Blood at Dawn

by Jim R. Woolard

  The column slogged northwestward a full seven miles in pleasant weather marred only by a strong wind from the south. The country was level, forested, and poorly drained. Brackish waters shone in stagnant marshes on both sides of our path. Our progress was impeded by slow-traveling wagons and packhorses overloaded with personal stores and furnishings belonging to battalion and company officers. Abandoned baggage soon littered the edges of the narrow roadway. We would later learn some of the gear and equipment discarded to retain the possessions of officers included many tents of the Second American Regiment and the Pennsylvania levies, a discovery that fostered smoldering anger and resentment in the rank and file. And the dire events of that evening did nothing to soothe their upset.

  The wind had backed around to the west-northwest and gained sufficient strength we were forced to lean against it while securing the horses to picket lines strung tree-to-tree. The erection of Starkweather’s awning and Jared’s tent proved major chores. A fire was possible only within a sheltering enclosure of logs. We dined scrunched together under the scant protection of the awning, husbanding the small reserve of water in our canteens, for the column had encamped on a poor excuse for a run, the water of which was insufficient and of poor quality. Conversation rendered nil by growing gusts of wind, we sought the shelter of Jared’s tent at the first drop of rain.

  We fell asleep guardedly, one ear tuned to the worsening elements beyond the canvas. Near what I took to be midnight, a stark bolt of lightning and a deafening roll of thunder brought the lot of us upright in our blankets. The wind, howling and shrieking, battered the tent walls, threatening to tear their pegs from the ground.

  The captain threw his wolf pelts aside. “It’s blowing a full gale, damn it!” he shouted above the ungodly din. “Roust the troop! We’ve got to see the horses don’t get free!”

  I’d no more cleared the entryway, clinging desperately to my helmet, when a sharp, ear-splitting crack behind the tent was followed by the crashing fall of a dead tree snapped at the roots. Once I touched solid earth again, circled rapidly among tents white as toadstools in the ragged blasts of lightning, shaking stockinged and booted feet alike, screaming, “To the horses! To the horses!”

  It was a freak occasion that severely tested the prior discipline and training of the First Dragoons, and they responded admirably. Ignoring the danger of falling branches and flying debris, they struggled into their coats, fought through howling wind and spatters of frigid rain, and quickly gained the picket lines, there to bravely quiet and control animals whose sole desire was to lunge and kick free and escape the whole unrelenting uproar by fleeing into the night.

  Twice lightning struck so close we smelled the stink of scorched wood. The slam of falling trees rivaled the thunder. Broken branches showered from the sky. It was a night belonging to the king of Hades and his minions, not to men made small and puny by the fury engulfing them. But just when we were thoroughly whipped from restraining the horses and swore we couldn’t withstand one more ripping gust of wind or deadly strike of lightning, our nether hosts finally tired of their torment, and the gale relented.

  At the captain’s insistence, we stayed with the horses till the lightning abated entirely and the wind subsided. Through some miracle of providence, the troop suffered no significant bodily injuries, and we lost but a single animal, and that not by our own hand, a packhorse speared deeply in the flank by the limb of a toppling tree. As evidenced by the frequent cries for the surgeon drifting to us in the growing quiet, other army units had been less fortunate.

  Dawn revealed the awesome damage wrought by the monstrous gale as Andy Young and I rode to St. Clair’s headquarters, a venture necessitated by the failure of a messenger to appear at our fire with fresh orders. A freight wagon, bed and wheels collapsed by a downed tree butt, broken ridgepoles ugly as snagged teeth, lay in a shattered heap, reduced to firewood. Bloody, bandaged heads, slings, and splints were not uncommon sights. But the most shocking scene greeted us at the general’s tent. Colonels, majors, and the squat, thick-bellied General Richard Butler sailed willy-nilly in and out of St. Clair’s tent. The sounds of a heated confrontation hushed those watching and listening from outside. Andy Young, never one to be denied information, wrung an explanation in addition to cups of hot tea from Blessing, St. Clair’s servant, whom he had befriended.

