War 1812

by Michael Aye

  War 1812: Remember the Raisin

  Published by Boson Books

  An imprint of Bitingduck Press

  eISBN 978-1-938463-10-5

  © 2013 Michael A. Fowler

  All rights reserved

  For information contact

  Bitingduck Press, LLC

  Altadena, CA 91001

  http://www.bitingduckpress.com

  Cover image by Dena Eaton

  Image from “Tecumseh’s death at the Battle of the Thames, with Colonel Richard M. Johnson and the Kentucky mounted volunteers.” Lithograph by William Emmons, 1833.

  In memory of Tom, who was the catalyst for this trilogy

  Author’s Note

  This book is a work of fiction with a historical backdrop. I have taken liberties with historical figures, ships, and time frames to blend in with my story. Therefore, this book is not a reflection of actual historical events.

  Books by Michael Aye

  Fiction

  The Reaper, Book One, The Fighting Anthonys

  HMS SeaWolf, Book Two, The Fighting Anthonys

  Barracuda, Book Three, The Fighting Anthonys

  SeaHorse, Book Four, The Fighting Anthonys

  Peregrine, Book Five, The Fighting Anthonys

  Non-Fiction

  What’s the Reason for All That Wheezing and Sneezing

  Michael A. Fowler and Nancy McKemie

  It’s Your Heritage

  Went to the courthouse, had to pay my tax

  Flowing in the wind, I saw our country’s flag

  Suddenly I felt a change, a ghost within my soul

  I was taken away, to a place I didn’t know

  …I heard the cannons roar

  …Saw the soldiers stand

  …Battle smoke filled the air

  …Then I felt his hand

  Take these colors, hold em high

  Don’t let ’em hit the ground

  Gave my life protecting them

  Don’t you let ’em down

  They’ve been shot and battle scarred

  I think they’ve even bled

  Carry them with pride, son

  It’s your heritage

  Michael Aye

  Prologue

  They’re dead, every last soul. Kilt by the red devils. The Redcoats promised we’d be treated right if we surrendered but they let the injuns go plum wild. The red devils butchered every defenseless man, wounded or not. I barely survived. They were so busy scalping and tomahawking all the wounded soldiers that I was able to slip clean away. The British said they’d send wagons to collect all of us at one time; they lied. Instead, they let the injuns murder the lot of us, every loving mother’s son. Most tried to get away but they couldn’t. We didn’t have no weapons to fight back with, they had been taken so the savages had easy pickens; like lambs to the slaughter. Kilt over a hundred I know. Most of the dead were fellow Kaintucks.”

  Letting the man take a break to catch his breath, the major, commanding the small outpost, handed him a tankard of ale. The man was thirsty and hastily downed the liquid, nearly strangling as he did so. Then with tears coming to his eyes, he said, “Lost a lot of good friends, I did.”

  When the excited man calmed down, the major said, “Settle down, you are safe here. Now start over from the beginning. Tell me who you are.”

