Sandwich, Canada

September 26, 1813

CHAPTER XXII

* * *

A chill wind was moaning in the pines and the forest beneath rolling clouds that covered the moon and stars and left the Indians camped at Sandwich in a world of thick blackness. Their supper fires had long since turned to glowing embers and then to black ashes. A few lodges and tepees glowed dully from tiny fires within; only those with great need were outside their crude dwellings in the cold of a late-September night.

Alone inside his lodge, Tecumseh sat cross-legged on the great, gray pelt of a silvertip grizzly bear, staring at the dwindling flames of his tiny fire. A crimson blanket given him long ago by a British general was wrapped about his shoulders, and he clutched it at his breast to hold in the warmth. In his face was an immense, hopeless sadness as he pondered again and again the sixty years his people had given their lifeblood in their struggle to save their ancestral lands and their homes and their way of life with honor, and they had lost. Always, always, the answer was the same. White men had come, and they had taken the land, and they had held it. It made no difference whether they were British or American. They were white, and there had been no way to stop them. The Shawnee, Ojibwa, Iroquois, Potawatomi, Ottawa, Miami, Sac, Fox, Mohawk, Huron, Seneca, and the other tribes—all doomed. Their chiefs—Main Rock, Five Medals, Walks-in-the-Water, and others—abandoning all hope—returning to their lands as beaten subjects of whoever won the war, willing to accept whatever pittance the greedy white men offered, watching the white men violate that which they held most sacred—the valleys and forests and rivers that had been theirs from beyond memory.

Soon he would leave this place and he would follow where Procter led, east on the Thames River, doing once again the bidding of the white men, leaving behind the graves and the land of his ancestors to go to a strange, new country to live where he and the Shawnee would be told where to live, eat what they were given, and live without honor.

He started when the low, narrow door to his lodge opened, and in the next instant he was staring at Eli Stroud who stood before him, rifle in his hand, tall in the dim light, face shadowed, eyes peering at him steadily.

Tecumseh did not move.

Eli spoke. “I have come to counsel with Tecumseh. I regret that I was forced to come in secret, in the night. I ask your forgiveness.”

For a time Tecumseh stared, and then he gestured, and Eli sat down opposite him, rifle across his knees. Eli went on.

“I am sent by the American Father, Madison. He has great desire for your safety and that of the Shawnee. I have a writing. I hand it to you.”

Eli held out the letter, and Tecumseh reached to accept it. Slowly he unfolded it and turned it to the dim light of the remains of the fire to read the words he knew. Minutes passed while he studied the document, and then he handed it back.

“The letter is not to you. It is to a man named Weems.”

“That is true. Weems traveled from Boston to deliver it to me. The letter requests that I come here. I am here.”

“What is the message from the American Father?”

“He wishes me to make peace with you and your people on terms that are acceptable to you. He does not wish to fight you when the Americans come to drive the British out of the lands owned by America.”

Tecumseh raised a hand. “It is a lie. The Americans do not own the lands. They stole them from us. They are our lands.”

Eli took a deep breath. “Tecumseh speaks the truth. I regret that it is not possible to undo what has been done. A change must be made. The white men and the Indians must learn to live together. It is not necessary that one must die that the other might live. Tecumseh knows I was born white. I was raised Iroquois. I have now lived white for forty years. It is possible. The Indians can learn to live with the whites. The Father in Washington has given me authority to settle this with Tecumseh.”

Tecumseh slowly shook his head. “Live without honor? Accepting the charity of the whites to stay alive? Our lands gone? Our customs gone? Our religion gone? Our pride gone? Stroud knows that it is better to be dead than to live in such a way.”

Eli saw the terrible sadness in the man, and his heart ached for him as he continued.

“The Great Spirit has seen all that has happened. The Great Spirit will not abandon his Shawnee children. He will protect you and provide a way for you to live with honor and dignity. It is on your shoulders to do all you can. He will do for you what you cannot do for yourselves.”

Tecumseh’s black eyes were points of light. “The Great Spirit has turned his back on us. I have fasted for days many times and sought him, and he does not answer. I believe he is punishing us because we did not drive the white men out when they came in the time of our fathers. We extended our hand to them and we taught them to live in the forest. They came in numbers—ever greater numbers—and they took our forests from us. We did not drive them out, and now the Great Spirit is silent. He will not help us.”

Eli cut him off. “Will Tecumseh fast with me? For five days? And then two days in a sweat lodge? The Great Spirit will answer us if we fast and sweat and seek him.”

Tecumseh lowered his eyes to stare into the glowing embers for a time before he answered.

“It is no use. We offended the Great Spirit when we did not protect our lands. He will not hear us because he has turned his back to us and will not listen.”

Eli knew in his heart that there was no power on earth that could reach deep enough into Tecumseh’s soul to lift him, inspire him to save himself and his people. He went on.

“What message do you wish me to carry back to the American Father, Madison?”

“We will fight with the red-coated soldiers against the Americans. That is all.”

“You refuse to counsel?”

“Yes. He cannot give us back our lands. Our honor. Of what use would it be to counsel?”

Eli bowed his head and sighed. When he looked up, he said, “I will carry your message. I thank you for your courtesy. With your permission I will leave.”

Tecumseh raised a hand. “You do not have my protection.”

“I came without your protection. I can leave without it.”

Eli stood and looked down at Tecumseh as if to memorize the long, narrow face and the pointed nose and the eyes, and he turned to go.

