“Oh Jesus,” one of the men gasped and I realised that other Indians must be pursuing them through the trees. They half fell into the clearing. One was young, perhaps only twenty, and he had stumbled on a root as he had pushed through the last bush. The older one, in his forties, was reaching across to help him stay on his feet when I called out.
“Keep still!” I shouted. The older man’s head whirled round to look at us, while the boy wailed in despair and slumped to the ground. “Drop your weapons, you are our prisoners.”
The older man let the musket fall from his fingers, but his chin came up and he glared at me defiantly. “Kill me if you must,” he growled, “but spare the boy… No, get off me.” His speech was interrupted by Black Eagle, who had run forward with piece of cord. He pushed the older militia man to the ground and with a knee in the man’s back was roughly tying his hands together. Then as he sprang across to the boy with the other end of the rope, two more Indians burst out of the bushes. The two warriors looked down at the scene before them and shouted angrily at Black Eagle. Having roughly tied the boy’s hands he stood and shouted back to them in Iroquoian. Whatever he said did not find favour with the warriors and one of them hefted a vicious balled club with an iron spike through the business end. They had not noticed me and looked up in surprise when I cocked my musket and pointed it at the man holding the club. I stepped into the clearing still pointing the gun at the new arrivals.
“What is happening?” I asked Black Eagle
“They are angry we have claimed the prisoners that they were chasing,” the warrior said calmly while reaching down for his own gun. There was a sudden burst of new war cries and whooping to my right some distance off through the trees. I quickly glanced across but could not see anything. Black Eagle spoke once again to the other Indians in their language, pointing where this sound was coming from. After a sour glance at me, without another word, they both turned and ran off in that direction “They are going to try to capture some prisoners of their own,” the big warrior explained.
I looked down on our captives. The older man had been pulled round onto his back as Black Eagle had hauled on his cord to tie up the younger one. “What are you going to do to us?” The older man asked hesitantly, as though he was not sure he wanted to know the answer to his question.
“We are taking you prisoner,” I told him. “We are not killing and scalping either of you. So if you have any sense you will not try to run off – there are many in this wood who would not be as generous.” The man sagged in relief and shut his eyes, I guessed in a silent prayer. I turned to Black Eagle, “You were a bit quick tying them up.”
“This is a matunip line,” he explained holding up one end of the chord, which I now saw was decorated with tassels on its end and markings along its length. “It marks ownership of the prisoners. If they were untied, the other warriors could have claimed them.”
“Well tie them up properly and let’s get out of here,” I muttered softly as a hideous shriek to our right indicated that another militia man had not been as fortunate in his captivity.
A minute later and both men were retied. They were connected together by the cord but this time their hands were tied in front of them. There was enough of the thin rope for them to walk easily side by side and having picked up their weapons we gestured for them to start back to the clearing. They went quietly enough, although I heard the older man murmur some encouragement to the younger fellow, who looked terrified. His nerves could not have been eased over the next few minutes as we found four militia corpses as we made our way through the forest. All had been scalped and one had been smashed beyond recognition with a club. Even though they had been trying to kill me, indeed their pursuit of me into the trees might have been their downfall, I could not help but feel sorry for them. The Indians moved like murderous phantoms through the trees and I guessed that most of these men barely got a glimpse of their attacker before they were killed.
We found my coat still on its tree stump where we had left it. When I lifted it up there must have been twenty bullet holes in it and the back had been slashed by a knife.
“They have some vicious moths in these trees,” I muttered putting the tattered remains of the scarlet cloth back on the tree.
“You’re that Indian officer,” gasped the younger militia man as realisation finally dawned.
The older man hawked and spat to show his disgust. “I bet you must be right proud of how your men are fightin’,” he snarled.
“I am a British officer,” I told him. “I am with my Iroquoian friend here but I have no control over the tribes.” My announcement was interrupted by another piercing shriek from further in the woods, causing the younger man to shudder in horror. “Right now,” I admitted, “I doubt anyone can control them.”
“We heard Tecumseh was with them,” said the older man truculently.
“Not with these men,” I gestured into the woods. “Tecumseh was camping on the other side of the river.”
There was one more horror before we got back onto the open ground of the plateau. It was as we were walking out of the woods that we heard it, a hoarse voice calling for water. When I looked, I could see the legs of the man speaking protruding from under some ferns. The limbs were trembling and I guessed that the man was badly wounded. The two militia men stepped forward to see if it was someone they knew. The older man pulled back a branch and a second later the younger one was on his knees retching up his breakfast. With a sense of trepidation I looked over the militia man’s shoulder. The poor devil on the ground was covered in blood. He had been shot in the stomach, had what looked like a tomahawk wound above his right ear and had then been scalped… but he was still alive.
“It is all right, friend, we are here for you,” soothed the older militia man getting down on his knees beside his wounded comrade.
The injured man turned his face to the voice, it was a mask of blood. “I can’t see you,” he croaked. “I am hurt right bad.” As he spoke Black Eagle knelt down behind the man and pulled out his knife. He looked at the older militia man and cocked his head enquiringly.
