by Ron Carter
“Come to my tent at once.”
Lanterns were glowing in deep dusk when Miller appeared at the flap of Hull’s tent, and Hull invited him in.
“Colonel Miller, you are ordered to lead a force of six hundred to find the supply column now waiting at the Raisin River. As circumstances will allow, either bring them here, or return with them to Ohio. In any event, they must be rescued. Am I clear?”
Miller’s pulse raced. “When, sir?”
“Tomorrow, before noon. You can begin selecting your men and supplying them yet tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
At midmorning the following day, Miller’s hand-picked column marched down the slope to the dock, and the longboats began the monotony of crossing the Detroit River to the Michigan side loaded, to return empty, reload, and repeat it over and over again. It was late afternoon before the last boat emptied on the Michigan side and Miller formed his command into a column, four abreast, each man with his backpack and musket. With Miller mounted on a bay gelding, they had marched six miles before he stopped them in the dusky light and ordered them to build their cookfires for evening mess.
Sunrise found the column five miles farther south, and four hours later Miller reined in his horse to call a fifteen-minute halt. The men left the wagon-ruts they called a road to drop their backpacks and lie flat on the ground, eyes closed, not caring about the mosquitoes and biting insects that came swarming to the scent of their sweat.
The sun was past its zenith when Miller stopped the column for their midday mess of biscuits and fried sowbelly from their backpacks. They drank tepid water from their canteens and once again sprawled in the green undergrowth to rest muscles that had labored for eight hours. Twenty minutes later Miller came to his feet and mounted his horse, and his orders rang in the trees.
“Form the column. We’re marching.”
Mumbling curses against heat, mosquitoes, officers, and marching, the men stood and reached for their backpacks. An instant later the first high, warbling Shawnee war whoop froze them in their tracks, and then the forest was filled with musket fire while painted Indians came leaping, screaming invectives, stripped to the waist, tomahawks high and swinging. Behind them came red-coated British regulars, muskets firing and bayonets flashing in the sun, cutting down and scattering the Americans in the forest. In the first volley, Miller heard a musket ball strike and felt the give as his horse stuck its nose into the ground and went down with a broken neck, sending Miller rolling.
He scrambled to his feet shouting, “Into the road, into the road! Form in battle ranks! Into the road! Battle ranks!”
The Americans gathered in the road and formed into four ranks, two facing each direction. The two outside ranks took the kneeling position while the two inside ranks remained standing, and they began a rotation, the kneeling ranks firing their volley and then reloading while the standing ranks fired their volley over their heads and reloaded while the kneeling ranks fired their next volley.
As quickly as they had appeared, the Indians and British fell back into the forest, and then the deadly sniping began. The only thing the Americans saw was the blossom of white smoke in the deep green of the thick forest, and then they heard the sharp report of the musket and the whack of the musket ball hitting. In fear and frustration they returned fire at targets they never saw.
Miller was crouched behind the carcass of his dead horse, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, seeing the hopelessness of being caught in the open roadbed by an enemy force that might be double the count of his own. For seconds that seemed an eternity, he watched in the desperate hope the Shawnee and British would fade and disappear as quickly as they had struck, but the cracking of their muskets settled into a steady stream of deadly fire tearing into his men. He saw the terror and the panic rise in their faces, and he knew that within minutes they would bolt and scatter and run—the worst thing they could do.
He made his decision. He leaped to his feet shouting, “Fall back, fall back! Hold your ranks and maintain your fire! Hold your ranks! Walk! Do not run! Keep your heads! Fire in volleys! Steady. Move north, back up the road. Move! Do not break ranks!”
Time was forgotten as the column gave ground, retreating north, firing in volleys, reloading, firing again. Slowly the musket blasts from the forest dwindled, and then became sporadic, and then died altogether. Miller moved among his men on foot, sword still in his hand, bellowing orders.
“Keep moving! Leave the dead! Forget your backpacks! Keep moving!”
Daylight faded into dusk, and dusk yielded to the black of night beneath a quarter-moon, but Miller refused to halt his column. They moved steadily north on the twisting road, afraid to stop, muskets at the ready, listening to the sounds of night in the forest, eyes straining in the darkness, seeing and hearing Indians and redcoats that were not there. The march continued until the eastern skyline changed from black to deep purple and then gray, and when Miller could see individual branches on the trees flanking both sides of the narrow road, he called his first halt. Nervous men held cocked muskets in one hand while they drank from their canteens with the other, and they ignored the gnawing hunger in their bellies and stayed on their feet, waiting for the order to move on. Miller judged time and distance to Fort Detroit and then the mood of his men. Morning cookfires and a hot morning mess were both forgotten; they wanted only to be out of the forest, away from any possibility of the world erupting in their faces with screaming Indians wielding tomahawks and knives.