  The battered and ragged little man sat erect and seemed to get control of his emotions. “I’m Sergeant Monroe, sir. I was with General James Winchester’s group; two thousand strong we was, when we started out from Kaintuck. Ain’t many left now, I don’t reckon. We was going to retake Fort Detroit. We were all part of General William Harrison’s army. We retook Frenchtown. But the British General Proctor had about six hundred redcoats and eight hundred or so savages. During the night they flanked us. At sunrise, they attacked. That was January 22nd… I remember the date, cause it’s my son’s birthday.” Pausing to take another sip of the ale, Sergeant Monroe cleared his throat, and then continued, “Our General Winchester weren’t much a soldier. He didn’t put out near enough guards so there weren’t no warning. Before we knowed it they were right on top of us. Chief Roundhead stripped the general naked and handed him over to the British.” Shivering suddenly, Monroe seemed to be reliving the battle. “We fought till we plum give out of powder and ball. Major George Madison was the senior officer after Winchester got took. Proctor, the redcoat general, gave his word that if we surrendered, we’d be protected and our wounded taken care of decently. We, us Kaintucks, said we’d rather fight to the death. I wish we had, but someone sent up a white flag so that ended it… for the time being. I had an arrow in my wing and my noggin was creased by a ball so I got left behind with the wounded,” Monroe said, emphasizing the bandages on his head and shoulder. “If me leg had been wounded where I couldn’t have run and hid I wouldn’t be here now. I’d be dead like the rest of ’em… God rest their souls. I reckon there were only about five hundred of us left able to fight anyway. Them that could walk were taken away as prisoners. Proctor was a’feard General Harrison would come back, so he up and left with the prisoners, and that is when the injuns started their devilish ways, robbing and tormenting our wounded. Soon they was killin’ ’em outright, the bloodthirsty varmints. They’s a trail strewn with American bodies where the red devils would finish butchering and scalping one, then run to another defenseless soul. Some of the wounded were burnt up in buildings the savages set afire. If I’d had a weapon, I’d done for a few of ’em, I would of. Don’t ever trust them heathens, Major. Them Redcoats neither. If you get to thinking kindly toward the bunch, remember the River Raisin. Remember the massacre at the River Raisin.”

  Chapter One

  He was a tall, bespectacled man with thinning hair combed over to hide a balding pate. It was a poor attempt. He was also a secretary to President James Madison. One would never expect this timid appearing man to speak with such a deep baritone and commanding voice. “The President will see you and… ahem, the gentleman now, Mr. Armstrong.”

  John Armstrong was a personal friend of the president. The man with him was Jonah Lee. Lee with Moses, his lifelong friend and protector, had ridden hard for several days, traveling from Georgia to arrive at this meeting with the president. He had arrived in Washington just in time to get into the coach with John Armstrong. The time of the meeting had not allowed Lee to freshen up or change his clothes. His three day growth of beard, rough appearance, and smell was reason for the secretary’s ahem. What was it Moses had said, “I’d rather be down wind to a gut wagon than closed up in a room with you right now.”

  “John, how are you?” President Madison said in greeting to his friend.

  “I am well, Mr. President. May I present Mr. Jonah Lee?”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Madison replied, shaking the extended grimy hand, his nostrils flaring in spite of his attempt at politeness.

  “I apologize for my appearance, Mr. President,” Lee started, but the apology was waved away.

  “Nonsense, my good man, the needs of the nation outweighs niceties. John has convinced me you are the man to get things on track, so time is of the essence.”

  “I’m not sure I can meet the expectations that have been placed on me, sir, but I will give my all.”

  “I have no doubt,” Madison responded. He liked the man right away. He could see why Lee had come so widely recommended by John Armstrong. His record with General Mad Anthony Wayne was almost a legend. Lee had been with Wayne at the Battle of Fallen Timbers. Though a youth of eighteen, Wayne placed a great deal of trust in Lee as a scout and advisor. During the battle Lee was said to have jumped between General Wayne and
a Shawnee who was about to club Wayne from behind with a tomahawk. His rifle spent, Lee used it to block the Indian’s chopping attack; and then he clubbed the savage with the butt plate. Another Indian was drawing back on his bowstring and Lee shot him with his pistol. The struggle was soon hand to hand but the Shawnee leader, Blue Jacket, realized the battle was lost and retreated with his braves.

  Hoping for protection from Wayne’s army, the Indians sought protection at Fort Miamis. With Lee and the other scouts leading the way, Wayne’s army soon reached the fort. Fearing the American army, the British commander refused refuge for the Indians. The Indians soon realized that they were at a serious disadvantage fighting the Americans and a treaty was soon negotiated.

  Wayne was quick to recognize the young Lee, not only for saving his life but also for his assistance during the campaign. “Lee is a man of courage and quick action,” Wayne stated.

  Thinking of the story, Madison gazed at the man standing in his travel stained clothes. It was not the soiled clothes that held his attention but the man… the hard man. His face was tanned and weathered from countless days outside in all kinds of weather. His chiseled face and rock of a jaw was scarred. His thick hair was prematurely gray, and his eyes were a cold blue. His six-foot frame seemed taller. A man most men would shy away from, but his rough masculine appearance would attract the women. He was, in short, a fighter. He would never be a diplomat. But I don’t need another diplomat, Madison thought.