Again Tecumseh raised a hand, and Eli stopped, waiting.

“If I meet you on the field of battle, I will have to kill you.”

Eli nodded. “I know.”

He walked through the door into the wind and the blackness, and he left the Indian camp as silently as he had come, to make his way through the forest the short distance to the Detroit River, to his waiting canoe. He paddled west across the river, then turned south with the current to follow the shoreline to Lake Erie. The wind died, and the clouds opened to show the stars and a half moon overhead. With dawn approaching, he passed the mouth of the Raisin River and continued, following the bank where it turned east, past the mouth of the Maumee River. It was midmorning when he beached the light birchbark craft at the mouth of the Portage River. He studied the vast emptiness of the lake for a moment, then the litter and refuse of the huge, nearly deserted campground, and walked steadily toward the place in the trees where Billy had made his camp. Billy was waiting with a small fire, roasting a trout on a spit. He gestured, and Eli sat down, tired, weary, hungry, and reached for the fish. He held the spit away from the fire, waiting for it to cool.

Billy sat down facing him. “Did you find Tecumseh?”

“Yes. He refused to talk. He will remain with the British.” He shook his head, and Billy saw the deep sadness in his face as he went on. “Tecumseh, Main Rock, Five Medals, other chiefs, have accepted the fact they are doomed. All of them. They blame the white men—British, American, it makes no difference—for taking their lands and their way of life. They will not try to learn to live with the whites. They accuse all whites of being liars—without honor.”

He stopped and broke a piece from the fish and put it in his mouth while Billy waited. Eli went on.

“He sent a message back to President Madison. They will fight us. Tecumseh knows there is no hope, but they will fight anyway. He said it is better to die with honor than to live without it. Their struggle is over. It now remains only to watch them be destroyed.”

They sat in silence while Eli continued to eat the fish. Finally, he wiped his hands in the dried grass and pointed out to the lake where the great armada had been anchored.

“When did they leave?”

“Over the past three days. They had to wait until the wind died. They’re too heavy. Might have capsized.”

“How many were there?”

“Sixteen heavy ships and well over one hundred bateaux and small boats.”

“How many men? Horses?”

“About five thousand men and twelve hundred horses. They were going to stop at East Sister Island to scout the shoreline. If they’re on Harrison’s schedule, right about now they ought to be landing at Bar Point, just south of Fort Amherstburg.”

Eli peered out over the lake and reflected for a moment. “I think we better go on over there.”

Billy nodded. “I agree. In the canoe, when the wind dies.”

* * * * *

Across the lake, the largest American armada ever assembled on the North American continent was dropping anchor at Bar Point on the Detroit River, three miles south of Amherstburg. Hungry soldiers hitched their forty-pound backpacks higher, lowered themselves over the sides of the smaller craft into water up to their waists, and waded ashore with their muskets held high above their heads. Others jumped snorting horses over the sides of the boats into the water and led them bucking and fighting ashore. Still others began the back-breaking process of unloading barrels of flour and dried fish, dried beef, and salted sowbelly.

On shore, Major General William H. Harrison sat his horse, watching the bateaux come to shore, riding low in the water and returning to the ships riding high. Satisfied, he signaled to his aides, and they followed him on their saddle mounts to the tiny village of Bar Point and reined them to a halt to sit staring. The large blockhouse was a heap of smoldering timbers. Half the houses were burned-out shells. Cast-off litter was blowing in the dirt streets. There were no human beings or horses in sight.

Harrison’s eyes narrowed as he judged what had happened, and he turned to his aides. “Procter’s gone, and his army with him. They burned everything here. Keep our men moving on into Amherstburg. I’m going to ride ahead to see what’s left there. Find our scouting patrols if they’ve returned, and gather the war council. Bring them to the big council room at the fort. I’ll be waiting.”

With one aide at his side, Harrison raised his horse to a ground-eating lope and held it on the winding, rutted road until the high walls of the fort came into view, and with them, the haze of smoke that hung low in the dead air. Most of the public buildings outside the fort were charred ruins, along with a great pile of lumber. A few Canadian citizens stood away from the road, silently watching him pass. He rode through the fort gates into the abandoned parade ground, where he brought his horse to a stop. For a moment he sat in the late afternoon sun while an odd feeling of disquiet washed over him at being in a place that should be filled with people and sound and action but was not. It was as though a great hand had stripped the fort of everything and left it as in a dream. There was not a sound, not a movement.

He led his aide to the great council building and walked in. Desk drawers were open and discarded papers were scattered on the floor. Everything that had been attached to the walls was gone. He briefly looked at the papers, knowing he would find nothing of value, and dropped them on a desktop to climb the stairs. His steps echoed hollow, and he stopped at the head of the stairs and studied the huge council room. Only the great table remained. He descended back to the main floor and walked out into the parade ground, across to the officers’ quarters. Nothing remained—no uniforms, no boots, nothing. He strode to the commissary, and it was stripped to the walls. There was no food, nothing of value to be used by his men.

At that moment he paused, head cocked, listening, and the sound came faint at first, then stronger. The regimental fife and drum corps was playing “Yankee Doodle” as they led the army to Amherstburg. Harrison and his aide remounted their horses and rode out to bring them on in.

With the soldiers building their cookfires and setting up their camp, Harrison assembled his scouts and war council in the big council room. Lacking any chairs, they stood around the table. He wasted no time.

