communication from the east. No supply line on land or water. No reinforcements can reach us. The last message I received from General Prevost in the east was that I should ‘call forth the combined discipline and gallantry of the troops to cripple and repulse the enemy.’ He did mention the possibility that a withdrawal from the area might become desirable, if done with ‘order and regularity.’ He encourages me to meet this catastrophe with ‘fortitude.’”

He paused, and the officers saw the disgust and contempt in his face at the ridiculous advice from his superior.

Procter went on. “Four days ago I sent several bateaux to Long Point for food. They got nothing. Yesterday our flour ran out. Our commissaries are bare to the walls. Our soldiers are on short rations of potatoes and wheat, and there is no way to acquire more. Our men are wearing tattered uniforms. Some are barefoot. Within thirty days we can expect the storms of approaching winter.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, then went on.

“You know that yesterday I declared martial law in this entire area. That gives me the authority to requisition all foodstuffs from all civilians, if we can find it. It is already obvious that they are hiding their stores. We will never collect enough of it to be of any help.”

He stopped and took a great breath and released it.

“Food and supply shortages, lack of communication, and oncoming hard weather are matters we could most likely survive.”

All six of the men seated at the table saw it coming, and they braced themselves.

“The Indians are another matter. Lacking a solution to the Indian problem, our entire army in this sector is lost.”

He stopped and waited for a time before he went on.

“My latest count of our own forces places them at something around twelve hundred. Latest reports on the Indians say there are ten thousand adults gathered in this area. At least one third are warriors. In addition, there are wives and children. I do not need to tell you that we have been making them promises of food and blankets for more than fourteen months, and each month our supplies coming from the east became more and more meagre until there were none. To stay alive, the Indians spent part of this past summer killing deer and opossum and raccoon for food—even a bear—and when they were all gone, they ate whitefish and parched corn and maple sugar. When that was gone, they turned to crab apples and chestnuts. That is now gone. They’re starving.”

Not one of the officers moved or spoke as Procter went on.

“I have today received what amounts to an ultimatum from their chiefs. They flatly accused us of lying to them, using them. We promised them food, and there is no food. We promised we would drive the Americans from their ancestral lands and restore to them what was theirs, and we have failed. We promised them we would deliver muskets and ammunition to them and that we would be their allies in the battle. We have not delivered the arms, and there has been no battle. We have done none of it! Instead, we have lost control of both Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, and they know we are now preparing to retreat east, overland. They have made it very clear that if we do not now live up to all we’ve promised, they will rise against us in bloody revolt. If that happens, there will be nothing left of any of us.”

There it was! Procter and the entire British command on the west end of Lake Erie would either deliver what they had promised or face the tomahawk and scalping knives of three thousand enraged warriors. The tension in the room became almost palpable.

Procter reached for the rolled map and spread it out on the tabletop, oriented it, leaned forward, and spoke as he pointed.

“We are here at Fort Amherstburg on the Detroit River where it drains into Lake Erie. North of us about five or six miles is Sandwich. Here, about twenty-five miles east of Sandwich, is the place where the Thames River drains into Lake St. Clair, between Lake Huron and Lake Erie.”

He moved his finger east, up the Thames River. “Here, about twenty miles or so east of the mouth of the river is the fork where McGregor’s Creek joins it, and it is a natural defensive position.” His finger continued up the river. “Here, about twenty miles farther east, is Moraviantown. There’s a church there, and about sixty homes—the largest settlement on the river. It has high ground and some natural cover for defensive positions. By far, the best route for our retreat will be east on the Thames River.”

Procter straightened. “I arrived here fourteen months ago by schooner on the lake. I have never been out in the wilderness in this area. I do not know the terrain along the river. I will have to depend on what information I can gather, and so far that information has been seriously flawed and lacking. I can only assure you, I will do what I can.”

The officers saw his pain as he made his confession.

He continued. “In determining my course of action, I intend abiding by three principles. First, I must preserve our alliance with the Indians at all costs. Second, I have no choice but to order an all-out retreat. Third, the Thames River is the only course that affords such a retreat.”

He paused to let the officers’ minds accept the three foundation principles before he went on.

“The result is we must persuade the Indians of two things. One, the retreat we are planning to the east is our only hope of survival. Two, that making such a retreat does not mean we are abandoning them, or that we do not intend keeping our promise to drive the Americans from their ancestral lands and restoring to them what is theirs.”

For the first time, Elliott moved. He leaned back on his chair and slowly shook his aged head in silent, hopeless resignation. The five officers looked at him for a moment, then turned back to Procter, who cleared his throat and continued.

“It is one thing to make an orderly retreat with trained soldiers. It is another thing to try it with Indians. General Brock put it rather succinctly a year ago when he told General Prevost that he would be unwilling in the event of a retreat to have three or four hundred of them hanging on his flanks. Brock was of the opinion that if the Indians imagine that we are deserting them, the consequences would be fatal.”

Procter stared at his officers for a moment. “If General Brock was concerned about three or four hundred of them in a retreat, what would he have thought of ten thousand of them?”

There were audible groans from the officers, then silence, and Procter went on.

“I trust you all know the rules of conduct among the Indians. No chief has the power to give orders. Every Indian is a law unto himself. Should one of them, or a hundred, or a thousand, decide to simply leave, they will leave, and there is no way to stop them. If they decide to march, they march; if they decide to stop, they stop. I do not know how we are going to manage a retreat in which we are responsible for thousands of them. I only know we must try.”