  Viewing the man before him, Madison decided, this is just what we need, a man of courage and quick action. He rang for a servant and soon the three men sat down to coffee and pastries. Lee was most grateful. Because what food that had been consumed lately had been done so on the fly. Maybe it was his growling belly that prompted the president to order food.

  “I’ll not keep you long, Mr. Lee, I can see you are weary,” Madison stated. “I’m sure John has told you of our failures, one after another. With the British policy of intercepting American ships, impressing our seamen, and stealing the ships’ cargo we have been backed into a corner. That along with the demands of a “War Hawk Congress,” we are immersed in a war we are poorly prepared to fight.

  Lee munched hungrily at the pastries and watched as Madison stood and paced about while he spoke. “Damn Hull,” he hissed. “Two blunders; two mind you. First, he included a letter detailing his plans for the invasion into Canada along with his personal baggage, heavier guns, and military stores. He knew the schooner he sent all this on had to pass Fort Malden. What was he thinking?” Madison outstretched his arms as if looking for a divine answer. After a pause, he continued, “Fort Malden is a British strong point. They captured the schooner, as one might expect along with Hull’s papers, his supplies and even his sick men. If that’s not enough, instead of pressing on, the…the damn fool laid over at the village of Sandwich, doing nothing, absolutely nothing, but let his army dwindle away that is. He had two thousand men… two thousand, mind you, when he started off. By the time Brock got there… now that’s a mover and a fighter for you. British he may be but a fighter… blast him. Where was I, John?”

  Apparently, Armstrong had heard the tirade before. “You were just getting to the British General Brock’s attack, Mr. President.”

  “Yes. Well, Brock, from all reports, didn’t have but maybe three hundred regulars when he arrived at Amherstburg. However, there he met up with that Indian, Tecumseh, who is chief of the Shawnee. Tecumseh had seven hundred or so warriors. The two forces teamed up, and then rounded up some four hundred militias…a sizeable force, but not one that couldn’t be dealt with. Now, to make matters worse, Hull was more worried about a supply convoy than he was about being attacked.” This Madison said looking up and rolling his eyes. “He sent about four hundred men to find a supply convoy. That left him only eight hundred and fifty or so men to defend his position when Brock attacked. But, he still held a good position. That evening… August fifteenth, I believe,” Madison said, gazing over to Armstrong, who gave a slight nod confirming the date.

  Seeing the nod, Madison continued, “Brock asked Hull to surrender, which he refused. When a lucky cannon ball hit the officer’s mess, killing four men, the next morning at breakfast, Hull ran up the white flag. The coward! Not only did he surrender Detroit’s fort and town, the fool included the four hundred or so men he sent out after the supply convoy. In his report, Hull stated he feared the Indians would run rampant and slaughter his soldiers.”

  Picking up a sheet of paper, Madison continued, “Hull’s surrender meant the British captured one thousand six hundred Ohio volunteers, five hundred eighty-two American regulars, thirty-three cannons, two thousand five hundred muskets, and the brig, Adams.”

  Letting the paper fall back on top of his desk, Madison took a swallow of his coffee, paused then asked with disgust in his voice, “Mr. Lee, can you guess how many casualties were suffered?”

  “No sir, Mr. President.”

  “Four, sir; the four officers killed eating their breakfast. Four. The British had no casualties. Not so much as a scratch. We lose a fort, a town, and enough supplies to equip an army for months, not to mention the momentum to invade Canada. All without inflicting one single casualty. The man is a coward, Mr. Lee. I’ll see him court-martialed if we ever get him back from the British.”

  Lee had remained quiet during the president’s tirade. There had been little interaction between the men as the president gave little inclination any was desired.