“General Procter has gone, and he has burned everything we might have used. I expect him to burn the bridges he crosses, and I expect him to be traveling fast. I judge he has over one thousand horses, and with the lead he has on us right now I doubt we have a chance to catch him.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” exclaimed a bearded, disheveled sergeant. “I just come back from scout. He don’t have a thousand horses. He don’t have a hundred horses. The Injuns took most of ’em. He’s walkin’. His men got sixty-pound backpacks, and right now they haven’t ate in two days and they’re about finished. It won’t take no week to catch ’em.”

Harrison saw a glimmer of daylight. “The bridges?”

“He don’t dare burn ’em. The Injuns—more’n a thousand of ’em—are moving with him, most of ’em behind, and they’re movin’ slow, way behind Procter. They got two boats with equipment way up the Thames River, not far from Moraviantown, but they won’t catch up to those boats for maybe a week. They didn’t make a full five miles today. Procter don’t dare burn the bridges because the Injuns need ’em, and if he burns ’em that’s about all it would take to turn the whole lot of ’em on the British. Right now the Injuns don’t much care who they massacre, us or the British.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, sir. Certain.”

“You said more than a thousand Indians. My report says close to five thousand of them.”

The sergeant turned to his corporal. “Dobbins, you made the count. You tell the general.”

Dobbins, short, lean, young, bobbed his head. “Sir, there were over five thousand, but that was a week ago. Most of the Potawatomi, and the Ottawa, Ojibwa, Wyandot, Miami, Kickapoo, Delaware—most of ’em has deserted already. I doubt Procter’s got more’n twelve hundred left, and they’re mostly Shawnee. I counted ’em.”

Procter looked at his officers. “If all that is true, can we catch them?”

The response was instant and raucous. They could catch them.

Harrison turned back to Dobbins. “Did you get a count of the British soldiers?”

“Yes, sir, I did, sir. Including all of ’em—officers, sick, wounded, cavalry, seamen—all of ’em, it counted out just about seven hundred ninety. Short of eight hundred.”

Harrison turned to his aide. “What’s our count of effectives right now?”

“Sir, deducting those we left behind to control Sandwich and Bar Point, we have over three thousand effectives. Among them are the mounted Kentucky infantry led by Colonel Richard Johnson and James Johnson and Elisha Whittlesey and Governor Shelby. We also have about two hundred Shawnee and Ojibwa Indians with us.”

Harrison reflected for a moment. “Nearly four to one in our favor.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes in deep thought, then spoke with finality.

“Gentlemen, we’re going after the British. If those bridges are still up, and they don’t have horses to pull wagons, we can catch them in about four days. Are there any questions?”

For the next hour the council pored over the map with the officers ignoring rank as they asked the scouts the questions that had to be answered: how are the roads?—if the weather goes bad are they passable?—does Dolsen’s farm have good defensive ground?—is there natural cover at the Forks, where McGregor’s Creek joins the Thames?—can they make a stand at Bowles’ farm?—at Arnold’s Mill?—Dover?—Chatham?—at Cornwall’s Mill?—is there good ground for a defense at Moraviantown?

Full darkness was upon them long before Harrison issued his orders for the following morning, and they filed out of the big building to take their places with their men.

In the night a cold wind arose once more, and by dawn, dull gray clouds came rolling in. The reveille drum pounded, and anxious soldiers had finished their morning mess and were packed to travel light well before eight o’clock. With Harrison mounted and leading, they marched north on the road that bordered the Detroit River, then angled east to the place where the Thames River emptied into Lake St. Clair. They made their evening camp in the chill wind and glanced at the billowing purple clouds overhead before they sat down with wooden bowls of steaming stew to eat while they bragged on the twenty-five miles they had made the first day and vowed they’d catch the British within five more days.

A steady rain came in the night, and morning found them up and marching on muddy ruts, soaked, shivering, shoulders hunched against the cold, determined to make another twenty-five miles before evening mess. They raised their heads from time to time to peer ahead, searching for the first sign of the British, and by midafternoon they were passing discarded canteens and worn-out clothing thrown from the backpacks of the red-coated regulars.

* * * * *

Sixteen miles ahead of the Americans, in the early evening, with the rain still steadily falling, Procter called his scouts and his war council into his tent for the evening reports. They were all too simple. The Americans are coming. They will catch us if we do not burn the bridges and leave the Indians behind.

Procter shook his head. “We cannot burn the bridges, and we cannot abandon the Indians. We must continue. We will scout the American progress daily, and when it is clear they will overtake us, we will pick a place and make our stand.” He spread his map on the table and pointed. “Where are the best places for us to establish ourselves, should it become necessary?”

The nearest place with good defensive ground was Moraviantown. Short of that, there was no place where Procter’s one thousand men could stop more than three thousand American infantry and Kentucky cavalry. Procter gave his orders. They would continue to move east on the Thames as fast as the Indians could keep pace and hope to reach the town before the Americans caught them.

* * * * *

For two days the rains held while the exhausted British slogged on. In the forenoon of the second day a mud-splattered, dripping, white-faced sergeant came splashing through the black muck to catch Procter, mounted, at the head of the column.

“Sir, I was sent to tell you. More than half the Indians are gone. Left sometime in the night. There are only about six hundred remaining with us.”

Procter’s shoulders slumped for a moment. “Tecumseh?” he asked.

“He’s still with us. With maybe four hundred of his Shawnee.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Return to your regiment.”

