Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t commiserate with you over your troubles.”

  “No sympathy is necessary, Colonel. It is but a minor delay which means that we will crush you in 1813 rather than 1812.” He looked outside. “Forgive me, but I must see what is holding up the physician.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Yank said.

  October 12, 1812

  Queenston, Upper Canada

  Yank was being held prisoner in a stone barracks in the village of Queenston. If he stood on his bunk, he could see several neat houses, fields, pastures, gardens and peach orchards from the barred window.

  “Are you thinking of leaving us, Colonel?” General Brock asked.

  Yank turned around and hopped off the bunk. “I think of little else but the idea of swimming across the Niagara is a bit daunting, General.”

  “I,” Brock said, “am an excellent swimmer.” He waited a moment to see if Yank would comment, then continued. “But even I would not attempt to swim two hundred yards in such violent waters.”

  Yank walked closer to the barred door. “If I agree not to run, do you think I might be permitted to walk outside?”

  “Do you feel well enough?”

  “Other than a persistent headache from your cannonball and your Shawnee ally’s war-club, I feel fine.”

  Brock turned to the jailer. “Unlock the colonel’s cell.”

  Yank waited until the door clanged open then stepped out. “Thank you, General.”

  “If you would agree not to bear arms against His Majesty, I would gladly send you across the river in a staunch boat.”

  “That’s not something I could do,” Yank replied.

  “Well then.” Brock bent at the waist and motioned Yank toward the door with a sweeping gesture. “Shall we take a little promenade?”

  Yank walked past him, through the door and out into the brilliant autumn sunlight. “Ah fresh air.”

  Brock walked outside and stopped. “This is a very beautiful place. I don’t blame you Americans for coveting it so.”

  “If there are Americans who covet it, I’m not one of them. I’d be perfectly happy to just be left alone.” He pointed to a hill off to their right. “Can we see the river from there?”

  “Yes indeed. That is known as the Queenston Heights. Directly across the river is the American town of Lewiston.”

  “Can we walk up there?”

  “Why not?”

  “I see huts at the top and I know that you have artillery up there on redans.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not concerned about me seeing your defenses?”

  “You are not willing to be paroled nor are you important enough to be exchanged, so I think the war will be over by the time you have your freedom.”

  Yank started up the slope. “Do you trust Tecumseh, General?”

  “I have been very impressed by him.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “I trust him to fight against Americans. His hate burns bright.”

  “If you win this war, as you seem so sure of doing, will you trust Tecumseh not to turn on you?”

  “No. But when we win this war and he no longer has access to firearms he will be easy to destroy.”

  When they reached the top, Yank walked to the edge and looked down the heavily overgrown, nearly vertical bluff at the racing water of the Niagara River. “Did you know that there’s a ferry that connects Queenston and Lewiston, General?”

  “Yes, I did.” Brock had borrowed a telescope from Captain Williams, the commander of the light company that was deployed on the Heights. “As you can plainly see, Colonel, if your compatriots try to cross here we will shred them.”

  Yank had noted that there were three redans joined by a narrow path that sported a mortar and two 18-pounders. “It would be unwise of me to comment, General.”

  “I must be getting back,” Brock said, “but stay up here as long as you like. I will tell the jailer that your cell door need not be locked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We do have a bargain, do we not?” Brock asked. “I have your oath that you will not try to escape?”

  Yank hesitated. “Yes, we have a bargain until hostilities begin. Then you will need to lock me up again.”

  Brock chuckled and trotted down the grade toward his headquarters.

  “Colonel Van Buskirk,” the captain said.

  “Yes?” Yank turned to face him.

  “I’m John Williams. I’m married to your cousin Elizabeth.” He shook Yank’s hand.

  “Williams,” Yank said. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “I’m married to your cousin Elizabeth Van Buskirk,” the captain said, showing some annoyance.

  “Forgive me, Captain, but I have a half-dozen cousins by that name. Where is she from?”

  “Hartford, sir.”

  “Ah, yes. She’s David’s oldest daughter then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This must be difficult for you, being on two sides of a war.”

  “It isn’t for me, sir. I’m a Canadian and I don’t want to be an American.”

  “Except you’re not a Canadian, Captain, you’re a British subject.” He pointed. “We, on the other side, do not wish to be anyone’s subjects.”

  October 13, 1812

  Queenston, Upper Canada

  Yank was awakened at about 4:30 AM by the sound of musket fire. He tried the cell door and found it unlocked and when he walked through it, he saw the sentry asleep in a corner. He walked outside and stopped, trying to decide what to do. His oath to Brock had been conditional and the musket fire could certainly be considered as hostilities. But, he decided with a sigh, to escape now would violate the spirit of the agreement. Resolved, he climbed the hill toward the Heights.

  Behind him, someone rushed into the barracks and began shouting. Yank looked back but continued to climb. He reached the Heights to find the gun crews in the three redans awake and active. Captain Williams was looking down at the river through a telescope. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Williams turned abruptly. “Colonel Van Buskirk,” he said breathlessly. “I’m glad you’re not the enemy or I should have certainly been skewered.”

