In response Black Eagle gave a low growl and came forward several paces towards me. It was only then that I began to realise that I had made a serious mistake. Until that moment I had fully expected Black Eagle to accept my authority. All that talk about General Brock being the ‘Great Father’, and gifts that they received from the British, had given me the impression that the Iroquois saw themselves as subservient, at least to white officers like me. It was then I remembered, too late, some advice that a wise sergeant called Ferguson had given me in India: never give an order that you do not know will be obeyed.
Well it was too late for that now. It was clear from Black Eagle’s face that this proud warrior did not feel the least bit submissive to the white man in front of him. His dark eyes glittered dangerously in his hideously painted face and he started to balance on the balls of his feet, preparing to spring. I had seen him kill one militia soldier and he had three scalps hanging over his belt to show that he had killed more. I felt a prickle of fear run up the back of my neck as I wondered if in a minute or two my hair might also be hanging from that belt.
“Black Eagle, no!” It was Norton’s voice to my right and I heard several other shouts in Iroquois to my left, but I dared not take my eyes of the big man in front of me. When he did move it was lightning fast. He lurched to his left and I swung my sword to my right. Surely, I thought, the long blade would give me a better reach than a man holding a tomahawk. My weapon was made from razor-sharp Damascus steel; I knew that if I managed to strike him the wound would be deep. But by God he was quick. No sooner had I flicked the blade out to my right than he was bouncing to my left and now the hand holding the tomahawk was swinging down on my unprotected left side. I just managed to get the barrel of my pistol up in time to block the blow. The pistol caught the shaft of the axe just below the head and I felt the jar of the blow down my left arm. Already the Indian was twisting away, but now my sword was swinging around in an arc to catch him. I was aiming for his throat; I wanted to kill this bastard quickly, before he did for me. I thought I was going to get him, too, but at the last moment he started to twist and duck away. I tried to adjust my swing, but not fast enough and the blade swished over his head through empty air.
I sprang back a pace to give me more room and wondered fleetingly if I had time to cock the pistol. The spring was heavy and I would need to use my sword hand. Norton was still shouting at Black Eagle and out of the corner of my eye I could see the war chief was running towards us from the tree line, but another Indian got to Black Eagle first.
“No, Black Eagle, don’t. It is not worth it for another scalp, they will hang you.” It was Smoke Johnson, the young Indian who had helped to hide me in a bush. He tried to hold Black Eagle by the arms and they wrestled for a moment as I frantically pulled back the hammer on my pistol.
Smoke Johnson was only a slender boy and the great warrior threw him off but over balanced and fell down on one knee in the process. I was raising the pistol on him when the huge man suddenly dropped his tomahawk and gave a howl of agony. For a moment I thought one of the Indians had shot him in the back with an arrow, but he was staring at something in the grass at his feet. I did not recognise it but Smoke Johnson did.
“Ha, the Lobster has beaten you. He has fought in many battles, he told me so.” The young man danced in front of his fallen comrade, blocking my shot. “See his skill, he could have killed you but instead he has shown you that a man’s spirit is not in his hair.” Norton was running up to us now and so I lowered the pistol while Smoke Johnson stood back so that the Iroquois war chief could see what Black Eagle was staring forlornly at. In the grass I saw a tuft of long black hair, held together with a strip of red cloth and decorated with several feathers. It was only when Black Eagle slumped his head in defeat that I fully understood, for there on the crown of his head was a circle of very short black hair just half an inch long. It seemed that my sword had not entirely missed him after all.
Chapter 4
Black Eagle was being led away by several of the Indians, all of the fight now gone out of him and a look of shock on his face, as though he had lost a leg rather than a tuft of hair.
“That was very merciful of you, Captain Flashman,” called Norton as he came up to me. I bit back the retort that I had been trying to kill the bastard as by now I was getting respectful looks from several of the Indians present. Young Smoke Johnson was busy regaling all who would listen that the ‘Lobster’ was a fearsome veteran of many battles and had managed to shave Black Eagle’s head while he twisted away.