He turned to his aide who was sitting in a soaked uniform, on a wet saddle, on a wet horse. “Find Warburton and bring him to me. I’ve got to know how close the Americans are.”

Forty minutes later the aide reined his horse in beside Procter with Warburton beside him. Procter looked him full in the face and asked, “Mister Warburton, when did you receive your last report on the position of the Americans, and how far behind us are they?”

Warburton’s words were spaced, firm. “Half an hour ago they were twelve miles behind us, still on the road, and gaining. You know about the Indians? The ones that left?”

“I know about that. How are the Americans traveling?”

“Light. Fast. No artillery, no wagons. Light backpacks.”

“Cavalry?”

“Right with them. About one thousand Kentuckians. The best they have.”

For a time the three men continued at the head of the column, with the steady rain falling, listening to the suck of the hooves of their horses in the black morass of the rutted road. Warburton and the aide waited in respectful silence until Procter spoke once again.

“We must send an advance force to prepare defenses at Moraviantown. Mister Warburton, take your regiment to the river near Bowles’s farm and get the picks and shovels from the Ellen and the Mary. Put them in flatboats and move them up the river to Moraviantown. Then burn the two ships and all the stores and ammunition that are with them. Leave nothing the Americans can use. Proceed to Moraviantown and pick the best place to build breastworks and trenches. In this rain, be certain it is on high ground. We can’t fight in mud.”

Warburton reined his horse around and spurred it to a lope, muddy water splashing with every step.

Procter twisted in his saddle to watch him go, then peered long into the wind and freezing rain, probing for the first sign of an advance American scouting party. He saw nothing but his own soldiers shaking in the freezing rain, some barefoot, all silent, sullen, and he straightened in his saddle with the single question burning in his mind.

Sixteen miles behind us yesterday—twelve miles behind us half an hour ago. Will they catch us before we reach Moraviantown? Will they?

* * * * *

Eleven miles behind the British column, General Harrison held his mud-splattered horse to a walk at the head of his column. Rain was dripping from his hat and his clothes, and he was shaking with cold, but there was a light in his eyes as he passed the burning hulks of the two ships, Mary and Ellen in the Thames River, between Dolsen’s farm and the Forks, where McGregor’s Creek entered the river. Far to his right, across the Thames, he could dimly see Indians—hundreds of men, women, children—standing still, staring at him through the rain.

They’ve deserted the British—they’re beaten—out of the fight.

He set his jaw to stop the shivering and moved on.

The raw wind held, and the freezing rain came and went for the next two days, tension mounting each hour with the British constantly peering over their shoulders, cursing the black clay muck that sucked at their boots, the Indians that could not hold the pace, the lack of food, their wet backpacks that were breaking them down, and their commanding officers whose orders were draining them of strength and the will to fight.

Behind them, the Americans were coming strong, grinning as they passed discarded packs and burned carts. They passed the charred hulk of the ship Miamis in the river. They crossed the river at the Forks to reach McGregor’s Mill on the south side in time to put out the fires that were burning in two buildings and recover one thousand British muskets, together with more than fifteen hundred bushels of wheat. They hesitated only long enough to stuff their mouths full of the wheat and scoop what they could into their backpacks as they moved on to make their evening camp.

The rain stopped in the night, and a hard frost firmed the mud in the road. By midday the British were on King’s Road, six miles ahead of the Americans as the exhausted redcoats passed Arnold’s Mill, and only four miles ahead when the British made the turn at Cornwall’s Mill, where the road turned south for two miles before it turned to run east again to Moraviantown, just four miles distant. Procter reined his horse from the road to watch the leading regiment pass in uniforms that were disheveled, muddy, ragged, and his heart sank.

They won’t make it in time. Four more miles, and they won’t make it in time. We’ll have to make our stand this side of Moraviantown.

In the late afternoon, behind the lagging British, General Harrison crossed the Thames back to the north side at Arnold’s Mill and had just passed Cornwall’s Mill and was making the turn to the south when two men stepped into the frozen road twenty feet ahead of him and stopped, rifles held high above their heads. The shorter one, thick shouldered, built strong, was dressed in colonial homespun. The taller one with the hawk nose was in beaded Indian buckskins and moccasins.

Harrison had his hand on his sword as he called, “Identify yourselves.”

“Friends. Billy Weems and Eli Stroud. Americans.”

Harrison’s aide murmured, “Watch out, sir. Most likely British agents. Might even be assassins.”

Harrison’s hand did not leave his sword. “Lay your rifles on the ground and don’t move.”

He dismounted and led his horse to the two men. “What are you doing here? Can you prove you’re Americans? Friendly?”

Billy drew Madison’s letter from his coat. “A letter from President Madison.”

A dumbstruck Harrison seized the letter. “President Madison?”

He opened and read it, then reread it, then handed it to his aide. “I know Madison’s signature. The letter looks authentic to me. You can pick up your rifles.” He looked up at Eli. “You’re Stroud?”

“I am.”

“Did you talk with Tecumseh?”

“I did.”

“What result?”

“He’ll fight. Most of the others have deserted, but he’s there with about five hundred of his Shawnee and a few Ojibwa, and they’ll fight.”

“You want to join us?”

Eli went on. “There’s something you need to know. We’ve been out ahead of you. The British are about three miles away, and they know you’re going to catch them before they reach Moraviantown. Right now they’re deploying their troops at a place just over one mile this side of the town.”

Instantly Harrison came to an intense focus. “You’ve been there?”

