Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  As we started to leave, the general pulled me to one side for a word in private. “I just wanted to thank you for what you are doing, Captain. I know it cannot be easy for an English gentleman to live among those savages, but I need someone I can trust to be with them and make sure that they stay loyal.”

  “You are most kind, General, but I am pleased to do my duty.” It was, I thought, so far possibly the easiest posting I had ever had, but then of course the general had to ruin things.

  “When the Americans attack I will want the Six Nations men at the forefront of our defence. They have proved themselves excellent light troops and I will be counting on men like you and Norton to make sure that they are used to best effect. But be careful, Captain. After the unpleasantness at the River Raisin the Americans are in no mood to give quarter to white men fighting among the Indians. Their General Hull issued a proclamation at the start of the war that no white man fighting at the side of the Indian will be taken prisoner; instant destruction is to be his lot.” It was then that I heard about the massacre of the American wounded at the River Raisin and the potentially fatal consequences for me. Now I was expected to help lead the Indians into attack against the strongest American positions, but to anticipate nothing less than summary execution if I was captured.

  “But they are still taking Indians prisoner, we saw that at Queenston,” I queried.

  “Yes but the Americans think savagery is part of the Indian’s nature, although I dare say they will take fewer prisoners now. On the other hand they believe that a Christian white man should know better than to fight in the Indian way. They might have been forgiving if you had been captured at Queenston, especially as you were an officer, but now their mood has turned ugly. There will be no more firing guns in salute to fallen enemy generals. You will need to be careful you do not fall into their hands when they attack.”

  You are damn right there, I thought. I was going to make sure I was harder to get than a flea on a skunk when the Americans came pouring over the border. But aloud I said, “Oh you can count on me, sir, I pride myself on being in the right place when an enemy attacks.” The general beamed at this and patted me on the back before showing us out. I had meant what I told him, but I suspect that the general and I had very different ideas on where the ‘right place’ was during an enemy attack. In the swamps and forests of Canada, any battle was likely to be a confused affair and I planned to take full advantage to keep as much out of danger as possible. To me the ‘right place’ was in the saddle of a fast, well-fed horse that was safely out of range of the enemy.

  We left York early the next morning with me wearing a less tatty officer’s coat. Its condition fell far short of pristine, however, let down by patched holes and bloodstains on one sleeve and the right shoulder. I had been given two new pairs of breeches as well, but I found the buckskin trousers warmer and more comfortable on the cold spring morning.

  “We will not get many warriors at this time of year,” Norton confided. “They will be too busy collecting maple sap.” I knew he was right as the Indians had a sweet tooth and maple syrup stocks had been running low over the winter. There had been much talk of the coming harvest. I had been amazed to discover that the sweet syrup that was used like honey came not from bees but from trees in the forest. The sap only becomes sweet after the spring thaw begins and then the Indians would cut a notch in the bark and collect the sap with a hollow reed leading into a wooden cup tied to the trunk. The sap would then be gathered and boiled to condense the flavour. If Norton struggled to get the warriors into the fields for planting, he had no such problems getting them into the forest to tap sap from the trees. This was seen as men’s work, possibly because a good amount of the sweet sap never actually made it back to the village.

  When we had left Brant’s Ford it had been just too soon to start making syrup, but by the time we returned production was in full flow. When Norton spoke to the village elders they agreed that few warriors would want to go until the sugar was made and the extra gifts received. Iroquois society was surprisingly complex: the war chiefs like Norton and what I called the civil chiefs, were all men, but they were selected, and deselected on occasion, by a group of hereditary clan leaders, who were all women. All of the leadership were united in the view that Sheaffe was wrong; the ice around the head of the Niagara was too dangerous to allow boats to cross at this time of year. This was the time to sow crops and collect syrup, they said, and only when that was done would they help the white man. They also pointed out that the white militia regiments had not been called up and so the white farmers were busy sowing their crops. Why, they asked, should only the Iroquois be asked to serve, while surely the American militia were in their fields too.

  It made sense to me and Norton agreed to take just a token number of warriors to the river, bringing the rest when they were willing to come. “If the Americans have gathered four thousand men at their naval base,” he told me after the meeting with the leaders, “then they could attack anywhere around Lake Ontario. The southern shore of the lake is only twenty miles from Brant’s Ford. The warriors will not want to stray far from their homes in case they have to defend them. It is probably just as well we are not travelling west.” He paused thinking for a moment and then added, “I liked General Procter and I hope I have not misled him about expecting our warriors. I would really like to get a message to him, but it would need to be from someone he trusts.”

  The Grand River Tract where the Iroquois lived was on a relatively narrow neck of land between Lakes Ontario and Erie. It was not a good place to be trapped, especially if you were likely to be shot on sight. My mind had been turning over how I was to slip away from any fighting between the Iroquois and the Americans and now this seemed a heaven-sent opportunity. Here in the east the Americans would attack sooner or later, and Sheaffe would expect me in the thick of the fighting. But in the west, from what we had heard, the Americans were beaten and demoralised. The British general there seemed to know his business. Going west would give me more room to manoeuvre and, I naively thought, keep me safer too.