“It shouldn’t have been bloody necessary,” I told Norton tartly. “The British armies I have fought in do not butcher the wounded, never mind scalp them.”
“You are right; they should not be killing prisoners. Some of the men who arrived late for the battle are trying to get scalps to prove their courage.”
“Black Eagle has been here from the start,” I retorted. “Look at the boy he was trying to kill – what courage is there in that?” We both looked down. The young American soldier had apparently fainted from either the pain or the fear of being scalped. His face, relaxed in sleep, looked even more boyish and I doubted that he had even started shaving.
Norton shifted uncomfortably. “I must return to my men and help calm them down.” As he turned to walk away I looked over his shoulder and saw a very tall American officer striding purposefully towards me. The American had a young British lieutenant in tow, who was almost running to keep up. The boy at my feet was starting to stir, which was just as well as I did not want the lanky soldier to think that I had killed him. As I glanced down at the boy I noticed that Black Eagle’s tomahawk lay abandoned in the grass. I bent down to pick it up. It was, I discovered later, quite a common design, but to me it seemed extraordinary. Opposite the sharp steel blade of the axe was a metal bowl, its bottom connected to a hole drilled the length of the shaft: it was a pipe as well as a weapon. I wondered if perhaps once you had hacked a man to death, you were expected to smoke a pipe of peace over his corpse. I shook my head in dismay and tucked the weapon into my belt as the American approached.
“Colonel Winfield Scott, sir,” he introduced himself holding out his hand. “I saw what you did to save young Vanderbilt here and I am much obliged to you.”
“I am only sorry it was necessary, sir,” I responded. “I rather fear that the behaviour of our allies has dishonoured our victory.”
“Colonel Scott is the commander of the American regular army force, sir,” warned the British lieutenant as the colonel bent down and gripped the shoulder of the boy at our feet and whispered some words of comfort to him.
“What is to happen to the prisoners, Lieutenant?” I asked.
“The regular troops will be made prisoners of war, sir, and transported to Quebec, but the militia soldiers will be paroled and shipped back across the river.”
I looked down at the boy, who was now struggling to sit up in the presence of his commanding officer. He was already starting to shake as shock set in. “I see,” I murmured and then I turned to the colonel. “Sir, I don’t know if you have ever had to travel a long distance with a hole in your leg? I have and it is not something that I would recommend. Perhaps this young soldier should be temporarily dismissed from the regular army and attached to the militia?”
Scott grinned conspiratorially. “I think that is an excellent suggestion.” He bent down to the boy. “Son, I am going to have to relieve you of your army coat. I don’t doubt you will get another in due course.” As he spoke I walked over to one of the militia corpses and started to pull off its civilian coat. The collar was soaked in blood as its occupant had been scalped, but it would have to do. Once the boy was suitably dressed the lieutenant called over two soldiers and detailed them to carry the lad to join the group of militia soldiers held under guard. Scott turned to go but then hesitated and came back to me. “Sir, I do not believe I have yet had the honour of your name. I would like to commend you to your general.”
&n
bsp; “It is Flashman, sir, Captain Thomas Flashman, although I am not sure that General Sheaffe appreciates the blatant flouting of rules.” Our British commander did not have the natural leadership skills of his predecessor, General Brock, who had been greatly admired by his men. Sheaffe was more a spit and polish, doing things by the regulations character, but he had at least won the battle whereas Brock had got himself killed in a reckless assault.
I have no idea what Scott said to Sheaffe, but a short while later I was summoned to the British commander. “Ah, Flashman, isn’t it? I hear you saved one of their militia boys from a scalping,” he called as I joined the crowd of officers around him receiving orders. “Colonel Scott was most impressed with your diplomatic handling of the matter. He has also given me a written note of commendation that should make you more welcome than most of us on the other side of the Niagara.” He passed the note across to me before continuing. “I would be obliged if you would escort our prisoners back over the river and ensure that they are exchanged with any of our men that the Americans have taken.”