  “I am the enemy, Captain, but not at this moment. What was the musket fire?”

  Williams looked toward the barracks where lamps had been lighted and men were beginning to rush out to form up on the parade ground. “I don’t know, sir.” He turned back toward the river and raised his telescope again. “But it must be the expected American invasion.”

  Yank walked closer to the edge where he clearly saw three boats in the water and American troops on the bank below his position. As one of the boats landed and began to deposit more troops on the narrow bank a column of British came out from the village to meet them. A minute later musket fire began to break out all along the base of the bluff.

  From Vrooman’s Point, about a mile north of the village, a British 24-pounder opened fire. Williams had at last spotted the boats in the water and ordered his infantry to fire on them. A moment later, the artillery went into action from the redans and the observer began adjusting fire onto the American staging area in Lewiston.

  Yank stepped back from the edge as musket balls began to rise from the American invaders and cannons across the river fired. Behind him, General Brock had arrived from Georgetown and his entourage scattered as the first American shells began to land in the village. As short time later, a messenger from General Brock ordered Captain Williams to form the light company and march it down to the village to repel the American attack.

  Yank’s attention was diverted from Williams’ march by the sound of fighting from the rightmost redan. The British artillerymen in all three positions, fearing that they would be overrun without support from Williams, spiked their guns and retreated toward the village.

  Seeing the gunners coming toward him, Brock recognized his mistake and ordered Williams to retake the redan, then
sent a second company of infantry that had just arrived from Fort George to continue around the hill toward the river.

  The Americans that had taken the guns met the charge of Williams with blistering fire that caused them to stall. Incensed by the timidity of his troops, Brock ordered a newly arriving company from Fort George to follow him, raised his sword over his head, and charged. He had moved upward only a few yards when an American musket ball struck his sword arm. Brock dropped his sword but continued upward, shouting encouragement. He was not quite halfway to the redan when a musket ball struck him in the chest and snatched him from the saddle.

  Yank decided that his oath to Brock died with the General and he began to move down toward the Americans in the redans with his hands in the air.

  “Are you surrendering, Colonel Van Buskirk?” an officer shouted, stepping between his alarmed musketeers and Yank.

  Yank lowered his hands. “Good morning, Colonel Scott. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

  “Not half as glad as I to see you,” Winfield Scott replied, shaking Yank’s hand vigorously. “You were reported as missing and presumed dead from the Battle of Detroit.”

  Yank gestured toward the stalled British attack. “You’ve killed Isaac Brock but John Macdonell just marched in with a battalion from Georgetown. He’ll take command and will be coming again.”

  “We should be able to hold,” Scott replied.

  “Who’s in overall command?”

  “Van Rensselaer.”

  “And you?”

  “I just relieved Chrystie. He’s gone back to Lewiston for reinforcements and entrenching tools. Things didn’t go well from the start and now we’re so disorganized that I don’t know what units I’m commanding.” He looked around. “I don’t seem to have any officers at all.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “I collected a few regulars, a handful of sergeants and some fugitive militia to take this position. I’ll need you to help me hold the militiamen on line if we want to keep it.”

  Yank pointed toward the barracks. “Here they come.”

  Scott moved back to his musket line. “First rank. Present. Fire. Reload.”

  The militia, which was mixed within the regulars, soon began to fall back. “Get back on line you men,” Yank shouted. Halfway up to the Heights British Colonel John Macdonell’s horse was shot from under him. “Look there,” Yank called. “Their commander is down.” A few of the militiamen took positions with the regulars and with the next volley British Captain Williams went down. “Good job men,” Yank bellowed. “One more and they’ll run. Just one more.” Most of the shirkers who hadn’t clamored down the cliff returned to the line.

  “Macdonell must have been hit,” Scott shouted to Yank as the British began to retreat to Queenston carrying Brock and Macdonell.

  Yank hurried to join him. “I suggest that we take advantage of the lull by occupying the Heights and digging in with bayonets rather than waiting for Colonel Chrystie.”

  “Agreed,” Scott said.

  ~

  Of the six thousand Americans that had been assembled at Lewiston during the previous night, only about twelve hundred had actually made it across the river. Of those men, a few were complete units while the bulk was either enlisted men with no officers or officers with no enlisted men.

  At noon, General Van Rensselaer, General William Wadsworth and Colonel Chrystie were all on the Canadian side. Although still precarious, the American position on the Queenston Heights had been fortified and the spikes had been removed from the British artillery.

  At the request of General Van Rensselaer, General Wadsworth, who had joined the fight as a volunteer, waived his right as the senior officer so that Colonel Scott could be appointed commander of the regulars on Queenston Heights while Wadsworth took command of the militia.

  Van Rensselaer had difficulty finding a boat crew to take them across but they eventually gained the Canadian shore at about 12:30. Wadsworth and Chrystie reached Scott’s position on the Heights at about 12:45. As they arrived, a few of the leaderless soldiers who had gone into Queenston to loot empty houses got into a firefight with a company of British musketeers.

  “What’s that firing?” Wadsworth asked.