He stopped to reroll his map and place his notes on the papers. There was quiet murmuring among the officers, and Elliott sat hunched forward, elbows and forearms on the table, face a blank.

Procter concluded. “You are aware that tomorrow morning at ten o’clock the chiefs of all the Indian tribes in the region will meet with us in the council house. I will attempt to persuade them that there is no choice other than to abandon Amherstburg and Fort Detroit, and to make a full-scale retreat east on the Thames.”

For the first time, Elliott spoke. “You plan to burn them both? Amherstburg and Detroit?”           

Procter said, “Yes.”

Elliott muttered something under his breath and then fell silent.

Procter reached to gather his papers. “If there is nothing else, you are dismissed.”

The six men stood and silently filed from the room, Elliott last, swaying slightly as he favored the stiffness and the rheumatism in his aged legs. Procter stood still for a time with his papers under his arm, staring at the closed door, caught up in a premonition of impending doom. After a time, he opened the door, and the sergeant at the desk stood while he passed on out into the great parade ground where the golden light of the setting sun caught the tops of the trees and the top of the east wall of the fort to set them glowing.                  

Procter was halfway across the open expanse, on his way to his quarters, when he was seized by the strongest impression of his life. For an instant he was a small speck inside a fragile, meaningless, walled structure, tiny and ridiculous in the vastness of a Nature that was both offended and contemptuous of the insanity of mankind. Soon—too soon—everything about him, and every human being connected with it, would be gone. They would be remembered for a time, and then slowly forgotten. The fort, the roads, the conflicts, the pain, the wins, the losses, would drift into nothingness.

By force of will he drove the melancholy impression from his mind. I am a British officer—I have my orders—I will carry them out—There is meaning—There is purpose.

He picked at his evening meal and, with the drum sounding taps, went to his bunk to a restless sleep filled with visions of his red-coated regulars, thin, emaciated, terrified, surrounded by crazed, screaming Indians, brandishing tomahawks and scalping knives.

It was still dark when he swung his feet out of his bed and curled his toes against the cold floor to sit in the darkness, silently rehearsing again and again what he had to say to the Indians at the council meeting, struggling to control the fears that rose in his breast. What will Tecumseh say? What will the chiefs do? If they revolt, what do I do? Shoot them? Arrest them?

There were no clear-cut answers; he could not remember an event in British military history that even approached the muddled, soul-wrenching duty he now faced. He lighted a lamp and heated water to shave and wash himself, then dressed and sat at his desk for a time, mechanically going over the map and the notes he must use. At dawn, the reveille drum he had heard ten thousand times sounded strangely loud, and on a sudden impulse he walked to the door and opened it to stand in silence, watching the fort awaken to the bright sun of a day in which the fate of every soul within its walls, and thousands outside its walls, could be determined. While he buttoned his tunic he glanced at the calendar on the wall above his desk. September 15, 1813.

It was approaching ten o’clock when he walked from his quarters into the dead air, onto the parade ground, and slowed in stark disbelief. A company of regulars under command of a sergeant barking orders was marching in rank and file on the drill field, and the women were hunched over their wooden washtubs scrubbing laundry, and the chimneys of the twelve ovens at the bakery were sending gray smoke upward in straight lines, as they had been doing each workday for more than a year. But every soldier, every wash woman, every baker, was staring in white-faced fear at the Indians. Hundreds of them were gathered, milling about, gesturing, pointing, black eyes narrowed, glowing. They were not wrapped in their blankets as was their custom, and there was not a woman or child among them. They were warriors, clad in buckskin breeches and beaded buckskin shirts and moccasins. They wore necklaces of bear teeth and eagle talons. Their thick, black hair was pulled and tied behind their heads, and feathers hung loose. In their belts were tomahawks and scalping knives. Some carried muskets and rifles. A few had pistols. The huge gates of the fort were open, and Procter could see hundreds more gathered outside, and he could hear the guttural undertone of their voices and see the hatred in their faces.

He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and walked steadily toward the great council building with those in his way sullenly stepping aside to give him passage. The large room on the ground floor was crowded with a mix of soldiers with muskets and fixed bayonets and Indians with tomahawks and knives. Procter paused long enough to find the ranking officer and give the order.

“Clear this room.”

“Yes, sir.”

Procter watched as the officer gave blunt orders, and the soldiers locked shoulder to shoulder to move everyone out the door, onto the parade ground.

Procter waited until the door was closed before he climbed the stairs to the huge council room with the high, pitched roof on the second floor. The conference tables had been arranged in the shape of a large U, with chairs at the head for Procter and his council of officers. Along the tables to the left were chairs for the Indian chiefs, and along the right, for the lesser British officers. Most of the Indian chiefs and British officers were already present, standing in groups, Indians on one side, British on the other, each locked in subdued conversation while they covertly eyed each other. It took Procter three seconds to locate Tecumseh in one corner, listening to six sub-chiefs while his eyes never stopped moving about the room.

Procter masked his shock at their dress. They were not clad in their chiefs’ robes, with the British medals given as gifts on golden chains about their necks. They wore instead the battle garb of a warrior—buckskins, with feathers and deer antlers and heads and teeth of wildcats in their hair, and tomahawks and knives in their belts. Their belts were decorated with eagle feathers, an open declaration of their bravery and fearlessness in battle.