The battle had finished at around four o’clock in the afternoon and by then it was getting on for six. There would not be daylight for much longer and so I hurried along the path that led down to the river. Several American bodies had been pushed into the surrounding bushes, some scalped and some with their hair intact. Halfway down, the track was blocked with a press of men, but some British soldiers guarding the prisoners ordered them to stand aside so that I could get through. A rough landing stage was at the bottom, made up of a partly submerged boat with some planks laid over the gunwales. To one side lay a group of wounded prisoners, including young Vanderbilt, the boy I had rescued. Someone had already bandaged and splinted his leg and he grinned and waved when he saw me.
A signal must have been sent to the Americans because two boats were already coming across from Lewiston, the town opposite on the American shore. They were rowing sharply upstream so that the current would bring them up to the makeshift jetty. I thought that they would load the wounded first but as the first boat tied on by the end of the planks a sudden stampede of desperate prisoners pressed forwards. They easily pushed the guards aside and charged up the fragile wharf, pulling and shoving at each other to get on the craft. Two men fell in, one was swept downstream but the other managed to catch a hold of the sunken boat. Within moments the first cutter that had been rowed across was dangerously overloaded, with the oarsmen punching those trying to board as they pushed off.
The jetty creaked dangerously as the men shouted for the next boat to approach but the crew on that were rowing hard against the current and holding off. They had seen the first boat pull away precariously low in the water and were worried about being swamped. I had seen enough and stopped the shouting with a pistol shot in the air.
“Everyone off that jetty! I am taking the wounded across first and the rest of you will wait your turn.” I turned to the sergeant in charge of the guard. “Get them off the jetty and if anyone else jumps the queue, shoot them.” Amid much grumbling there was a general movement off the wooden structure, but three men who were at the very end of it were reluctant to give up their prime position.
“I aint spendin’ the night on this side of the river with those wild savages creepin’ around the woods fixin’ to take my hair.” The spokesperson stuck his thumbs in the top of his trousers and leaned back. “So I reckon you is goin’ to have to shoot me. Then we’ll see what happens to you when they hear what you done on our side of the river.” A self-satisfied smile crossed the man’s face, which only diminished slightly when one of his companions spoke to him.
“Wait a minute, Clem, I’ve seen that fella before. He was fightin’ with the Injuns on our flank. Look, he has one of their tommy hawks in his belt.”
I sensed a growing hostility in the crowd as I reflected on the fact that this was the second time today I had given an order without knowing if it would be obeyed. But I thought I knew how to motivate these men to do my bidding. “You are right,” I said calmly to the second man on the jetty. “I was with the Indians earlier; I am an honorary chief with them.” I pulled the tomahawk out of my belt and slowly slapped the side of the blade on the palm of my hand. “Right now,” I continued, “I have persuaded them to leave the guarding of prisoners to the British soldiers. It was a tough job, as a lot of them really want more scalps, especially ginger hair like yours.” I grinned at him while I tested the blade of the weapon with my thumb, it had been honed to a sharp edge. “Yes, they really like ginger hair and I only have to give my war whoop and hundreds of them will be pouring down that hillside hunting for some.” The three men looked nervously at each other. “Now I thought,” I continued in a very casual tone, “that you gentlemen would prefer to be guarded by British soldiers, but if I have got that wrong, do please tell me.”
There was more muttering from the crowd of men on the shore while the three at the end of the planks shifted uncomfortably as they whispered among themselves.
“Clem,” I looked up and big man in a red shirt was stepping forward from the crowd on shore. He sported a large ginger beard and long flowing ginger locks. “So help me, Clem, if you and your boys do not get over here right smartly I will damn well fix you myself.” Clem and his two comrades stepped quickly off the jetty and took their place at the head of the queue of able-bodied men.
“Right, Sergeant,” I turned to him. “Ask the boatmen how many they can carry and only allow that many onto the dock.” I looked up to see the first boat being carried far downstream by the current. Several of its occupants were bailing with their hats. The second boat, seeing that order was restored, was now drifting down to tie up.