  “I could take a message to Procter for you,” I offered. “General Sheaffe expects me to stay here but if you were to cover for me, I am sure I would be back before the Americans attack.” I smiled at him as innocently as I could, but I had no intention of returning until after an attack and then only if the Americans had been beaten back.

  “Would you, Thomas?” Norton beamed with delight. “That would be most helpful. I can give Sheaffe an excuse if he asks for you, perhaps tell him you are ill. Take Black Eagle with you – he can act as a guide and help introduce you to the western tribes helping General Procter.”

  So it was that two days later I was heading west, into what I hoped was a military backwater to ride out the critical stage of the war in peace and comfort. If ever a plan was misguided it was that one. Thinking back I am amazed that I somehow managed to keep my precious hide in one piece over the following months. Instead of a safe berth to see out the campaign I found myself facing a series of disasters, massacres and misfortunes, not least a catastrophic battle that I unwittingly started.

  Mine was not the only calamitous defeat that season. As it turned out Sheaffe was right about an imminent attack, but very wrong about the target. It came the following month but not near Niagara; the Americans launched a surprise attack on York. They drove Sheaffe and his army out of the town, burned all the public buildings and destroyed the half-built General Brock warship. Later that year they did attack Fort George too, but I was up to my neck in problems of my own by then.

  Chapter 8

  The journey west was tougher going than I thought it would be, but it would have been even harder without Morag. Black Eagle had been keen to travel with me when I mentioned our mission, but counselled me to leave my horse behind. “The ground will either be frozen or bog most of the way. We would have to carry fodder and there would be little to feed it on when we arrive.” He explained that the Americans had lo
st so many horses that they were using oxen to transport supplies, as those big beasts could forage in the woods where horses could not. “We will bring Morag to help carry supplies,” he told me.

  So on that first morning of our trip I prepared myself with my buckskin trousers over stout boots. On top of my patched army coat I wore a fur smock and hat to keep me warm. My sword and tomahawk were strapped around my waist; from one shoulder hung a musket and from the other a pouch for ammunition and tobacco with a roll of blanket wrapped in more deerskin. Morag, I was told, would carry everything else. I had imagined Morag to be some kind of hardy pack mule or an ox, so you can imagine my surprise when Black Eagle hove into view down the path from the centre of the village. I don’t know about you, but for me the name Morag conjures up some sour-faced old trot from Perthshire with her mouth pursed in permanent disapproval. Imagine that person aged about twenty, dressed in Indian clothes and staggering under a massive bundle tied to her back, and you will have pictured the scene. I had seen her before, of course – she was the only red-haired woman in the village. With her pale skin and permanent scowl, she clearly had plenty of Celtic blood in her.

  “Good God, man,” I exclaimed. “I thought you were bringing a mule or an ox to carry things, not a woman.”

  “Morag will be easier to feed,” said Black Eagle smiling happily as he bounded ahead of the creature of burden behind him. “And she can cook for us,” he added, clearly pleased with his plan.

  “But look at her.” I pointed to the figure coming towards us, bent forward to balance her load. “She is never going to keep up with all that on her back. We are going to have to share some of it out.”

  “She would be insulted,” objected Black Eagle, appearing puzzled at my concern. “The women are strong; they are used to working in the fields and their backs can carry heavy loads.” He spoke of her as though he was a carter talking of a prized beast and for a moment I thought he might show me her teeth. Before I could respond the lady herself spoke up.

  “If you fools are going to chatter all day then get off the path,” she snarled as she approached. Both Black Eagle and I stepped back to leave her the compacted snow on the trail which was easier to walk on. She stomped silently past and I saw now that among various sacks and bundles tied to her back was a small cast iron cooking pot.

  “See? She is a strong woman,” pointed out Black Eagle with, I thought, a touch of admiration in his tone.

  We marched behind Morag that morning. I thought it was best to let her set the pace and she did not falter once. When we stopped at lunchtime, while Black Eagle and I skirted around the woods in search of game for dinner, she busied herself making a fire. When we came back, empty handed, she had warm water to drink and some kind of maize porridge to eat. She barely spoke a word and the only sign of her irritation was the force with which she splatted the porridge into the wooden bowls. When I asked if she was fit to go further, she gave me a malevolent scowl and silently started to tie her bundles back together.

  We set off again in the afternoon with Black Eagle and me now in front. The big Indian was still keen to find something for the pot. We detoured to a lake to look for ducks, but they flew off long before they were in range. Morag pressed on past without us and it was evening when we caught up with her, having followed her trail through the snow and mud. She had set up camp under a half-fallen tree, which provided some relief from the wind. She had then dragged other branches to make a rudimentary shelter. By the time we got there, a fire was once more heating water. She did not hide her disgust when she saw we had failed once again in our hunting and rummaged in her packs for dried meat and more maize. At sunset we put down our blankets under the branches and prepared for the night. Morag chose to lie between us and we huddled together to share some warmth. Close to, I discovered that Morag stank. God knows what she had smeared on herself, but it smelt like rancid bear grease.