  Blessing was stooped and his skin dark and wrinkled as the bark of the walnut tree, but his mind was sharper than a freshly honed sword. “Colonel Oldham was breakfasting with Sir General when an express came half his militiamens had deserted. He run off, then rushed straight back. Seems his officers talked all but sixty of his mens to remain. But thems that snubbed the flag swear they’ll stop delivery of the provisions at Fort Jefferson. Sir General has summoned Major Hamtramack of the First Americans. He and his mens is ta trail after the wayward Kentuckians.”

  “God’s bones,” Andy Young blurted. “The First Americans are the most experienced corps in the army. Sending the whole corps after so few is nonsense. Captain Faulkner’s riflemen are at Fort Jefferson waiting to escort the pack train here, and Court Starnes won’t brook any interference from a gaggle of scruffy deserters.”

  “Maybe so,” Blessing said with a practiced smile, refilling our cups. “But Sir General ain’t often denied, be he?”

  Andy Young was too wise to argue with the servant and perhaps forfeit his source of information. “Will we march today, Blessing?”

  “No, Sir Ensign, yous won’t. Sir General wants ta recover the tents we threw away on the road yesterday, an’ he won’t sally forth less’n the larder be full.” Blessing’s almond eyes peered toward St. Clair’s tent. “Sir Ensign Young, yous bein’ beckoned.”

  Doing the beckoning was Corporal Thurston, the general’s courier within the encampment. We relinquished our teacups to Blessing with sincere thanks, and the servant slipped off at Thurston’s approach. The corporal, slavishly devoted to the importance of his task, offered neither smile nor salute, though we had spared him a ride to our fire. He held forth a sealed document and barked, “Orders of the day for the First Dragoons. To be initiated with all haste per Major General St. Clair.” Andy Young took possession of the sealed document and saluted the withdrawing backside of Corporal Thurston out of pure devilment. A short laugh later, howsomever, we were in the saddle, knowing the captain would be wondering by now what was delaying us.

  Starkweather’s disgust with the contents of Corporal Thurston’s sealed document was no less vivid than that he had displayed when Andy Young informed him the First Americans were being dispatched in pursuit of the deserting Kentucky militia. “We are to rove through the cow shit of yesterday’s march and retrieve the tents neglectfully cast aside along the road. We have been given the quite magnanimous authority to commandeer a vehicle from the wagoners in the employ of the army. I may present a voucher to recover expenses, repayment of which will probably someday grace my palm, hopefully before my funeral.”

  But orders were orders, and the captain was an obedient soldier. While the troop prepared to journey afield, I accompanied Starkweather to the wagon park at the core of the army’s encampment, where we hired Liege Canaday. A skeptical, crabby wagoner reeking of axle grease and horse sweat, Canaday was unwilling to commit his two-wheeled cart and skeletal nags to our cause till the captain fished a brace of gold coins from his purse. The wagoner’s instant, toothless grin and bobbing head guaranteed he would follow the captain’s bidding, whatever we demanded of his bony steeds.

  We trekked south under a low, dull sky offering no threat of rain or foul weather, Liege Canaday’s cart bouncing in our wake. Somewhere ahead of us on the same road traveled the Kentucky deserters and the Starnes pack string. The captain kept us doubly alert, on the lookout for lagging deserters as well as the redsticks. We searched through the discarded gear bordering the roadway in foursomes, two mounted dragoons holding the horses and standing guard over the two working afoot. By early afternoon, Canaday’s cart was heap
ed with folded tents. Shortly thereafter, the fringes of the road yielded no additional enclosures for a mile, and the captain called off our search.

  In the midst of blowing our horses before reversing direction, uniformed soldiers hove into sight from the south, followed by an immense string of packhorses. The soldiers were Captain Faulkner’s rifle company. In the lead of the pack train loomed Court Starnes and his lackey, Gabe Hookfin. The beanpole’s gloating smirk was visible above the dirty bandage wrapping his jaw and chin as he passed Andy Young and me. “Never miss a chance to wave their own flags, do they? Starnes will crow like a cock rooster in front of General St. Clair,” the ensign predicted.