The British had their swords in scabbards fastened to their belts—standard for a British officer in dress uniform.

Procter took his place, checked his pocket watch, and at ten o’clock raised his hand for silence. All took their seats, Indians to his left, British officers to his right. Seated at the head table immediately to his left was an Indian interpreter, and on his right was a British interpreter, each to be certain the other was translating correctly. Beside the interpreters were the five officers of Procter’s war council. Procter turned to the British interpreter, nodded, then turned back to the Indians and spoke loudly.

“I speak for the Father across the great water. I welcome the great chiefs who honor us with their presence.”

He stopped, waiting for Tecumseh to rise and return the greeting, as was the custom. But Tecumseh did not move or speak. Instantly the room was locked in silence, and the tension became electric.

Procter licked dry lips and took a deep breath while he made the pivotal decision. Stop the platitudes. Come directly to it.

“Our ships on the big lake have been taken by the Americans. Our food is gone. The Americans are coming to drive us from this place and from Detroit. They have great numbers. We have only a few. We cannot get more food from our people in the east. We cannot get more soldiers. We cannot stop the Americans.”

He paused. No one moved or spoke, and he went on.

“We must leave this place. We must leave Detroit. We must destroy everything so the enemy cannot use it. We must move east on the Thames River to Niagara to escape the Americans. We must do it now. I am ordering the redcoats to prepare for it.”

The Indians erupted. The room rang with their shouted threats. A few reached for their tomahawks. British officers had their hands on their swords, ready. Then Tecumseh came to his feet and raised both hands, and slowly the chiefs settled back onto their chairs. The British officers shifted their weight to keep their sword handles free, ready, and sat, waiting, hardly breathing.

Procter sat down, showing the proper respect to Tecumseh, the leader of the Indians. For several seconds Tecumseh’s long, narrow face remained without expression before he took a deep breath and began.

“More than thirty seasons ago the redcoated soldiers came to us. They said the Father across the great water had declared war with the Americans. They gave us the tomahawk and told us he was ready to strike the Americans. The Father wanted our assistance. He would get us our lands back which the Americans had taken from us. He would feed us. He would give us muskets and ammunition. He would care for us. We listened. We believed the Father across the great water. We took up the tomahawk against the Americans for him.”

He paused, and his black eyes were glowing like embers.

“The red-coated soldiers did not drive the Americans from our land. They made peace with the Americans and did nothing about the land. They did not feed us. They did not care for us. They abandoned us. They lied to us.”

A low rumble rose and died on the Indian side of the table. Tecumseh went on.

“Two seasons ago the Father across the great water sent his soldiers to us again. The Americans had declared war. He wanted our assistance. Again he told us to take up our tomahawks against the Americans. If we would, he promised he would get our lands back. He would feed us. He would give us muskets and ammunition. He would take care of us. Again we listened. Again we took up the tomahawk to fight the Americans.

“Now we have come here to listen. You are telling us again that you cannot drive the Americans from our lands. You cannot get food for us. You cannot get muskets and ammunition. We are starving. Our women cannot suckle their babies. We are sick with white man’s disease. We have no blankets against the winter that is coming. You tell us that we must leave this place. We must burn it. We must move far to the east, away from our ancestral lands that you promised to restore to us. Again you have lied to us. We cannot trust the Father across the great water. He is a liar. He makes promises that he will not keep. He uses us to kill Americans and then abandons us.”

Tecumseh turned to face Procter directly, eyes boring in like daggers.

“You speak for the Father. You are also a liar. You have done nothing you promised us more than one season ago. We have done everything we promised. You now plan to abandon us to the big knives of the Americans. You refuse to meet them here and fight them on the shore of the lake.”

Procter sat rigid, frozen, silent in the face of the truth that Tecumseh was spewing against the British government and against him personally.

Tecumseh hunched slightly forward and raised a long, bony finger to point directly at Procter.

“Your conduct is that of a fat animal that carries its tail upon its back, but when affrighted, it drops it between its legs and runs off.”

Tecumseh had just called Procter a pig! The Indians pounded the table in approval while the British officers sat stunned, unable to believe what they had heard. Some looked at Procter for orders, but Procter’s eyes never left Tecumseh’s.

Again Tecumseh raised his hands for silence and continued, with scorn in his face and in his voice.

“If you wish to go from this place, then leave your arms and ammunition with us. We will continue to fight the Americans without you. That is better than to retreat with you, knowing that you will abandon us if the Americans catch you.”

For a time Tecumseh stood facing Procter, eyes flashing, face drawn in utter contempt. Then he sat down, and instantly bedlam filled the hall. Every Indian chief in the room leaped to his feet and jerked his tomahawk from his belt to wave it high above his head, shouting oaths, uttering high, warbling war whoops that echoed from the high ceiling to chill the blood, cursing Procter and the British officers.

In the next instant every British officer was on his feet, white-faced, reaching for his sword. Procter jerked erect and pointed to his officers, shouting, “No swords! No swords! Sit down. Sit down. Do not show fear. Do not show fear. Keep your chins up. Be officers! British officers!”

For a moment the officers looked at their commander as though he had lost his mind, then slowly settled their swords back into their scabbards and sat down on their chairs with their chins up, staring straight ahead at the Indians on the far side of the room. Procter remained standing and turned to face Tecumseh, who remained seated. Procter’s hands were steady, his head high, his face set, determined, unafraid, and he did nothing to stop the wild melee before him. Minutes passed before the war whoops and the cursing and the threats diminished and stopped. Only then did Procter raise a hand to speak. His voice was calm, controlled, without rancor.