  I was just going to sleep when I felt a hand reach for me under the blankets. It had to be Morag and for a moment I did not respond. I had not been with a woman since Magda, but any frustration I might have felt was outweighed by a number of factors. Morag seemed a permanently angry woman, which was not an attractive trait. There was also the stench; whatever she had daubed herself with was not French perfume. But most importantly, any carnal relations would involve undoing clothes and it was freezing that night. Finally we were bound to wake Black Eagle and I had begun to suspect that the big warrior had a liking for Morag himself. The last thing I needed when we awoke in the morning was for them both to be scowling at me. I reached down under my blanket and grabbed the intruding wrist before firmly evicting it back out into the cold.

  The next morning Black Eagle had his food delivered from a height of three inches, whereas mine was delivered from around three feet with an accompanying growl.

  “Have you upset Morag?” asked Black Eagle chuckling.

  “Perhaps I snored last night,” I replied coolly before catching her eye and adding, “My wife in England often complained about it.” I thought knowing I was married might make her feel less rejected and indeed her expression did mellow for a brief second before Black Eagle spoke up again.

  “Did that young foreign girl you bedded complain about your snoring too?”

  We pressed on for another ten days. My suspicions that Black Eagle had feelings for Morag were confirmed by his enthusiasm in hunting to find meat that would impress her. He must have covered twice the distance I did in his search for prey. He came back with two rabbits and a small turkey over that time to supplement the dried meat and porridge diet. The giddy young fool even carried some of her bundles, although it was hard to gauge from her face if he was making any progress. At the end of the tenth day I decided to give love’s young dream a chance and announced that I would go hunting on my own. I gave them a couple of hours, spent them mostly smoking, and then returned. I could tell instantly that something had happened while I was away by the change in their attitude. Morag was stirring the pot looking almost demure while Black Eagle strolled around in front of her like the lord of the manor.

  “I have taken the woman,” he announced in an overly casual tone that you might use to announce that you had taken a newspaper. I could tell he was pleased with himself, though, and it was probably just as well that he did not see the glowering look of triumph that Morag shot me over his shoulder. I was pretty certain that he’d had very little say in her seduction. That evening we all ate well on some leftover turkey and even my porridge was delivered from a height of just a few inches.

  “I think she will make a good wife,” said Black Eagle as we walked together the next morning. He was holding the iron cook pot while Morag, carrying the rest of her bundles, walked some hundred yards in front of us.

  “If you are sure,” I murmured.

  “Do you not think so?” he pressed. “She is fit and strong and even though she is not a full Indian, she is pretty.”

  “Do you not think she is… well… a bit intimidating?” I countered.

  “What is this ‘intimating’? What does it mean?” When I explained what intimidating meant he roared with laughter at the very idea that a warrior would be frightened or controlled by a woman. He was Black Eagle and he was frightened of no one, he announced. But after a while he lapsed into silence and I could see that I had planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

  God knows what he said to her later, but that night my porridge was delivered from such a height that it missed my bowl entirely to land in the snow!

  Chapter 9

  The journey from Brant’s Ford to Amherstburg was some one hundred and eighty miles and at that time of year it took two weeks. The town was on the north-western shore of Lake Erie, just a short distance from Detroit across the river of the same name. We arrived in the middle of April and the place was a hive of activity. Despite the continuing cold wet weather, there was an air of excitement around the place and one word was on everyone’s lips: Tecumseh.

  I had hear
d the name before and knew he was a chief of the Shawnee tribe. The Iroquois had barely mentioned him, but I swiftly discovered that among the western tribes he seemed to be treated as some kind of living god. However, what really astonished me was that the whites seemed in awe of him too. When we arrived in the town Black Eagle had sought out some Indian friends, while I decided to spend time with my own kind in one of the taverns. There was an air of celebration about the place as news had just come in about Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. It seemed at last as though the war in Europe was turning against the French and that meant that more men and resources might find their way to Canada.

  “But they will probably arrive too late,” I was told by one grizzled old Canadian militia man. “Tecumseh is coming and most of the American army has gone home.”

  “What do you mean gone home?” I asked.

  “The Americans had four thousand men building a stronghold called Fort Meigs, which was to launch their invasion of Canada. But nearly all of the men were militia and once their term of enlistment ended they all went home and left the place abandoned. Their General Harrison is searching for more men but he won’t get many, not in spring time.”

  “Why not?” I pressed.

  The man looked at me in bewilderment for a moment and then laughed. “You surely are not a farmer, are you, son. It will soon be time to sow our crops. That is why we are pleased Tecumseh is coming. That wily old Indian will wrap things up double quick so that we can get back to our land.”

  “He is a good fighter, then?”

  “Hell yes, why when the Americans invaded last year he cut their supply line with just fifty men and kept it cut against hundreds of men sent to clear the route. Captured all the mail too so that we could see just how a-feared their general was about being overrun by Indians.” The old man chuckled. “When we came up on Detroit, Tecumseh had his men pass at least three times through a gap in the trees to convince the Yankees that he had nearly two thousand Indians instead of just over five hundred. The American general soon surrendered after that.