  I eagerly eyed each passing packhorseman. No Paw, Tap, or Bear. But Henry Cross, Ira Fellows, and Paw’s wagoners, Timothy and Thaddeus, were present and waved in greeting, raising the possibility I might later learn from them what had happened to those I sought. My disappointment was further tempered by the knowledge that Court Starnes was no longer bound for Fort Jefferson, a situation that would make it easier for Val Dodd to carry his warning to Erin Green without delay upon his arrival there.

  “Two hundred twelve packhorses,” Andy Young tallied. “Should be roughly thirty thousand pounds of flour. General St. Clair has no excuse now for remaining encamped.”

  We trailed after the pack train at a fair distance, Starkweather riding twixt Andy Young and me. “Captain Faulkner stated he encountered the sixty militia deserters on the road earlier. He was as appalled as I that General St. Clair would send the First Americans in pursuit of such worthless rabble.” Starkweather rubbed his chin. “Gentlemen, I speak anticipating you may both be of higher rank in the future. I can only surmise the general believes stationing the First Americans on the road behind us will prevent the rifling of future provision trains by deserters. This decision comes when we are supposedly within forty miles of the enemy’s villages. I, honoring the other tack, believe he risks his army to assuage the grumbling of weaklings. Perhaps for all our sakes, he will endure a change of heart.”

  It was hours later that we knew, but General St. Clair’s heart remained steadfast. The descending sun a band of purple rimming the western horizon, we met the First Americans at dusk and once again conceded the roadway as we had with the supply train. Eight packhorses accompanying them, heavily laden with bloodstained pouches containing beef freshly butchered from the army’s shrinking bullock herd, told the tale: the First Americans, three hundred strong, were expected to be away a number of days, perhaps as much as a week.

  It was dark by the time Starkweather dismissed the troop with orders to sleep fully dressed with weapons at the ready. Andy Young went off to report to St. Clair’s headquarters that the recovered tents were in the possession of Liege Canaday at the wagon park. I hobbled Blue and the captain’s sorrel, then lugged our gear to Starkweather’s awning, where Jared was busy at the baking oven and stewing pot, the pot smelling of beef, wild onion root, and salt. Corporal Thurston, brusque as ever, was just departing, and the captain held another of those sealed documents fresh from the general’s quill.

  The displeased scowl torturing Starkweather’s lean face didn’t bode well for my traipsing off to find Henry Cross or Ira Fellows, a sinking feeling confirmed by the captain’s reaction to the document he crushed after reading. “For the love of God almighty, St. Clair’s first states hoof rot is now felling the packhorses fast as starvation, then in the next stroke he suggests we dragoons dismount and use our horses to help transport the tents and entrenching tools. The worst thing imaginable would be to mix our mounts in with that fouled lot. Is St. Clair so sick he’s blind to the obvious?”

  Starkweather made to throw the St. Clair missive into the fire but then stayed his arm. “Ensign Downer, pass the word to the troop, every officer, that no dragoon is to stray from our fires for any reason. We shall question Ensign Young on his return and, if necessary, I will argue my cause at St. Clair’s tent following the evening meal.”

  I completed my circuit of the troop’s tents, and Andy Young appeared as Jared was serving the captain and me. He laid his saddle beside ours and accepted a plate from the servant. “Your report, Ensign, if you please,” Starkweather urged none too gently.

  “The general sent runners to spread the news about the recovered tents,” Andy Young said.

  “I assumed as much,” the captain interrupted with an impatient waving of his tin cup. “Any mention of dragoon troops being dismounted to transport tents and tools?”

  “Yes, sir. Your counterpart, Captain Trueman of the Second Dragoons, was there and argued most vehemently against doing so. Lieutenant Colonel Darke of the First Levy Regiment and Major Heart of the Second Americans supported Captain Trueman. Adjutant General Sargent opposed him.”

  “And what did General St. Clair decide?”

  “For now, the First and Second Dragoon troops will patrol the flanks of our next advance,” Andy Young said, provoking a brief smile from the captain.

  “Thank the Lord. Be seated, Ensign,” Starkweather ordered. He sipped tea and swallowed before inquiring, “Any word yet from those Chickasaws sent ahead to find the Shawnee?”

