Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Hull tried once more. “Have you made any effort to negotiate a recovery of the ship? Her cargo? Her crew?” There was near panic in his face, and his voice was too loud, nearly out of control.

  “No, sir. I repeat, we are at war with Great Britain. They have a force at Fort Malden far superior to mine. I refused to provoke them into an armed conflict that I would lose.” He drew himself to his full height. “And I might add, sir, I had no notice that your personal belongings and papers were on that vessel. Had I known, I could have intercepted her before she reached Fort Malden and made other arrangements.”

  Hull blustered, “Had someone—anyone—notified me of the state of war I would never have separated myself from my papers and belongings. Never!”

  “Very unfortunate,” Everton said. “Very.”

  Hull straightened and glanced at his uniform, sweated black beneath his arms and down the center of his back. “Well, we’ll deal with the Cuyahoga matter later. My men are making camp to the south and west of the fort. I will need quarters here for myself and my staff. And I’ll need a bath. Change of clothing. I trust you have suitable quarters?”

  “Yes, sir. May I escort you?”

  Everton led Hull out the door back into the fierce sunlight, while the sergeant and two corporals remained behind, exchanging puzzled glances at what they had seen and heard of their new commanding officer.

  The two officers walked down a covered board walkway with their boots thumping, to stop at a door built of rough-cut pine planking, and Everton used his key to open it. The parlor was dimly lighted by two small windows, one on either side of the front door, with coat pegs in the front wall and a table with four chairs hand-crafted by some long-forgotten settler who understood the first rule of the wilderness. Sturdy. Sturdy men, sturdy women, sturdy rifles, sturdy cabins, sturdy beds and tables. Beauty was a long afterthought. A pot-bellied stove stood in one corner, cold in the summer, glowing hot in the harsh winters. The kitchen was a study in stark efficiency. There was a black, cast-iron stove with an oven and four plates for cooking and a pipe reaching upward through a hole in the low ceiling. Cupboards on two walls for pots and pans and table service, an empty water bucket and dipper on a counter beneath one cupboard, and nothing more. The bedroom was large enough to accommodate a wardrobe on one wall, a large double bed on the other, a nightstand with an unlit lantern, and a desk and chair in one corner. In the entire fort, Hull had not seen one wall, inside or outside, that was finished. Rather, they were all logs, most of them with the bark still on, chinked with gray clay to seal them against the heat and rain of summer and the cold and snows of winter.

  Hull turned to Everton. “This will do. I will return to my men to settle them for the night. I’ll take midday mess with them, and then I’ll be back with my staff. What time do you serve the evening mess for officers?”

  “Half past six o’clock.”

  “There will be four of us.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Hull walked back up the boardwalk, and gathered the reins to his horse. Carefully he held the left stirrup while he raised his foot and inserted it firmly, then leaned forward to grasp the pommel of the saddle and strained to lift himself aboard. Everton watched with growing questions about his new commanding officer. Was the simple act of mounting a horse all that difficult for a man whose life had required horsemanship for over thirty years?

  What Everton did not know was the memory burning all too brightly in Hull’s brain of that morning less than four months earlier when Hull had led his command on parade to show them off before leaving on his march northward. Riding at the head of his men, proud, erect, he had lost control of his prancing mount. He also lost both stirrups, his hat, and his composure, as he frantically lunged forward to grab the horse’s mane in a wild effort to stay mounted. He could not have picked a worse time or place to show his age and his infirmities of mind and body. His entire command was embarrassed, humiliated, at the performance of their leader, and the quiet, subtle murmuring grew. “Too old . . . that stroke he had has done him in . . . lost his nerve . . . his head won’t work right . . . an old woman . . . unfit for command.” Hull was aware of the criticisms, but his fierce pride would not let him seek help among his staff. He had lately learned that they had joined in the murmuring campaign against him.