“There is much truth in what the great Tecumseh has said. I speak for the British Father when I say we regret our failure. It was not our intent to fail. We could not stop it. I ask you to understand. I ask you to overlook it.”

The unbearable tension began to diminish, and Procter continued.

“I can only repeat what I have said. I must leave this place with the red-coated soldiers. I have no other choice. We must move east on the Thames River. I promise you that if the Americans catch us we will find a place and we will fight them. That is in my power to decide, and I promise it.”

He stopped for a moment to order his thoughts.

“The great Tecumseh has asked that we leave arms and ammunition here for you to fight the Americans when they are on the lake shore. I see the wisdom in it. I ask that you give me a few days to consider it. It is in my power to decide, and if we have the arms and ammunition, I will do it. I give you my promise.”

In that moment, Procter sensed the slightest softening in the eyes of the Indians, and the thought flashed in his mind—Stop—Now.

He spoke directly to Tecumseh. “Will you grant me a few days?”

For several moments the bloodiest massacre in history of the British army hung in the balance.

Tecumseh drew a deep breath. “Granted. A few days. Here in this place.”

Procter nodded deeply. “I thank the great Tecumseh. If there is nothing else, this council is adjourned for a few days. I will give notice to all of our next meeting.”

Chairs scraped on the plain pine floors as everyone stood, and the British officers came to attention while the Indians filed out, down the stairs, and out into the parade ground. When the downstairs door closed, every British officer released held breath and for a moment their shoulders slumped while the color slowly came back into their faces. They remained in the great council room for a time, talking quietly in groups, milling about, reluctant to go back out onto the parade ground until they were certain the chiefs had left the fort. Procter slowly gathered his papers, watching his men, gauging their mood, judging how close they were to their breaking point.

Procter remained at his place while the officers quieted and fell into a line to descend the long flight of stairs to the main floor, and out into the bright sunlight of the late morning. Elliott was the last man, and as he hobbled to the head of the stairs, Procter fell in beside him.

“Mister Elliott, I’m leaving for Sandwich this afternoon. I have to put things in order there for our withdrawal. I’ll be back in three days. While I’m gone, take some officials from your department and talk with Tecumseh. Reason with him. Draw him away from his belligerence.”

Elliott looked up at Procter. “I’ll do what I can, but after what happened this morning, I doubt it will be of any benefit.”

Procter took the old man’s elbow to steady him as they descended the stairs and walked out of the building onto the parade ground. They both stopped for a moment, startled that not one Indian was in sight. They glanced at each other before the old man walked away and Procter went to his quarters.

Noon mess was finished when Procter went to the stables where his staff was waiting with their horses saddled, including a tall, rangy, brown mare that Procter preferred for travel. With them was a squad of armed regulars, waiting to ride escort duty. Within minutes the small column was mounted and pacing their horses toward the gates of the fort and out onto the two crooked wagon ruts that were called the road to Sandwich, less than two hours north. They rode in silence, listening, watching all movement in the forest on both sides of the road, waiting for the first glimpse of bronze shadows moving in the trees, but there were none.

They arrived at the tiny settlement in the late afternoon and rode past the great, random scatter of lodges and tepees of the Indians who had gathered during the summer on the broken promise that they were joining the British to drive the Americans from their ancestral grounds. The mounted British held their horses to a steady walk as they rode, aware of the sullen faces and the muttered curses of the Indians who stopped to watch them pass.

They continued on to the British camp, past the nervous pickets in full uniform carrying muskets and bayonets, to the orderly rows of tents and the forty-foot flagpole with the Union Jack hanging limp in the still, dead air. They dismounted before the low log command building, and were tying their horses to the wooden hitch rack when the commanding officer and his aide pushed through the front door and came to attention, saluted Procter, waited for the salute to be returned, and invited the general and his aides inside, while the armed escort squad waited outside.

They took their places at the long table, and for more than half an hour Procter spoke while the camp commander and his staff listened in stony silence, mouths set in a straight line, faces expressionless as they began to grasp the fact that they, and every British soldier within two hundred miles, would be under the tomahawk and scalping knife within minutes of the moment the Indians, for any reason, or for no reason, turned on them. Their lives now hung on the whim of a volatile, unpredictable people they neither understood nor knew how to control.

Procter continued.

“Have your officers assembled here at nine o’clock in the morning. We must plan a full retreat west on the Thames River. Every building here, everything we cannot carry, must be burned. We can leave nothing the Americans can use. Have your entire command on the parade ground at ten o’clock, full uniform. They must hear it from me. I will spend the balance of the day inspecting any supplies you have left, all arms, all ammunition, to decide what goes with us and what we must destroy. I will remain here tonight and tomorrow night, and return to Amherstburg the following morning. Are there any questions?”

There were none.

General Procter took his evening meal in his small quarters, while his staff took evening mess with the camp officers. As they ate, they were aware of the furtive glances from the camp officers and the conversations that were carried on in quiet undertones.

“Did you hear what happened at Amherstburg this morning? The Indians went wild in the council room! Got out their tomahawks and scalping knives! War whoops you could hear clear outside the fort!”