“Very good, sir,” replied the soldier. “What about loading the wounded?”
“Oh I am sure we will get volunteers.” I turned to the front of the queue. “Clem and Ginger, load three stretchers on that boat and you can travel with them.” I went and helped young Vanderbilt aboard myself and a few minutes later a dozen wounded and a dozen able-bodied helpers, including your correspondent, were being rowed across the River Niagara towards the American shore.
“You really an Indian chief?” Clem asked me when we were halfway across the river.
“Oh yes,” I told him, half for my own amusement and to avoid a mutiny mid-stream. “Tomahawk Thomas they call me.” I winked at Vanderbilt before adding, “Scourge of the Piccadilly tribe, defiler of virgins and the meanest blade west of Bristol.” I thought I had hammed it up for a joke but the fool Clem took me seriously. It seemed trivial at the time, but that joke may well have cost us a battle and changed the course of the war in the west.
“Have you taken many scalps, then?” asked Clem, licking his lips nervously.
“I have run out of room for them now in my hut so I don’t bother,” I replied, casually picking some dried blood off my coat.
“He stopped them scalping me,” piped up Vanderbilt. “He killed a big warrior that was chasing after me.”
“I didn’t kill him,” I corrected. “I cut off his hair with my sword,” I said patting the weapon at my side. “Some of them believe that their spirit is in their hair.”
Clem seemed to look at me with awe. “Well I ain’t fightin’ them again. I’ve heard stories and scalping is the least of it. We are militia; we are only s’posed to be deployed in the Republic of the United States to defend it against a British invasion.
“Well we are not invading you,” I pointed out. “Your republic is raising a massive army to invade Canada.”
“Your army captured Detroit,” he pointed out truculently.
“I heard that was because your army crossed into Canada first. Remember you declared war on us. I have heard that you are raising an army of fifty thousand.”
There was burst of laughter in the boat at that – even some of the wounded chuckled. “Our politicians might have signed a paper to raise fifty thousand,” Clem explained, “but they sure don’t have the money to pay for them. Th
ey are offering soldiers five dollars a month, but any good labourer can earn nearly double that amount. Only a fool will risk getting shot or scalped on army rations for half pay; that is assuming that they have the money to pay you at all. We haven’t seen the pay chest for three months. That is why we went across, in the hope of getting some valuables.”
“You wait until you see Lewiston,” Ginger joined in. “It is a proper shit hole. Thousands of men all right, but hardly any rations. Most have used up their ammunition hunting game for the pot.”
I looked across at the boy. Unlike the militia groups that were raised in their local communities and were obliged to serve, he had volunteered for this life. He looked tired now but he still managed a smile when he spoke. “I could not get a full labourer’s wage and anyway I thought joining the army would be exciting.”
“Well I think you have had enough excitement for now,” I told him. The boat was pulling up at the American dock, where a crowd of men were waiting. We were the first boat to disembark as the previous craft had been swept well down river. Many of the spectators were keen to see the survivors of the battle and several were pointing to me in my conspicuous red coat. There was a company of regular troops guarding the quay and soon the wounded were being handed up to the dock. I climbed up with Vanderbilt to be met by the officer in charge.
“Captain Flashman,” I said handing over the letter of commendation from Colonel Winfield Scott. I thought it might earn me some favour on this hostile shore. “I am here to collect any prisoners you have in exchange.”
“Lieutenant Harker,” replied the officer briefly scanning the note and handing it back. “The prisoners will be in the town gaol; you had better come with me.” He looked across as Clem loudly regaled a group of men on the quay on how he had been nearly scalped by wild savages and that nothing would persuade him to cross the river again. “That is all we need,” the lieutenant muttered. I did not say anything in reply but a cheer of support from those around Clem indicated that there would be quite a few who would be reluctant to tread on Canadian soil now.
Flashman and Madison's War Page 4