  He reined the horse around and walked it past the small clusters of frontier people still gathered to watch, out through the gates, then south to the corner of the fort, and west to his command of men. He awkwardly dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to his waiting orderly, Sergeant Daniel Wellington.

  “Mister Wellington, have Corporal Tunstall see to the horse, and then bring colonels McArthur, Cass, and Findlay at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned and led the horse away while Hull took a grip on himself at the thought of facing the three colonels. Too well did he recall the history that resulted in all three of them being advanced to the rank of a full colonel, when none should have received such a commission, and the humiliating, grotesque mess that ensued. All three were from Ohio, where Governor Return Jonathan Meigs had been requested by the federal secretary of war to form a fighting force of 1,200 men. Meigs, overly anxious and fearful of raising such an army, had handed out high commissions to unqualified men, including Duncan McArthur, Lewis Cass, and James Findlay, making all three of them full colonels. Shortly after their appointments, the three got embroiled in an open quarrel over which one of them should be senior. Further, the three of them, along with far too many of their Ohio volunteers, saw Hull as a newcomer, a stranger, in whom they had little confidence. Their squabble was placed squarely before Hull, who referred it to regular army officers for resolution. The army officers’ answer was simple and immediate: none of them should have been commissioned colonels—they should all have been only lieutenant-colonels; reduce their rank to lieutenant-colonels and that’s the end of it. When the three men were informed, they all reared back and swore they would resign their commissions and leave if anyone tried to cut back their rank. The entire matter, now out of hand, was sent to the War Department. Secretary Eustis told Governor Meigs he had erred, to which Meigs replied, nonsense, I acted within my powers according to the state constitution. A compromise was proposed—advance one of them to brigadier general—but President Madison bluntly refused to surrender the principle of federal supremacy in all such matters. This bounced the whole mess back into Hull’s lap, and his reaction was that the very organization of his army was “ . . . peculiarly calculated to create distrust.” The proposal was then made that the three of them should draw straws to resolve the argument, and they refused. Reluctantly, Hull put an end to the ludicrous tempest in a teapot. He determined that McArthur had been appointed two weeks prior to the others, and was therefore afforded the position of senior colonel.

  But there was no way Hull could stop the acrimony between them or their distrust of him as an interloper, an outsider, or their subtle, destructive influence among the rank and file of his small army.

  While he waited for the three colonels to appear, Hull stepped from the road into the shade of the thick forest and sat on the decaying trunk of a downed pine tree. He was weary to the bone, sick in his soul that the British had in their hands the entire plan of action for the United States to take control of the great waterway from the Atlantic Ocean to the northern reaches of Lake Superior. He removed his hat and sat with slumped shoulders, working the black felt tricorn slowly in his fingers, unable to control his rampant fears. They know the count of men in this army, the officers—the dates—times—places of the timetable, the inventory of supplies—reinforcements—and that we must keep the road open back to Ohio for our exchange of communications with my superiors. His teeth were on edge as his thoughts ran on, independent of his struggle to control them. How could Congress declare war without informing me at once? Why didn’t Madison sent a special messenger? They knew I was marching straight into a trap! Monstrous insanity! Why? Wh
y?

  He was still seated, deep in thought, when McArthur arrived, with Cass and Findlay following. The three officers stopped in front of him. They did not salute. Their eyes were downcast, or peering at the forest, or the sky; they would not look him in the eye. Hull stood, set his hat on his head, and spoke.

  “On June 18, the United States Congress declared war on England.”

  Instantly the three men came to a focus, staring at him in disbelief. He went on.

  “The British intercepted the Cuyahoga two days ago. The ship with her entire cargo and crew are at Fort Malden in the hands of the enemy. They know everything concerning our presence here—the purpose, the numbers, the supplies, the intended attacks at Niagara and Montreal—all of it.”

  The faces of all three colonels went blank and they cursed under their breaths. Hull went on.