“Tecumseh called General Procter a liar! He called the British Parliament liars!”

“A liar? I heard he called Procter a pig! A fat pig!”

“Tecumseh told Procter and the whole British staff that if they were too cowardly to stand and fight, they should leave the arms and ammunition for him. He’d stop the Americans without us.”

Procter spent a restless night and was cleaned and in full uniform well before morning mess. The mood of the nine o’clock meeting with the staff was somber, quiet, and apprehensive. The ten o’clock meeting with the entire command in rank and file on the parade ground left the red-coated regulars staring in disbelief when Procter informed them they were to abandon everything they could not carry and burn the entire camp. The afternoon inspection was quick—perfunctory, since the food stores were almost entirely gone—and there were not enough arms and ammunition for the regulars, and none for the Indians.

Procter spent the evening in his small quarters, pacing in the light of a single lantern, sick in his heart at the stark realization that the life of every man in his entire command depended on how he conducted a retreat the likes of which the British army had never experienced, and which had suddenly become a gigantic powder keg, waiting for the smallest spark to set off an explosion that would be heard in London.

Before he sought his bunk, he sent word through his aide to his staff and escort squad. “Be prepared to leave immediately after morning mess is concluded.”

The sun had scarcely cleared the trees on the eastern horizon when Procter mounted his horse, and with half his armed squad leading and the other half following, the column took the rutted road south, winding through the dense woods, every man silent, watching, listening for anything that interrupted the sights and sounds of the forest. It was midmorning when they rode through the thousands of Indians camped outside Fort Amherstburg and through the gates and stopped at the headquarters building.

Procter thumped across the boardwalk, through the door, and slowed at the sight of Elliott sitting slumped in a chair against the wall, white head bowed. Procter closed the door, and Elliott raised his head, then stood. Fear was plain in the weathered face, and his hands and legs were trembling.

Procter studied him for a moment, with dread rising in his chest. Quietly he asked, “You’re waiting to see me?”

“Since dawn.”

Procter gestured, and Elliott shuffled into Procter’s private office to take a seat opposite Procter, at his desk.

“What is it?” Procter asked.

The old man wiped at his mouth, and his voice croaked. “I took all the agents from my department I could gather and we talked with Tecumseh and some of the other chiefs.”

Procter saw it coming. Elliott continued.

“They wouldn’t listen. They got more hostile. There’s open talk of rebellion—turning on us—killing us all and plundering everything within hundreds of miles—taking all our arms and ammunition and fighting the Americans any way they can. I have never seen Tecumseh in such a mood. He is capable of becoming most terrible—beyond anything we have ever imagined. The only thing that stopped him yesterday was the Ojibwa and Sioux leaders. They told him it was a matter of honor—he had to stay and continue to be their spokesman because he said he would, and it would be dishonorable to break his word.”

Elliott raised a hand to point at Procter. “I warn you, if you do not meet their demands, you will be facing consequences unimagined.”

He dropped his hand, and Procter swallowed, and the old man went on.

“You know about the wampum belt. The one the Indians made more than fifty years ago. The one with the heart in the middle and the hands on each end. The one that represents the bond between the Indians and England. Tecumseh has had that belt for the past eight years, and he swore to me that if you try to retreat, he will produce that belt in council, and he will cut it in half! When they cut that wampum belt in half, they are severing all ties with England. All promises, all that has gone before is ended. They will be free to butcher us at will.” Elliott paused long enough to lean forward, eyes wide, face white, and thump the desk with an index finger.

“And I promise you, General, they will! William Caldwell fought on the side of the Indians in the Revolution and at Fallen Timbers. He knows those people better than anyone else around here. Yesterday, he packed his family and sent them south. He stayed, but he said he wasn’t going to have his wife and children here for the bloodbath he sees coming!”

Procter rose above the dread that was ripping him inside and spoke calmly.

“Tecumseh and the other leaders agreed to give me a few days to make my decision. I want to meet in private with Tecumseh before that final council. Arrange to have Tecumseh here in two days. Only Tecumseh and not more than three or four of the other chiefs. Ten o’clock next Monday morning. September 20.”

For the next two days, no British subject dared go outside the walls of the fort without a squad of armed regulars. The pickets on the walls stayed low, avoiding the rifle slots where they could be seen by the Indians camped below, fearful of the moment they would hear the crack of a rifle from the woods and one of the pickets would drop.

Monday morning broke with an overcast, and a light rain held for less than ten minutes before the clouds cleared and the sun came streaming. By ten o’clock, Tecumseh of the Shawnee, and the leaders of the Ojibwa and Sioux and two other tribes, were in their places in Procter’s council room, seated at the single huge table that Procter had arranged. Seated opposite them at the same table were Elliott; his chief field inspector, Augustus Warburton; William Evans of the Forty-First Infantry; members of Elliott’s headquarters staff; and two British officers. Procter presided at the head of the table with the translators and his aides beside him. The Indians were dressed as at the last council meeting, in buckskins, with their tomahawks and knives in their belts, attired for war. The British officers had their swords in plain sight, handles ready.

Procter stood and bowed to Tecumseh. “I thank the great Tecumseh and his chiefs for honoring us once again with their presence. I have journeyed to Sandwich to determine conditions there. I have reports of matters as they are now on the Thames River. I have other reports regarding what the Americans are doing. I wish to share this information with you, our allies.”

The Indians exchanged glances, and Tecumseh nodded.