  Madison gave a deep sigh; he appeared tired and exhausted after his comments. Picking up his coffee cup, Madison drained the remainder of the lukewarm coffee, setting the cup down so hard it clanked on the saucer. Madison remained silent for a moment as he seemed to be in deep thought. Finally, after another sigh, he continued, “I’m sure you’ve been informed about the massacre at Frenchtown, or as some are calling it, the River Raisin.”

  “Yes sir,” Lee answered. “Couriers have spread the word.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they have,” Madison responded dejectedly. “Bad news travels like wildfire. At least they made a battle of it at the Raisin. Unlike Hull, they fought until they ran out of ammunition. Now we’ve a rally cry. Proctor made a mistake letting the Indians butcher our people. I want to make the most of that mistake.” Madison then walked tiredly back to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a paper. He turned toward Lee and spoke again. “Mr. Lee, you are to see we push forward. You are a man of action and I want you to push. Push our generals to act. Push hard if need be. General William Henry Harrison has replaced Hull. He’s no coward but he’s cautious… cautious to a fault. You are to push him to act, even if it takes a swift kick in the pants. He must push forward before winter or all is lost.”

  Handing Lee the paper, Madison said, “This document signed by me requires everyone to extend whatever support you may require. I’d prefer you not flourish it about, as that would cause jealousy and hard feelings by some. However, should the need arise, use it. Use it and I’ll stand by you.”

  Seeing Madison gaze at a clock, Armstrong and Lee recognized their time with the president was over. As they made ready to leave, Madison spoke again, “Mr. Lee, this war needs strong leaders if we are to win. I, above all, recognize that. Just as John places an extreme confidence in you, I also place that same confidence in him. I tell you this so you will not be surprised when you hear that he will soon be made Secretary of War.”

  Lee smiled, finally feeling the freedom to speak openly, and said, “A wise choice, if I may say so, Mr. President… a wise choice.”

  Chapter Two

  The gathering room was full of men in heated conversation about the war. Some were blaming Madison and the Congress for getting “us” into this war. While others gave the war staunch support… “We cannot tolerate such high-handed ways. Specially, after the way Proctor let our men be slaughtered by those heathens at the River Raisin. We have got to give ’em war.”
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br />   Outside, a cold east wind blew as raindrops pattered on the tavern’s front windows. Jonah Lee and his fellow traveler, Moses, made themselves comfortable in a corner of the tavern at a table situated not far from the fireplace. It was a snug place and the promise of a room upstairs with a “passable” bed was enough to keep the men holed up for the night. Moses had caused more than one of the men to take a look at him as they warmed themselves at the fireplace.

  The tavern keeper had considered telling Moses that he’d have to sleep in the stable but a quick glance at Jonah Lee was enough for the man to hold his tongue. Anyone else who didn’t like the arrangements…well they were free to bring it up with Mr. Lee. A few glared but no one spoke.

  The country was sparsely settled, and those who settled rarely traveled out of the county. To see a man of color was strange indeed. Moses was what some would call a mixed breed. His father had been a runaway slave, and his mother a Creek Indian. He’d been named Moses by his father after hearing where the biblical Moses had led his people out of bondage to the promised land.

  Moses would probably have been raised as an Indian had not the village people all died from the smallpox. Moses bore the scars of the disease on his face to this day. He was twelve summers, half-starved and dehydrated when Jonah’s father found him. He’d taken the boy home, nursed him back to life and he’d lived with the family ever since. Jonah had been seven then and amazed by the sudden addition to the family. Moses’ skin color was that of a light-skinned black but his hair was straight like his mother’s people. He had been able to grow a scraggly beard which helped to cover the scars on his face. The beard was now salt and pepper as shades of gray crept into it. So far his hair, which was shaggy but didn’t reach his shoulders, was still black. Until the tragedy of the smallpox wiping out his village, Moses had been raised to be a warrior. His grandfather had taken particular interest in his upbringing. That interest had paid off well over time. Through the years, Moses had imparted a lot of his knowledge to Jonah. Raised together as boys, they’d been inseparable as men. Moses had been with Jonah as one of General “Mad” Anthony Wayne’s scouts.