“Yes.”

Harrison turned to his aide. “Stop the column! Get the war council up here with my maps.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide handed the letter back to Harrison, who passed it on to Billy.

While the American column made their camp for the night, Harrison had his table unloaded near the great campfire and gathered his war council and his chief scouts around while he unfolded and laid out his map. He shifted it to lay consistent with the river and began, pointing and moving his finger as he spoke.

“We’re here. Moraviantown is here.” He turned to Eli. “Where are the British, and how has Procter prepared their defenses?”

With Billy at his side, Eli took a moment to study the detail, when Harrison interrupted.

“First, has he begun digging trenches and throwing up breastworks?”

Eli shook his head. “No. They don’t have their trenching tools. Their picks and shovels were moved from two ships into in two flat-bottomed boats that are behind us on the Thames. They didn’t get them. They can’t build defenses.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “They also forgot to unload their ammunition boats. Most of their gunpowder and shot are on the river, behind us, near Arnold’s Mill.”

“What?” Harrison exclaimed. “They left their trenching tools and ammunition behind? Procter? Ridiculous! Are you certain?”

“Certain. They’re behind us on the river. Yours for the taking.”

Harrison plunged on. “What’s wrong with Procter? How could he let that happen?”

“It wasn’t Procter. It was Warburton. Procter left his command and is in Moraviantown right now.”

Harrison recoiled in disbelief. “Abandoned his men at a time like this?”

Eli said, “I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. All I can tell you is Warburton is in command, and Procter is in Moraviantown right now.”

Harrison thumped his finger on the map. “Where are the British, and how are they deployed?”

Eli dropped his finger on Moraviantown and moved it west. “Right about there. Just over a mile this side of the town. There’s a wedge-shaped piece of high ground there with a few birch trees, just a few feet from the road.” He turned to Billy. “How wide and how long is that strip of ground? Two hundred yards wide, north to south, and half a mile long, east to west?”

Billy answered, “About two hundred fifty yards wide, and just less than a half mile long.”

Eli moved his finger north. “Over here, away from the road, at the north edge of the high ground, is a bog. A marsh—a bad one. It’s called Backmetack Swamp. No one can put troops there.”

Eli paused for a moment, then went on. “From what we saw before we came to you this afternoon, the British intend forming a line with their regulars that runs from the road pretty much north towards the swamp. At the end of that line, near the swamp, they’re going to form the Indians in an adjoining line that curves somewhat towards the west. They’ll most likely put Tecumseh and his Shawnee at one end of the Indian line, and Oshawahnah and his Ojibwa at the other end.”

Eli stopped and turned to Billy. “Have I missed anything?”

“Only that they don’t have artillery. Maybe one gun, but no more.”

Harrison looked carefully at both Billy and Eli. “Have you two had battle experience?”

There was a hint of a smile when Billy answered, “A little.”

Harrison looked at Eli, dressed in Indian buckskins with his tomahawk and his sheathed knife thrust through his weapons belt. “You speak any of the Indian dialects?”

Billy spoke for him. “Seven.”

Harrison’s jaw dropped open, and he clacked it shut, then took a deep breath and moved on. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

“I don’t think so,” Eli said. “You might want to send a detail of men back to Arnold’s Mill to get those trenching tools and ammunition before Procter does.”

Harrison asked, “Will you two stay with us? We might need you in the morning.”

Eli looked at Billy, and Billy answered. “We’ll stay, but we might be gone for a while. Someone ought to take a look at the British lines tomorrow morning in the daylight just to be certain what they’re going to do.”

Harrison bobbed his head. “Done.” He turned to one of his officers. “Send a company of men back to get those trenching tools and ammunition from the boats on the Thames, now, tonight.” He spoke to the remainder of his staff. “I’ll spend some time working out a plan of attack. All of you be back here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning to approve it and receive your orders. No fires tonight. Double pickets. If there’s nothing else, you’re dismissed.”

Billy and Eli shared a sparce evening mess with the officers and went to their blankets beneath a lean-to they made from pine boughs. It was close to two o’clock when they were awakened by the return of the men sent to get the trenching tools and ammunition from the British boats on the river. At four o’clock they left their blankets beneath a clear, star-studded sky and silently made their way through the camp and disappeared onto King’s Road, traveling east toward the British camp.

Frost was on the ground, and the eastern horizon was showing deep purple when Harrison roused his camp. He allowed his men to build fires to cook their morning mess, then gathered with his war council at the table and laid out his map. He tapped the high ground where the British were camped and began.

“I propose we attack the British lines with Mister Henry’s infantry division. The British will not have breastworks or trenches because we have their equipment. The result is, we will meet them out on open ground, and we have at least twice the numbers they do. As for the Indians, I propose that Mister Desha and his division face them and hold them over by the swamp. Once the British are defeated, we can send all our forces against them until they are defeated or have fled.”

He stopped while the simplicity of the plan was accepted by his officers, and he was about to continue when movement on the road stopped him. He peered up the winding ruts and suddenly recognized the two men coming at a trot. He waited until Billy and Eli reached the gathering of officers before he spoke.

“You’ve been scouting the British?”

Billy was breathing hard as he answered. “We’ve been there. They’ve changed their lines. It looks like they might form the British regulars in two lines, not one. The larger line in front, facing us, with a second one about two hundred yards behind it. That means that front line is not going to be shoulder to shoulder, the way they usually form. There’s going to be a fairly large gap between each of the soldiers, in both lines. It doesn’t make sense. To leave gaps like that will weaken both lines bad enough that they’re going to fold in the face of a head-on infantry charge.”

