Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Procter said, “Yes.”

  Elliott muttered something under his breath and then fell silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Clear this room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The unbearable tension began to diminish, and Procter continued.

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

  He stopped for a moment to order his thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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