  “So much for that. Have the men establish campsites near the fort, off the road. I will take midday mess with them. Have them load all our personal necessaries in a wagon. This afternoon we will take our places at the headquarter offices inside the fort, and our personal quarters. Have Sergeant Wellington and Corporal Tunstall come with us. They will serve as our orderlies. Am I clear?”

  McArthur nodded curtly and spoke. “Anyone say anything about the British? Are we expecting an attack?”

  “No one spoke of it, but my estimate is that our forces far exceed theirs right at this moment. Our first priority will be scouting out their positions to determine their strength. See to it. Is there anything else?”

  All three colonels shook their heads and turned, and Hull watched them walk away and disappear in the forest.

  Midday mess had been served and the clean-up was complete when McArthur led the other two colonels to the shaded spot where General Hull was waiting. Behind the three officers, Sergeant Wellington hauled back on the long leather reins to pull the two horses and wagon to a stop. Corporal Tunstall was seated beside him, silent, waiting. Tied behind the wagon was the general’s saddled mare, moving her feet, nervous. Behind the horse were four privates, standing loose, bored, disinterested. Wellington held the reins while McArthur pointed and spoke to Hull.

  “Here’s our personals and our orderlies. We brought four enlisted men to help unload. When did you want to move on into the fort?”

  Hull nodded. “Very good. We will leave now.”

  The three colonels and six enlisted men stood transfixed, watching while Hull untied the reins to his horse, waiting to see if Hull would embarrass himself again, and them, in trying to mount the mare. Hull had his left foot in the on-side stirrup when the big bay shied, and Hull reached to seize the cheek strap on the bridle and jerk her head around, then swung his leg over and slid into the saddle. He hauled back hard on the left rein and turned her in a tight circle twice, then straightened her, and she settled. He reined her around the wagon, past the three colonels, and started forward at a walk, tall, erect in the saddle. He did not look back as he led his small column around the fort, through the entrance, and stopped in front of the headquarters building to dismount. He gave them orders to wait, and while he was inside the building the nine-man detail remained in the bright sun, studying the walls and the gun emplacements and the crude buildings and the odd assortment of people staring at them in stony-faced silence. Minutes passed before Colonel Everton walked out into the sunlight with General Hull following.

  “Gentlemen,” Everton said, “welcome to Fort Detroit.” He pointed down the covered boardwalk. “Your quarters are down there. General Hull has agreed to take you. Should you have any needs, you have only to ask. We serve evening mess at half past six.”

  Hull led his horse with the wagon rumbling behind and the three officers and four enlisted men following. They stopped before the officers’ quarters, and Hull pointed to the doors where McArthur, Cass, and Findlay were to be, then the single door where Wellington and Tunstall were to bunk together. The six enlisted men drew a deep breath and settled into the task of unloading the wagon, sorting the luggage, and carrying the freight into the quiet cool of the dimly-lighted rooms, where the officers opened the crates and boxes to hang uniforms and shirts in closets and lay socks and underwear in dresser drawers. They were deep into the afternoon when Hull gave orders, and the four enlisted mounted the empty wagon. Two took the driver’s seat, and one threaded the reins between his index and middle fingers and gigged the drowsing horses. The four officers watched the high-walled wagon make the wide turn to the left and angle back through the fort gates and disappear beyond the walls of the fort.

  Evening mess for the officers consisted of boiled corned beef and turnips, and with the last rays of a sun already set catching the treetops and the red, white, and blue of the flag, those in the fort stood at attention while the drum rattled and two enlisted men retired the colors. In deep dusk, lamps and lanterns winked on, and at ten o’clock the drummer sounded taps, and all lights disappeared as those within the walls of Fort Detroit sought their beds.

  The banging of the reveille drum at dawn brought bare feet to the cool floors, and soldiers and civilians rose from their blankets to settle into the unrelenting sameness of another day in a military fort. Wash in cold water, dress, make your bunk, morning mess that followed a predictable daily menu of mush one day, fried sowbelly and biscuits the next, sick call, drill, take your squad’s rotation at cutting firewood, cleaning cannon, policing the grounds, shoeing and caring for the horses, and standing picket duty. Always picket duty—marching endlessly back and forth on the wooden parapets that graced the inside of all walls of the fort, fourteen feet above the ground, with covered towers at each corner.