  “No, sir, nothing. But their failure to locate the enemy doesn’t seem to perturb the general in the least. He insists all the sightings to date have been merely hunters. Blessing, his servant, overheard the general tell his staff again just today that he is certain the Indians will retreat upon sighting our approach to their villages . . . or sue for peace.”

  I said nothing out of respect for the authority and sway of General St. Clair, but I couldn’t help remembering the ten warriors I had witnessed in the night with Tap and the mistress. They had not been mere hunters. My silence did no harm, for the captain set little store by the general’s opinion of the enemy’s intentions. “I wish I shared his confidence. I might, if not for Ensign Downer’s friend, Mr. Watkins, and the general’s own scout, George Adams. Those knowing the redsticks firsthand doubt neither their will nor their courage.” The evening breeze sawed at the flames of the fire, and the captain shrugged deeper into his coat. “We march at nine in the morning, will we not?”

  “No, sir, we will remain halted another day,” Andy Young answered quickly.

  Caught in midsip, the surprised Starkweather choked, lurched forward, and spat into the fire. Flying tea sizzled as he wiped his chin. Anger brightened his eyes. “We have sufficient supplies, the weather is acceptable, and we do not march. I will never understand St. Clair’s thinking,” the captain concluded with a weary shaking of his head. “Gentlemen, finish your plates. We will retire early. If we must squander an otherwise fine day foraging for the animals, so be it.”

  The captain’s prediction proved most true. On 1 November, we gleaned from Andy Young’s daily visit to St. Clair’s headquarters that Court Starnes, his fellow packhorsemen, and forty animals, escorted by a subaltern and fourteen men of the Second Americans, wended south for Fort Jefferson. From the ensign’s observations going and coming, we learned the bulk of the army languished in its sinkhole of a camp with virtually no assigned duties. We dragoons? Why, we toiled the whole of daylight under the lash of Starkweather’s tongue searching for forage in cloudy, moderate weather disturbed only by light southerly winds.

  That night, the wind backed to the west and increasingly colder air crept into our tent. By the next afternoon, first rain, then fine snow fell. St. Clair’s army, which according to Andy Young’s beloved numbers now consisted of twelve hundred soldiers—regulars, levies, artillerymen, and dragoons, plus two hundred fifty militia, for a total fighting complement of fourteen hundred and fifty men—covered eight miles in the souring weather of 2 November.

  It was a grueling, exhausting march across low, soggy terrain that turned to black, leeching mud at noon, mud that stuck to hoof, boot, and moccasin like color to skin. The ever-present Injun pathway spared us from total collapse, winding unerringly through the extensive swamps and clumps of towering beech timber on the best of the
bad ground. The captain opined on several occasions that our line of march would be impassible in truly wet weather.

  The army encamped in two lines on terrain marginally higher than that traveled during the day. The captain deemed it and the limestone run bisecting it tolerable for a single night at best. We clustered that evening around a fire that sputtered for want of dry wood, speaking only when necessary. The wind continued to circle, blowing after midnight from the north, never a favorable sign in late autumn. I slept deep and hard, content that Erin was safe at Fort Jefferson and probably informed by now of Court Starnes’s brag. Taking no chances, I prayed earnestly and sincerely that night that the Lord watch over both Erin and her protector, Annie Bower.

  Three November was no less gruesome a day. The dawn was a dreary blur of yellowish light and thick, hovering clouds. The northeast wind bore a small flight of snow throughout, but never heavy enough to blanket the leaves carpeting the woods. Our road, sufficient for two carriages abreast, passed small, sunken prairies for three miles, then rose gently, the beech forest giving way to thick stands of oak, ash, and hickory. With the advent of higher ground, the infernal mud petered out, and in its stead, small limestone brooks, not abounding with water at the moment, coursed hither and yon.

  Excitement gripped the ranks about noon as small parties of Injuns, reputedly Shawnee and Miami, were spotted by the column’s forward elements. We dragoons and the squads of riflemen on the flanks were dispatched after them, and though we stared behind every tree and bush, hoping to catch a glimpse of the enemy our ownselves, at their whim the redsticks melted silently into the forest without incident. Andy Young summed up my feelings by speculating, “Wonder how many there are that we haven’t seen?”