Procter spread a large map on the table and waited while everyone present oriented themselves to place and direction.

For more than one hour, Procter leaned over the map while he moved his finger, identifying every location of importance, and noting why it was important. He patiently, carefully explained that Barclay’s loss of the entire British naval squadron on Lake Erie had left Fort Amherstburg and Sandwich and the entire western half of the lake defenseless, isolated, without food, arms, or ammunition. They could get no reinforcements from Niagara, far to the east. He pointed to the Portage River on the south side of the lake and told of the great number of American soldiers now gathered there, getting onto ships to cross the lake and attack. He shook his head when he told them that the heavy cannon on the American war ships could shoot two cannonballs at one time, with a chain between them, and with such weapons the Americans could not be stopped.

He straightened and paused to allow the Indians to examine the map, tracing rivers and calculating distances, and he remained silent while they began to understand that he had told them the truth. With the loss of the British ships, there was no way to stop the Americans. Fort Amherstburg and Sandwich, and all British troops and Indians with them, were doomed if they stayed where they were. They had no choice: flee, or be killed.

Procter waited until he saw the reality come into their eyes, and then he went on.

The retreat would follow the Thames River. The British had a great supply of picks and shovels in the hold of two small ships, the Mary and the Ellen, enough to prepare a defense at places on the river that would give good position against the oncoming Americans—Dolsen’s Farm, the Forks, McGregor’s Mill, Cornwall’s Mill, Moraviantown. In solemn terms, Procter promised the chiefs that at one such place the retreat would end. He would halt the army, and they would build breastworks and dig trenches, and they would stop the Americans.

The Indians fell into a sober silence, and Procter moved on.

“I request that the great Tecumseh bring all his chiefs to a council in the great council room tomorrow. I wish to share with them the matters we have talked about. I wish to have their consent to all that we must do.”

With stoic silence the Indians filed from the room and out across the parade ground, through the gates, to their own people. Procter spent part of the day on the parapets inside the high fort walls, telescope extended, watching the chiefs sit with their people, gesturing, signing with their hands, pointing. He saw heads nod in agreement, and he watched the leaders all gather at the great evening campfire, where they sat while Tecumseh stood among them, talking. For the first time since Procter could remember, all heads nodded in agreement before Tecumseh sat down, and the council ended.

At ten o’clock the following morning, with the Indians dressed in their buckskins and war decorations and their tomahawks and knives at their belts, seated in the great council room inside Fort Amherstburg, and the British officers seated opposite them, Procter called the council to order and faced the chiefs.

He began by saying, “I thank you all for honoring us with your presence. I wish to counsel with you on the matter we spoke of six days ago.”

He did not hesitate. In brief, succinct terms he repeated the harsh facts he had laid before Tecumseh only twenty-four hours earlier: to remain where they were would be suicide. They must retreat. They would find a place on the Thames River, and they would stop, and they would drive the Americans back.

Then he concluded.

“I will not do these things unless you agree. I ask for you to answer my question now. Do you agree?”

Tecumseh rose and looked into the face of each of the tribal leaders, then turned to Procter.

“We agree, with the understanding that you will stop at the proper place, and we will fight the Americans.”

Procter nodded. “It is agreed. This council is adjourned.”

The Indians filed from the room, down the stairs, and out of the building, and the British officers exhaled held breath in giddy relief. They waited for a few minutes, nearly jubilant, talking too loud, while the Indians left the fort, and then they walked down the stairs and out across the parade grounds to their quarters.

Elliott waited until the room was cleared before he spoke to Procter alone.

“Let me see the map.”

Procter spread it before him, and the old man pointed with a crooked finger.

“Some of the worst is yet to come. See these streams and rivers? Seven of them. Petite River, Pike’s Creek, Riviere aux Puces, Belle River, Carp River, Roscom River, Indian Creek. All with bridges you’re going to have to cross. When you do, you should burn them to slow down the Americans. But with two or three thousand Indians behind you, you don’t dare burn them. And when the Indians finally get across, it will be too late. With those bridges in place, the Americans are going to have no trouble catching you.”

He took a deep breath and went on.

“And you had better understand that some Indians will go with you, and some will not. Tecumseh is headed for Sandwich right now, thinking to make a stand there. He’ll be back, but I’m telling you certain. Don’t count on the thousands that are here now. They all said yes this morning, but they’re shaky. It will take next to nothing for most of them to disappear. You will be fortunate to have a few hundred left when the Americans catch you and you have to fight.”

The old man stared into Procter’s eyes for a time and then turned on his heel and left the building.

Procter gathered his map and his papers and walked down the stairs, out onto the parade ground where a brisk, chill south wind was blowing heavy clouds due north. He slowed and peered at the south wall as though he could see through it, down to Lake Erie, and across to the mouth of the Portage River where American General Harrison had ships and men. Procter could not stop his thoughts or his fears.

The storms of fall are soon here. Where’s Harrison and his army? When is he coming? How many men? Ships? What is his plan of attack?

* * * * *

Across the lake, on choppy, wind-driven waters at the mouth of the Portage River, an unending concourse of small boats and flat-bottomed bateaux continued making the trip from the rocky shore out to the anchored ships under command of Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, where they unloaded the soldiers, cannon, food stores, and horses of the largest American army ever seen west of the Appalachian Mountains, and turned back to shore to take on the next load. Volunteers from Ohio and Pennsylvania had arrived, and the tough, eager Kentucky horsemen were there with their long rifles, impatient to get on with the war.