He stopped to catch his breath, then went on. “It doesn’t look like they’re going to change the Indian line. They’re still out by the swamp, with Tecumseh and Oshawahnah and the Shawnee and Ojibwa warriors.”

Eli cut in. “Seems to me we should move on over there soon, and let them see us. Then watch what they do. As it is now, Billy’s right. They seem to be forming two loose lines, one behind the other. I don’t know what Procter is thinking.”

Harrison asked, “Is Procter back from town?”

“Yes. Got there about two hours ago.”

Harrison turned to his officers. “Get your men into ranks and check their ammunition. We march in thirty minutes.” He turned back to Billy and Eli. “Go on down to the officer’s mess and tell them I said to get something hot for you. Will you two stay with me? No telling when I’ll need you next.”

“We’ll stay,” Eli replied, and the two of them made their way through the scurrying ranks to the officer’s mess where a tall, rangy, profane sergeant was in charge of clean-up. He handed them wooden bowls and pointed, and two minutes later Billy and Eli were standing by one of the cookfires, gingerly working on steaming mush made from the wheat confiscated at Arnold’s Mill the day before.

Twenty minutes later, with Billy and Eli mounted nearby on army horses, Harrison mounted his mare, called his orders, and the column moved forward amidst the din and jostle of more than two thousand men marching and one thousand more mounted on horses with vapor rising from their belled nostrils, feeling the cold, throwing their heads, fighting the bit. Four hundred yards ahead of the main column rode twenty bearded Kentuckians, cocked rifles across their knees while their heads and their eyes never stopped moving, probing everything on both sides of the road and dead ahead for the first sign of a British patrol or an ambush.

The sun was three hours high when the road slanted to within twenty yards of the river, and in the far distance, through a break in the forest, Harrison and Eli and Billy caught their first glimpse of the high white church steeple above the treetops in the settlement of Moraviantown. The thought ran through their minds, They’re waiting— one mile this side of that church.

The column kept moving on the hard-crusted ruts that wound on through the woods, searching the left side of the road for the field Eli had described. It was shortly before noon that the forest suddenly opened, and the gentle rise was there, less than one mile ahead, and on it were the crimson-coated British regulars with their Union Jack flag high on a pole. Harrison halted the column long enough to extend his telescope and study the position of the British and the Indians and identify Procter, very close to the road. He handed the telescope to Billy.

For one full minute Billy studied the red-coated lines, then handed the telescope to Eli and waited until Eli lowered the instrument.

Harrison spoke. “Looks like they still intend forming one line, not two. Let’s move out in the open and see if Procter changes his mind.”

With Harrison mounted, near the road, flanked by his aide, and Billy and Eli, the Americans came by rank and file, steadily, methodically. The two thousand American infantry marched onto the west end of the open field, eyes riveted on the British less than eight hundred yards due east. Then, behind them came the Kentucky volunteers, mounted on their horses, rifles across their knees, to form lines behind the infantry. The last of them were taking their places when Harrison suddenly jerked forward in his saddle, and his arm shot up, pointing.

“They’re shifting! About half of their line is falling back!” Instantly he had his telescope up, watching, scarcely breathing as half the men in the long line fell back two hundred yards to the east and reformed in a second line.

“They’ve got Warburton in command of that first line and Muir in the second. Procter’s clear off to one side, next to the road. What are they doing?” Harrison exclaimed and looked at Billy.

Billy shook his head in amazement. “I don’t know. That front line will never survive a head-on infantry charge, and the second line is too far back to give support.”

Harrison took a deep breath, and his face settled. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

He turned and was raising to give his signal to William Henry at the head of his command of Kentucky infantry when his aide pointed and shouted, “Sir, wait! The Johnsons are coming.”

Harrison reined his horse around to the sound of two horses coming in from behind at a high run, their riders hunched low over their withers, rifles held high above their heads. He waited while the two brothers, Colonel Richard Johnson and Lieutenant Colonel James Johnson, who had gathered the Kentucky cavalry and now had command of them, came pounding in and hauled their mounts to a sliding halt, stuttering their feet, wanting to run.

Harrison peered at them, waiting.

Richard paid no attention to formalities. He pointed with his rifle. “There’s too much ground between us and them. If we use the infantry for the attack we’re going to lose some men. We’ve got a thousand mounted Kentuckians back there, and they can cover that half mile horseback in about one minute.” He stopped to lick his lips, and Harrison saw his eyes shining. “Our men are ready. Most of ’em came with us from Kentucky because they remember the fight at the River Raisin—the one where some of their friends and families were massacred, even after they surrendered. These men are ready. They’ll cut those British to pieces in less than three minutes.” He turned to his brother James. “What do you say?”

James came loud and firm. “My men are beggin’ for the chance. The last thing they said to me before I came here was that I had to tell you, remember the Raisin.”

Harrison made his decision in five seconds. “Get your cavalry up here. Now!”

The two Johnson brothers jerked their horses around, and in two seconds were gone at stampede gait.

Harrison shouted to Major General William Henry and then to General Shelby and waved his arm violently for them to come at once. They arrived at the same moment, and Harrison didn’t wait for questions.