After a brief rest, Miller called out, “Form the column!” and the weary and wary men moved on into the sunrise. At noon they rounded the last turn in the road. Less than a quarter mile before them was the huge American camp and beyond were the south and west walls of Fort Detroit. Miller led his men into camp, where soldiers gathered to meet them and stare in wide-eyed silence as the incoming column slumped to the ground, dirty, sweated, many of them bloodied, beaten in body and soul. Miller stopped long enough to give orders to the camp cooks to feed them, then walked on to the fort to get the fort surgeon and every nurse he could find to tend his wounded. Then he walked down to the dock and ordered a longboat and crew to carry him across the river, where he went directly to the tent of General William Hull. The corporal standing picket at the tent flat stared in disbelief as he approached.
Miller spoke first. “Is General Hull inside?”
“Yes . . . uh . . . he’s . . . yes, sir, he’s inside.”
Miller did not wait for the corporal to inform Hull of his presence. He pushed the tent flap aside and stepped inside to face Hull, who was seated behind his desk.
General William Hull gaped. “What are you . . . you’re supposed to be . . .” He caught himself and started again. “I presume you succeeded in bringing the supplies in from the River Raisin.”
Miller shook his head emphatically. “No, sir. I did not. We were ambushed by Shawnee and redcoats.”
Hull came to his feet. “You defeated them?”
“No, sir. We returned to the fort.”
Hull’s head thrust forward. “Retreated?”
“Yes, sir. We were outnumbered and surrounded. It took us overnight to break out. We returned without stopping. We had to leave our dead behind. The men are across the river at the fort right now, being fed. The fort surgeon and nurses are among them, doing what they can. I came here to make this report.”
“What of the supply train at the Raisin?”
“I do not know, sir. We never got there.”
“How many dead?”
“I don’t have an accurate count. Several. Too many.”
“Was it Tecumseh? Do you know if it was Tecumseh?”
“They were Shawnee. That’s all I know. I don’t think we saw more than one hundred of them. They were in the trees. We saw some British regulars with them.”
“Do you know the size of their force?”
“No. They were on both sides of us, the full length of our column. It had to be several hundred. Perhaps more
than a thousand.”
Hull started. “A thousand?”
“It could have been.”
Hull licked dry lips and said, “I need a written report. Today.”
Miller shook his head. “All due respect, sir, I can’t have it today. I’ve got men across the river that I’m responsible for.”
Hull’s voice was strained. “By morning. You must have it by morning.”
“I will, sir.”
“Very well. You are dismissed.”
Hull watched Miller disappear through the tent flap, and he stood there with his mind reeling, thoughts running wild. Thousands! Surrounded by thousands of those savages! Led by Tecumseh! If they attack Fort Detroit . . .
His thoughts were cut off by the picket at the tent flap. He rapped on the pole and waited until Hull called, “Enter.”
“Sir, there’s a messenger from up north. Fort Michilimackinac. Says it’s urgent.”
Hull recoiled. “Send him in.”
The bearded civilian was dressed in buckskins and beaded moccasins. He carried a Pennsylvania long rifle, and had a tomahawk thrust through his weapons belt. He faced Hull without saluting, his deep-set eyes steady, firm.
“Yes,” Hull said, “what is it?”
“I come to tell you Fort Michilimackinac fell. British and Indians. They got prisoners up there.”
Hull’s head jerked forward and for a moment his mouth trembled as though he were trying to speak and could not. Finally he muttered, “When?”
The man shrugged. “Six, seven days ago. I lost track.”
Hull’s mind locked. His thoughts disintegrated and for several moments he could not speak. He forced out the words, “Your name?”
“Samuel Laughlin. I was a scout up there. Hid in the trees. Got out in a canoe at night. Came here. Figgered you ought to know so you can send a force up there to take the fort back. Or at least get the prisoners released.”
Hull could not force coherence to his thoughts and shook his head. “You are dismissed.”
Laughlin peered at him. “You all right?”
Hull repeated, “You are dismissed.”
Laughlin raised a hand and dropped it. “As you wish.” He ducked through the tent flap and walked away, down toward the river and his canoe.
For a time Hull stood still, struggling to force some sense of logic and reason into his thoughts. Finally, he straightened and called the corporal at his tent flap.
“Bring colonels Findlay and Cass and McArthur here at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
While he waited for their arrival, Hull opened the desk drawer and carefully cut a small cud of tobacco. He was just tucking it into his cheek when the three officers entered. He gestured, and they sat in crude chairs opposite him. They could not miss seeing the controlled panic in his face.
“Gentlemen, a scout just reported that Fort Michilimackinac to the north has fallen. Our northern support is gone.”
The three colonels remained motionless, their faces dead, and Hull went on. “I’ve also been informed that a large force of Indians and British attacked and routed Colonel Miller’s command, preventing him from finding and rescuing the supply column now waiting at the Raisin River. With Michilimackinac gone, a hive of Indians has been loosed and are swarming down in every direction. My purpose in calling you here now is to receive your advice on a proposal.”
He took a deep breath and continued. “As it now stands, the total force of British and Canadians and Indians opposing us is larger than our own—much larger. They are on all sides. To the south at Fort Malden, across the river to the west and north, gathered here to destroy us. The supply train we were depending on is still on the River Raisin. Two columns I sent to relieve them—Van Horne and Miller—were driven back with casualties.”