Billy Weems stood on the shore with his rifle in hand, watching the smaller craft bucking the swells and whitecaps as they labored out to the ships to unload and return. In the distance, on the far side of Perry’s anchored fleet, Billy studied the familiar silhouette of the one ship he knew so well—the Margaret—and he watched them using belly slings to lift horses from the bateaux onto the top deck of the big vessel.

She’s still afloat. Got all her masts. Adam? Still with her? Is he all right?

He walked west to where the Kentucky cavalry was loading and faced a young, hawk-faced, bearded lieutenant who was caught up in getting nervous horses to walk up a gangplank and into the pitching hold of a large bateau.

Billy pointed. “You loading onto the big ship out there—the Margaret?”

The answer was short, irritated, perfunctory. “Who wants to know?”

“I do. I have family out there.”

The lieutenant paused. “Family?”

“The captain is my brother-in-law.”

“Captain Dunson?”

“Adam Dunson. I haven’t seen him in months. I’d like to talk to him.”

The change in the young lieutenant was instant. “Get on here with us. After what he done in that fight out there on the lake two weeks ago, we’ll get you out there and back.”

Billy boarded the bateau, stacked his rifle in one corner with those of the crew members, and took a place among them, talking low and gentle to the frightened, wild-eyed horses, trying to calm them in their distrust of standing on the deck of a rocking, pitching boat.

The south wind held the sails full and tight and drove the flat-bottomed boat pitching and rolling past the squadron of anchored ships to the Margaret, where the crew cast hawsers down to waiting hands on the bateau and tied the two vessels together. Then the risky business of earing down terrified horses began with experienced hands passing the big canvas slings beneath their bellies and dropping the loops over the hooks that would lift them up to the deck of the ship.

In the noise of the wind and the snorting of the horses and the sound of their hooves on the bottom of the bateau, the young lieutenant turned to Billy and pointed upward. Billy nodded, picked up his rifle, and climbed the netting hanging down the side of the Margaret, over the railing to the main deck. There he stopped in the clamor to study the quarterdeck, and Adam was there, absorbed in the loading of his ship. Billy walked to the steps and climbed them, and quietly came up beside him.

Busy directing the loading process, Adam was not immediately aware of him. When he finally turned his head in Billy’s direction, he froze in disbelief and then exclaimed, “Billy! Billy! What are you . . .”

Billy was grinning broadly, and he thrust out his hand, and Adam grasped it and shook it, and then they seized each other in a strong embrace. Adam released him and took one step back, eyes still wide in disbelief.

“What are you doing here?”

Billy could not resist. He shrugged. “Your mother was worried. She sent me.”

Adam grinned as he asked, “How are you? Are you all right?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good.” He grasped Billy by one shoulder. “Come down to my quarters where we can talk.”

Adam ordered his first mate to carry on, and they walked quickly down the stairs to the main deck, turned and passed down the few steps and through the low door into Adam’s small quarters in the stern of the ship, and both sat down on chairs by Adam’s desk.

“Truly, what brings you here?” Adam asked.

Billy sobered. “President Madison asked me to find Eli Stroud. I have a message for him.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Eli? You’re looking for Eli?”

“Yes. Know anything of his whereabouts?”

Adam shook his head. “No. I’ve thought he might come here when he heard of what’s happening, but I haven’t seen him. Or heard anything.”

Billy went on. “I understand Tecumseh is over at Sandwich right now.”

“That’s the last we heard. General Procter’s preparing to retreat. The Indians are apparently going with him.”

“How many men does General Harrison have here at this camp?”

“We were told about five thousand. We’re under orders to move them to East Sister Island, not far from the north shore, and wait for further orders to make a landing at Bar Point, three miles south of Amherstburg.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed in amazement. “Five thousand? With horses?”

“Only the Kentuckians have horses.”

“Once you unload at Bar Point, what are your orders?”

“Nothing, yet. We wait.”

Billy remained in thoughtful silence for a moment, and Adam went on.

“How is Laura? And the family?”

Billy saw the need in his eyes. “Fine. They’re all anxious for you to come home. Laura has all the newspaper articles about the battle you had with Barclay’s squadron.”

Adam shook his head. “The war isn’t over. We did what we had to. It took all of us. Perry—just twenty-seven years old. Remarkable man.”

Billy said, “If we heard it right, he’d have been lost if you hadn’t broken from the battle line to save him.”

Adam stared at his hands for a moment. “I was fortunate.”

Billy stood. “No, you were Adam Dunson.” He reached for the door. “I better get back up there. I have to go back on that bateau. If you hear anything of Eli, tell him I’m looking for him. President Madison needs him.”

“I will.”

The two made their way back to the main deck and watched as the last of the horses was hoisted over the side of the ship, dangling in the belly sling, to settle on the deck where skilled hands released the hooks and the huge booms raised the hawsers clear. Adam and Billy shook hands and said their goodbye before Billy went over the side and climbed down the netting into the pitching bateau below.

The vessel had to tack almost directly into the south wind, back and forth, to reach the south bank of Lake Erie close to the mouth of the Portage River, where Billy thanked the young lieutenant and waded ashore. He paused for only a moment before he started east, toward the tent being used by the officers in command of the massive operation of moving thousands of men and hundreds of horses from shore to ships. He had not covered twenty feet when the familiar voice came from behind.