  “Looters,” Scott answered, pointing.

  “Then who is that?” Yank pointed at a body of men that were moving up from the village at double-time in an organized manner with a dismounted officer leading them.

  “I think that may be Colonel Fenwick,” Chrystie said.

  “It appears to be,” Scott agreed. “Although how he got down there I cannot say.”

  Yank chuckled. “The musketeers must have had him pinned down and the looters gave him enough of a diversion to break contact.”

  Scott laughed. “Perhaps we should write them up for commendations.” He walked forward to meet Fenwick. “We didn’t know you were down there.”

  Fenwick leaned on his sword to catch his breath. “A new infantry company and detachment of Royal Artillery just arrived in the village from Fort George. Big guns on wagons pulled by eight horses.”

  Scot nodded. “Position your men behind Colonel Chrystie’s and rest them. It will take the British at least half an hour to place those guns.”

  ~

  At about 1:30 the newly placed British artillery that Fenwick had reported opened fire. Within thirty minutes, three American boats had been sunk and the American batteries at Lewiston had been silenced. Terrified by the barrage, the American militia that had been staged in Lewiston to cross the Niagara refused and Van Rensselaer decided to go back to rally them. As his boat cast off it was suddenly swarmed and nearly capsized by panicked civilian refugees and American militia.

  “We may be in a pickle,” Scott said to Yank as they watched Van Rensselaer’s boat break free and pull toward Lewiston. “It looks like the militia over there has decided to go home.”

  “They’re completely untrained anyway,” Yank grumbled. “They’d have served no purpose other than fodder for the British cannons.”

  They both looked to the flanks as the outposts suddenly came under attack.

  “Mohawks,” Yank said.

  Scott nodded. “They climbed the face of the bluff.”

  “Which tells us that we’ve got no troops on the riverbank any more.”

  Scott moved to the left and Yank to the right toward the outposts but by the time they reached them the Mohawks had taken flight.

  ~

  At 2:00 PM, American born Major General Sir Roger Hale Sheaffe arrived at Queenston and took charge of all the British troops from Fort George that had assembled there. Marching them around the flank of the Heights, he halted at a safe distance from the American guns and was soon joined by reinforcements from Chippewa.

  Yank climbed up the hill and hurried to the hut where Colonel Scott and General Wadsworth were standing together. Both of them looked troubled. “That’s Sheaffe on our flank. He has about eight hundred men and two galloper guns.” He looked at the two men. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just received a message from General Van Rensselaer,” Scott replied.

  “What’s it say?”

  “I haven’t opened it but from the complete lack of activity across the river I can guess.”

  “Well read it,” Yank grumbled.

  Scott handed the message to General Wadsworth.

  “Thank you.” Wadsworth opened the message, scanned it quickly then cleared his throat. “I have found that at the very moment when complete victory is in our hands, the ardor of the unengaged troops has entirely subsided. I have ridden in all directions — urged men by every consideration to pass over — but in vain. I therefore must leave the decision whether to stand and fight or withdraw to you. Should you decide to withdraw the required boats will be sent. Major General Stephen Van Rensselaer, Commanding.” He gave the message back to Scott. “Your decision, Colonel.”

  Scott looked ill. “We have a hundred and twenty-five regulars, fourt
een artillerymen and something under three hundred militiamen who tend to run at the sound of gunfire. Sheaffe’s coming with eight hundred. What choice do I have?”

  Neither Wadsworth nor Yank responded.

  Shaking his head sadly, Scott sighed then assembled his officers and noncoms. “To cover our retreat we’ll build a barricade there.” He pointed. “We’ll move the 6-pounder up there among the huts supported by Christiansen’s rifles. Move quickly. We don’t have much time.”

  As Scott was making preparations to withdraw, General Sheaffe launched his assault against the riflemen on Scott’s right, and against the militia in the center, firing a volley then charging with fixed bayonets amidst the war-whoops of their Mohawk allies.

  Wadsworth and Chrystie’s three hundred militiamen retreated almost immediately to the very edge of the cliff forcing Wadsworth to surrender before he lost them all over the edge.

  Scott had already evacuated most of his regulars so when Wadsworth surrendered he, with Yank, Lieutenant Joseph Gilbert Totten and the last of the riflemen, climbed down the cliff to join their infantry in a hand-to-hand fight with Mohawks.

  Yank, who had picked up a sword from the battlefield, rushed into the fray and decapitated a Mohawk chief who was scalping a fallen soldier, but Scott, seeing that the boats promised by Van Rensselaer had not appeared, snatched Totten’s white cravat and began waving it.

  The British on the high ground ceased firing at the signal from Scott but the Mohawks did not, nor did Yank. Furious at the loss of their chief, the Mohawks swarmed Yank and backed him against a rocky outcrop. He fought fiercely but would have almost certainly have been killed in the next few moments had the Mohawks not drawn back suddenly and fled.

  Yank, who was covered with blood, leaned against the outcropping, trying to catch his breath. Scott and Totten moved cautiously toward him.

  “Are you wounded, Yank?” Scott asked.