“Hold your infantry right where they are. The Kentucky cavalry is going to take a position in front of you, and they’re going to lead the attack. James Johnson and his regiment are going straight at that line of redcoats while Richard Johnson is charging the Indian line to the north. It’s going to happen fast, so get back to your positions and order your men to hold. Don’t move until I give the signal. The cavalry goes in first. Do you both understand?”

Billy and Eli watched the two officers spin their horses and gallop back to their commands, shouting Harrison’s orders over and over again.

The Kentucky cavalry came trotting up the road and with Harrison pointing and shouting orders, they formed their lines in front of the infantry, with every man among them waiting for the order to launch the attack. Harrison thought to draw his watch from his pocket to check the time. It was 3:45 on the bright, chill day of October 5, 1813.

Harrison jammed the watch back into his pocket and shouted his last order to the two brothers.

“See that cannon on the right of their line? Try to get it first. Don’t let them get that gun going.”

Both brothers nodded and held their eyes on Harrison, waiting for his signal.

Harrison looked at his aide, who nodded his head, then at Billy and Eli, who both nodded, and he straightened in his saddle. He raised his arm high and dropped it.

The dead quiet was shattered with the war cries of one thousand mounted Kentuckians as they drove their spurs home and the horses leaped out to a hard run in three jumps. The men held their rifles high above their heads, and in their weapons belts they carried tomahawks and knives and hatchets, ready for what was coming.

James Johnson’s command swept across the open field like an avalanche, to fire their first volley at fifty yards, and all up and down the line, British regulars groaned and went down. The tide of horsemen was only thirty yards from the British lines before the stunned regulars could recover from the shock enough to raise their muskets, and the oncoming horde was less than five yards from the first British line before the British fired their first volley, ragged, without aim, without effect. The Kentuckians hit them head-on, swinging their tomahawks and hatchets, running over them, knocking them sprawling. They overran the lone British cannon and its crew before it could fire a single shot, and the British threw down their muskets and sprinted in all directions, done, wanting only to be away from the demons that were killing them. The Kentuckians held their mounts at stampede gait straight on through the first line, across the two hundred yards, and hit the second line of regulars with their tomahawks and hatchets and knives working. The terrified second line also threw down their muskets and wildly fled, heedless of anything that got in their way.

The Kentuckians pulled their mounts to a skidding stop and spun around to descend on the scattering British, driving them in all directions, a beaten, devastated, undisciplined mob. The total time from the moment James Johnson’s command had dug spur to horse and started its run across the open ground, to the time the British were a disorganized, destroyed army, was just under three minutes.

North of James Johnson and his command, his brother Richard had led his regiment at a full gallop into the line of Shawnee and Ojibwa warriors who had their backs to the Backmetack Swamp, with some of them hidden in the trees to the west of the bog. With Tecumseh shouting his defiance, the Shawnee stubbornly held their ground while the mounted Kentuckians stampeded among them, slashing with their tomahawks and hatchets, shouting, “Remember the Raisin!” South of them, on the open ground, Joseph Desha shouted to his waiting regiment of infantry and led them in a sprint toward the embattled cavalry. Behind Desha, James Johnson turned his horse and led half his command at a run to reinforce his brother. James was thirty yards from the battle line when he gasped and sagged in his saddle and toppled to the ground, rolling, hit hard but still alive.

Back at King’s Road, Harrison sat his horse with his aide and two officers beside him, and Billy and Eli slightly behind and to his left, all standing in their stirrups, caught up in the fury and unbelievable speed of the battle.

Suddenly Billy pointed east on King’s Road and shouted, “There—Procter! He’s running! Deserting his men.”

Harrison stared, shocked that a British officer would desert his men in the worst crisis they had ever seen. He turned and barked orders to Major Devall Payne. “Get him! Take a company and get him!” Payne and a company of his infantry left at a run.

Harrison and those with him watched them running up the road, then turned back to the battle raging four hundred yards to the north, where the Indians were slowly backing toward the swamp, giving ground, taking devastating losses.

Billy saw Eli tense, and then Eli raised a hand to point, and Billy saw Tecumseh in full battle dress, alone, tomahawk raised, shouting his defiance and hatred at two Kentuckians. While they watched, both Americans raised their rifles, and the yellow flame and white smoke spewed from the muzzles, and Tecumseh’s slender frame shook as he staggered backward and stumbled and fell and did not move.

All the wind went out of Eli, and he sat for a second, staring, unable to believe, and then turned to Billy.

“We need him! If we’re ever going to make a treaty with the Shawnee, we will need him.”

Eli dug his heels into his mount, and in three jumps the gelding was at a full run, out across the open ground, neck stretched out, mane flying, with Eli low over the withers, rifle still in hand, heels pounding the horse’s ribs with his heels. Two seconds later Billy was behind him, his horse stretching to catch Eli, shouting, “Stop! Wait!”

Eli sawed on the reins to bring his blowing mount to a sliding stop ten feet from the fallen Tecumseh. He leaped to the ground and had taken two steps when he stumbled and went to one knee, tried to rise, and toppled over onto his right side and rolled partially onto his face.

Behind him Billy heard himself scream, “Eli!” as he hauled his horse to a stop and hit the ground, running toward Eli, and his heart burst when he saw the great gout of blood on the buckskin shirt in the center of Eli’s back, and he dropped to his knees beside him and turned him and felt him limp and he cradled his head on his arm and he was muttering, “Eli, Eli, Eli,” when the blue-gray eyes opened and slowly focused. Eli swallowed and his mouth moved as if he were trying to speak and then he smiled up at Billy and relaxed and Billy felt Eli leave.