“Billy. Billy Weems.”

Billy turned on his heel, and Eli was there, smiling, a light in his eyes, walking rapidly toward him.

Billy said nothing as he reached to grasp the hand and shook it warmly. For a moment the two men stood in silence, feeling the surge within their breasts of old comrades who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder in battle, and in life, and shared it all, and won. In that instant, the war and the soldiers and the ships were gone. They stood alone, conscious only of the bond between them.

The moment passed, and Billy said, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know.” Eli hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “An officer back there—a captain—told me.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Something about President Madison.”

Billy pointed. “Come with me to my camp. We need to talk.”

They walked to the shelter of a great pine, away from the mass of soldiers and militia moving down to the ships, and sat cross-legged on the ground. Billy drew President Madison’s letter from his pack and handed it to Eli. For a time Eli studied it, then handed it back.

“I’ve been across the lake near Fort Detroit for four days, among the Indians. They’ve agreed to support the British. I doubt it will do any good to talk with Tecumseh now.”

“What’s the mood of the Indians?”

“Bad. Three days ago there was talk of them turning on the British.”

“Our patrols say Procter is going to abandon the lake. Go east up the Thames, on to Niagara.”

“That’s what the Indians said. They also said he’s promised to stop and fight if the Indians follow them.”

“Will they fight?”

“They will.”

“Do you intend going to talk with Tecumseh for President Madison?”

For a time Eli bowed his head in deep thought. “Yes. But I’ll need that letter to show him.”

Billy handed the letter back to him, and Eli folded it and slipped it inside his shirt as he spoke.

“How is Laura? And your family?”

Billy smiled. “Fine. Laura’s as beautiful as ever. The children are all well. Laura made me promise to tell you the children are anxious to see their grandfather.”

Eli smiled at the thought, then pointed out onto the lake. “Is Adam on one of those ships? I heard he might be.”

“The Margaret. Our company owns it. We converted it to a gunboat. Adam was in the fight on the lake two weeks ago.”

Eli straightened. “Is he the one?”

Billy grinned. “Broke the battle line to save Perry. Turned the battle. Might have turned the war.”

Billy saw the light come into Eli’s eyes as Eli nodded. “Fine man. Fine.”

Billy remained quiet for a time before he continued. “When do you think you’ll leave to find Tecumseh?”

“As soon as the wind will let me. I’ll go by canoe.”

Billy nodded. “I’ll be waiting when you come back.”

Notes

The loss of the British ships in the Lake Erie naval battle on September 10, 1813, left British general Henry Procter Sr. landlocked and isolated at Fort Amherstburg on the west end of the lake with a small command of regular soldiers and several thousand Indians. For more than a year the British had promised the Indians they would feed and arm them, provide for them, and drive the Americans from their ancestral lands, if the Indians would support the British in the war. By September 12, with winter coming on, the Indians were starving, without arms, and for the first time understood that Procter intended to abandon the lake to the Americans.

September 13, Procter declared martial law so he could commandeer provisions wherever he could find them. When the Indians threatened revolt, Procter arranged a council with them for September 15 and in the day preceding informed his own staff of his plan to retreat west on the Thames River. The council took place as described herein. Most of the speech made by Tecumseh, in which he cursed the British, called them liars, and called General Procter a pig, are taken verbatim from the best reports available. At the conclusion of the speech, every Indian in the council room leaped to his feet and conducted a demonstration with his tomahawk and scalping knife and war whoops, terrifying the British officers. Procter was able to get the Indians to leave without bloodshed and persuaded Tecumseh to promise to return soon for a second council meeting while Procter was working out the details of the planned retreat.

Procter visited Sandwich, a British outpost six miles north of the fort, told them of the plan, and returned on September 18 to find William Elliott, the eighty-year-old head of the British Indian Department, terrified, reporting that Procter could expect a massacre like none other in British history. William (Billy) Caldwell, a lifelong friend to the Indians, packed his family and sent them south, fearing a massacre. Procter called Tecumseh and his main chiefs into a private council with Elliott and his agents Warburton and Evans in an effort to persuade the Indians that the retreat was absolutely necessary. They partially agreed. Thereafter a second major council was arranged among all British staff and officers and all Indian chiefs. The Indians agreed to continue to support the British, and to join the retreat, on the promise of Procter that he would pick the first appropriate place and set up defenses to stop the Americans if they followed.

By September 22, the Americans had their ships and bateaux at the mouth of the Portage River on the south side of Lake Erie and were loading the largest army ever seen in that sector onto the vessels to cross the lake and attack. Again Elliott warned Procter that if he ordered a retreat and abandoned the Indians, Tecumseh would produce the wampum belt that had served as the peace treaty between the Indians and the British for more than forty years, and he would cut it in two and throw it away. With the wampum belt destroyed, all ties between the British and the Indians would be severed, and the Indians would consider themselves free to turn their tomahawks and scalping knives on the British.

See Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 297–310, 331; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, p. 329; Wills, James Madison, p. 125; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 136–37.

The reader is advised that in the time period presented herein, there were more battles fought at different locations than reported here; however, it would be impossible to include in the confines of this book all the battles and all the events. For that reason, only the pivotal battles and events are presented.

Billy Weems, Eli Stroud, and Adam Dunson and the parts they played in these events are fictional.