  In the early afternoon, Hull had Wellington and Tunstall saddle horses for the four officers, and they rode out of the fort to inspect their command. They returned late in the day with Hull acutely aware of a growing undertone of impatient criticism. We came to take Fort Malden. Why are we camped here?

  The second day a lieutenant with a five-man escort and a bearded guide, a white man dressed in buckskins with a tomahawk and two black scalps at his belt, arrived with a pouch of documents from Washington, D.C. Hull spent half the day in his quarters poring over the papers before he sent Wellington to gather the three colonels to his headquarters office. From the set of Hull’s white, drawn face, they knew the moment they entered the dimly lighted room that something was wrong. They took their places on the plain chairs, facing his plain desk, waiting.

  “Gentlemen,” Hull began, “I have received information and orders that you need to know.”

  McArthur glanced at Cass but said nothing. Hull went on.

  “The United States Indian agent for this area, Benjamin F. Stickney, has reported to our secretary of war, William Eustis, that there are now assembled in the area of Fort Malden approximately eighteen hundred Shawnee and other belligerent Indians under the leadership of Tecumseh.”

  Hull stopped and watched the three officers straighten in their chairs, and their faces go dead. He went on.

  “The execution of the plan of attack to the east of us—north of New York and New England—is not going well and has faltered.”

  Tension was rising in the square, austere room. Hull tapped a document with a finger.

  “Secretary Eustis is of the opinion that current conditions require us to use our best discretion in attacking and seizing Fort Malden at once, and then to broaden our conquests, as he puts it, ‘as circumstances may justify.’”

  For a time Hull sat hunched forward, forearms on his desk, staring at his hands.

  “Let me put this in perspective,” he said. “Our military is in trouble to the east of us. To draw pressure off them, we’re being ordered to take the offensive. Across the river is a regiment of British regulars at Fort Malden, with eighteen hundred savages lusting to massacre all of us. We are to cross the river and subdue them all, and then move east to relieve our failing military forces there.”

  Hull stopped and for a moment stared into the eyes of each officer
. Then he leaned back in his chair and went on.

  “I need not explain to you that should those Indians cross the river to this side and cut our communication line with our support from the south, we would be caught in a trap from which we would most likely never escape.”

  He waited until he saw understanding in their faces and went on.

  “I will acknowledge these orders, and we will execute them, but I will not hesitate to inform Secretary Eustis that the force I now have is going to be very hard-pressed to accomplish what those men in Washington seem to regard with such little concern.”

  For the first time, the three officers moved in their seats, then settled.

  “Gentlemen, you will prepare your commands to cross the river within the next five days. Once there, we will prepare to attack Fort Malden. These orders will be in writing by tomorrow, in full detail. Are there any questions?”

  There were none. He handed each of them a copy of a document.

  “That is a proclamation I am having printed for distribution to all Canadians and Indians in the area. I invite you to read it.” He sat back while each of them silently pored over the page.

  “ . . . I offer protection to the peaceable unoffending inhabitants . . . I issue a warning that Canadians choosing to fight with the British will be considered and treated as enemies and if fighting as allies to the Indians will face instant destruction . . . the United States offers you Peace, Liberty, and Security—your choice lies between these and war, slavery, and destruction. . . .”

  He waited until all three of them raised their heads with blank stares before he went on. “It is my opinion that document will persuade many Canadians to abandon any thought of continuing with the British, and either surrender or flee. It will be distributed immediately. Do any of you have advice on the matter?”

  Each of them shook his head and remained silent.

  “Very well. You are dismissed.”

  The three officers were outside Hull’s office, in the headquarters foyer, before Cass turned to McArthur.