He paused long enough for the information to sink in then proceeded: “I have heard nothing of the efforts of General Dearborn to take control of the Niagara River or Montreal to the east of us and must presume the worst for them. Had that operation succeeded, I would surely have been told. I can only conclude we have no support from the east. We are simply surrounded by hostiles, and must look to ourselves for relief. We must reopen our communication and supply lines back to Ohio. To do that I propose we build blockhouses at Brownstown and on the River Raisin.”
He stopped, and a tension began to build among the colonels before he went on.
“When we crossed the river, it was our intent to attack Fort Malden. It is still my intent, but I cannot do it under present conditions. I have no wish to lead a bayonet charge of undisciplined militia to storm walls fourteen feet high, and with twenty-four cannon to protect them. I conclude we have two choices. We must wait until we have sufficient of our own cannon available and in place to breach those walls before we send our troops in, or we must consider a full retreat back to Ohio until we are ready. I need your response.”
McArthur glanced at Cass and Findlay for a moment, then turned to Hull. “I have my doubts, sir. The men are sullen. They don’t know why we didn’t attack Fort Malden the day after we crossed the river. If a full retreat is ordered, clear back to Ohio, I think this entire command will melt away and be gone. They’re of the opinion they can’t rely on their officers.”
Hull caught the thinly veiled insinuation that his command had lost confidence, that they would not support him. For a moment the tension was electric, and then Hull asked, “What are you suggesting? Can you guarantee the obedience of your men to direct orders?”
McArthur hesitated for only a moment. “No, sir. I cannot.” He turned to Cass and Findlay, who both shook their heads but remained silent.
Hull leaned forward. “Are they cowards? Afraid of battle?”
“No, sir,” McArthur replied, heatedly. “They are not cowards.”
Hull went on. “If a retreat to Ohio is unacceptable, then we must get on with the plan to attack Fort Malden. I propose that we cannot consider it until we have artillery in place to breach those walls. Are we agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. We will continue preparations to put our artillery in place, and then we will proceed. We’ll find out if those men are soldiers or cowards. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There is one more matter. Twice I have tried to reach the supply train down on the Raisin. We must reopen that road and bring those men here at the earliest time possible. I intend assigning four hundred picked men to try one more time, under command of yourself, Colonel McArthur, and Colonel Cass. Do you agree with me?”
There was a pause before McArthur answered. “Yes.”
“Pick your men as soon as possible and leave. Are there any questions?”
There were none.
“All right. Carry on with your assignments. You are dismissed.”
Hull watched them leave his tent, and for a time sat without moving, sick in the feeling that he no longer had the respect or the support of his command. With bowed head he pondered, What of General Brock and his redcoats and Indians—what are they doing?—do we have time to get our artillery ready?
* * * * *
Twenty miles south, in the headquarters building of Fort Malden, General Brock raised his head at the sound of the knock on his door.
“Enter.”
“Sir, there’s a Lieutenant Richardson here to see you. He has a bag.”
“Send him in.”
Short, muscular, uniform rumpled and stained from days in the woods, Richardson approached Brock’s desk and saluted. Beneath his left arm was a dirty, tattered canvas bag.
Brock stood. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Sorry about my appearance, sir. I just returned from the River Raisin. We found this bag among the things left behind when the Americans retreated. I think it’s a mail sack, sir. I thought you might be interested.”
Brock reached for it. “Have you looked inside?”
“No, sir. We thought that was for you to do.”
“Very good. I
s there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Your force performed admirably. Thank you for delivering the bag. You are dismissed.”
Brock was opening the pouch as Richardson closed the door. Among the documents was a sealed letter written by Hull. It was addressed to the Honorable William Eustis, Esq. United States secretary of war, Washington, D.C. Brock puzzled for a moment before he understood that Hull had intended the letter to be delivered by Van Horne to a mail carrier among the Americans stranded on the River Raisin, to be carried back to Ohio, thence on to Washington, D.C. Eagerly, Brock broke the seal and carefully read it, then reread it.
“ . . . troops dispirited . . . rebellious . . . openly talking against myself . . . officers discussing plans to replace me with one of their own . . . only the refusal of Colonel Miller to cooperate with them avoided an incident in which I would have been required to hang some of my own officers . . . the enlisted are talking of wholesale desertion . . . never seen morale so low in any military unit . . . I believe they will mutiny if changes are not made immediately . . .”
Brock closed his eyes to concentrate, then picked up his quill and began to write. He finished, signed the document, dropped melted wax onto the flap and pressed it with his seal. He closed it inside a leather message satchel, and called to his aide.
“Could you bring an experienced mail rider?”
He sorted through the remainder of the American mail pouch until the mail rider rapped at his door, and Brock called for him to enter.
“You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes. You’ve carried the mails?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know the routes?”
“Yes, sir. Just about all of them, from Amherstburg to Fort George.”
“You know the places to expect American patrols?”
“Yes, sir. And I know just about when the patrols are active. I can avoid them, if that’s what you mean.”
Brock smiled. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. Only this time, don’t avoid them. Time it so you will meet one of them. When you do, turn your horse and make a run, but be certain you lose this leather satchel in plain sight. Can you manage that?”