Billy sat down, still holding Eli in his arms, and he closed the vacant eyes. He gently laid his hand on the cheek and turned the head onto his chest and he began to rock back and forth with the scalding tears running, and he did not care. He did not know how long he sat holding Eli. He only knew that finally Harrison was alone by his side, his hat in his hand, silent, waiting. Billy looked up at him and wiped his eyes on his sleeve and said, “He’s gone.”

Harrison’s voice was choked. “Is there anything I can do?”

Billy shook his head. “No. I’ll take care of him.”

Harrison silently turned and signaled to his aide and escort and led them quietly away.

It was well past evening mess when Billy rapped on the door of the Mayor’s house in Moraviantown, where Harrison and his staff had established command headquarters. He was taken to the library, where Harrison stood when he entered.

Billy said, “I would like to take him home. I will need a few things. A surgeon to prepare the body. A coffin. A wagon and a team of horses and an ax and shovel.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Where is he now?”

“Outside. Wrapped in canvas. Tied across his horse.”

“Would you like to bring him inside for the night? Here? You can stay here.”

Billy reflected for a moment. “That would be good.”

“I’ll send a detail to bring him in.”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll send for the surgeon. The coffin and wagon and team will be ready tomorrow. Anything else?”

“No. That will be enough.”

“Where are you taking him? Where is his home?”

“Ohio. But I’m taking him to Vermont. He’ll be beside his wife.”

Harrison’s eyes widened. “He was married?”

“Yes. One child. A daughter. Married to my nephew. Lost his wife over thirty years ago.”

“I’ll have the things you need ready when you want to leave.”

“Thank you.” Billy started to walk out when Harrison stopped him.

“Just a few things you should know. Tecumseh is dead. His warriors took his body. We could not catch Procter. We won today. The United States now controls the entire northwest section of the country. We turned the war in our favor. Was it worth it?”

Billy drew a deep breath. “He’d say it was.”

“You?”

Billy stared at the floor for a time before he answered.

“We won a great battle. We lost a rare man. Higher powers will have to decide if it was worth it.”

Notes

All locations identified in this chapter, such as East Sister Island, Sandwich, Bar Point, Fort Amherstburg, Dolsen’s farm, the Forks, Kings Road, McGregor’s Mill, Cornwall’s Mill, Arnold’s Mill, Moraviantown, and the scene of the pivotal battle west of Moraviantown, and all others, are historically accurate. The location of the rivers and streams, such as the Portage River, Raisin River, Detroit River, Thames River, McGregor’s Creek, and all others, are accurate. See Antal, A Wampum Denied, maps on the fly leaf, and p. 322.

Eli Stroud and Billy Weems are fictional characters; however, all other persons named in this chapter and the parts they played in the sequence of events, are real persons, and their names are accurate.

This chapter traces the fast-moving and startling events in which American general William Henry Harrison and his army of more than five thousand infantry and cavalry pursued British general Henry Procter and his much smaller British army with ten thousand Indians, from the west end of Lake Erie eastward, up the Thames River, where the Americans caught them, and the crucial battle now called the Thames Campaign, or the Battle of Moraviantown, was fought just over one mile west of Moraviantown on a parcel of land relatively clear of trees and forest, with the Backmetack Marsh on the north border. The chapter follows the route, the daily developments, and the weather patterns accurately. The rapid desertion of thousands of the starving and disillusioned Indians is accurately described, with only six hundred remaining for the battle, under the leadership of Shawnee chief Tecumseh and Ojibwa chief Oshawahnah. The capture by the Americans of the British trenching tools and most of their ammunition, from boats the British unintentionally left behind on the Thames River, is accurate. The names of all ships are accurate, except for the Margaret, which is fictional.

The battle fought at 4 pm on October 5, 1813, is accurately described, beginning with the arrival of the American troops to find the British formed in a single battle line, waiting. Harrison had planned to send his infantry against them, but when Procter suddenly moved half his men back two hundred yards to form a second line, leaving the first line much weakened, Robert and James Johnson, colonels of Harrison’s Kentucky cavalry, advised Harrison they could reach the British far quicker than the infantry. Harrison agreed. Half the Kentucky cavalry under James Johnson made their charge, shouting, “Remember the Raisin!” and decimated the British in just under three minutes, while the other half, under command of his brother Robert Johnson, charged into the Indians, who stubbornly resisted. Desha then led his infantry from the field to support Robert, as did James Johnson and some of his cavalry.

James Johnson was wounded but survived. The British, and then the Indians, broke and scattered in total defeat. Procter escaped and was not caught. Tecumseh was killed and his body removed by his warriors. Harrison instantly became a national hero, celebrated in every state in the union. It will be remembered that Harrison became the ninth president of the United States but died of pneumonia about one month after he was inaugurated.

For a complete chronological summary of the crucial events described in this chapter, see Antal, A Wampum Denied, pp. 315–53, and see particularly the diagram on page 343 showing the battle site, with the dispersement of both the British troops and Indians and the American troops.

In support, see also Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 136–39; Stagg, Mr. Madison’s War, p. 329–30; Wills, James Madison, p. 125; Barbuto, Niagara 1814, p. 85.

Billy Weems and Eli Stroud are fictional characters.

The reader is again reminded that many less significant events occurred in the time frame and the area presented in this chapter; however, it would be impossible to include them all. Only the significant ones are presented herein.