The older militia man nodded his head and then with his voice breaking slightly spoke again to the man lying in front of him. “The pain will stop in a minute, friend.” With that Black Eagle leaned forward and with a swift cut severed the blood vessel in the man’s neck. There was not as much blood as I expected – much of it must have seeped out already. But the trembling in the wounded man’s legs slowly stopped and then, with a deep sigh, he died.
I guess I have seen more death than most, but in the heat of battle you are too busy trying to save your own skin to worry about the recently departed. This was different; at that brief moment there seemed to be an eerie stillness in the forest and we all stared at the man for a moment. Whatever your race, creed or politics, the sight of life leaving another human being in such circumstances is always a sobering affair. It is especially the case when you know that you could have been in the dead man’s shoes just a few minutes before. We paused to let the older militia man mutter a short prayer and then I led my little party back across the open plateau.
Chapter 12
Our side of the river was now firmly back under our control. The far side of the plateau was swarming with British regular troops and our militia. Many of them were guarding prisoners who they had taken when they recaptured our guns. The noise of battle across the river had now also diminished with just a sporadic crackle of fire. With nothing better to do we walked back to where we had started the battle, by the guns. I even wondered if my unfinished breakfast was where I had left it; now the danger was past I was feeling decidedly hungry.
“By Christ, I was not expecting to see you two again.”
“It is good to see you too, Sergeant,” I replied to the grinning artilleryman as he stepped out from behind the furnace with a steaming pewter mug in his hand.
“We were captured for all of five minutes,” the man grinned. “Most of them had gon
e charging off after you and those Indians. There were hardly any left here when our boys came on up over the lip of the hill. Would you like a cup of tea, sir? Here have this one.”
I took the cup gratefully and eased myself down on my old log seat. Black Eagle sat beside me while the prisoners slumped down at our feet. The sergeant disappeared again but was back a moment later with more cups of tea for Black Eagle and the prisoners.
“There,” he announced to the prisoners, “that should make things better,” as though tea was the cure for all misadventures.
“Why did so many follow us into the trees?” I asked the sergeant.
“You would be better off asking ’im, sir,” replied the sergeant gesturing to the prisoner at my feet. But the militia man showed no sign of wanting to answer the question and so the sergeant continued. “All I know is that the man who seemed to be in command was yelling for them to come back, but when the Indians came over the hill he was forced to go in after them to avoid being separated from most of his men.”
“We were supposed to spike the guns and then cross over to the fort,” said the older militia man dully. “It was some of our men that were massacred at the Raisin; our boys saw you and the other Indians and thought they could get you.”
“Spike our guns!” exclaimed the sergeant. He turned to me “Do you know, sir, they tried to do it with ramrods rather than proper spikes.” He shook his head in dismay, clearly offended by this lack of professionalism in the act of sabotage. “It won’t take us a moment to get those out.” Perfectly on cue to prove his point, the first British cannon fired to send a ball across the river.
“What has happened over there?” I asked gesturing to where the shot must have landed.
“Oh they captured the guns over there too but if they have not spiked them properly, it will not be a problem. The Indians and our boys were swarming all around them and they were forced to retreat under heavy fire back into their fort before they could be surrounded.” He paused, shaking his head again. “I reckon they got at least seven hundred men as reinforcements, caught us out good and proper they did.” He looked apologetically at Black Eagle before adding, “I thought them Indians were supposed to be scouting for us, but there was no warning at all. “ He laughed. “Mind you, they are as keen as mustard to get some scalps; dozens of them swam across the river to get to the action on this side, but I reckon most arrived too late.”
We sat sipping our tea in a companionable silence for a while. With the possible exception of Black Eagle, we were probably all reflecting on the fact that we had received some form of lucky escape. The moment of calm contemplation was suddenly shattered by a new voice yelling in outrage.
“Sergeant, what in God’s name do you think you are doing? We do not serve tea to bloody savages or Americans. This is an artillery battery not one of those liberal coffee shops!”
The sergeant sprang to his feet to address a red-faced artillery lieutenant, who seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy at the sight in front of him. The sergeant pointed at me. “But this one is an officer, sir!”
“Indian officer!” shouted the lieutenant as a vein bulged on his temple. “He will be some jumped up half-breed translator getting above himself.” The lieutenant turned to me. “You might be some war chief to your own people, but that does not make you an officer to His Majesty’s Royal Artillery. Now get out of here and take your wretched prisoners with you.”
I smiled and got to my feet, I was going to enjoy bringing this cove down a peg or two. I saw him notice the gold-hilted sword at my hip as I stood and for the first time a flicker of doubt crossed his features. “Captain Thomas Flashman,” I said languidly in my best British upper class drawl. “In fact Captain Sir Thomas Flashman,” I clarified throwing in my Spanish title. “Formerly of the Buff’s Regiment serving in Spain but now attached by General Sheaffe to the Iroquois.”
“I do apologise, sir—” started the lieutenant.
I cut him off. “Tell me, do lieutenants in His Majesty’s Royal Artillery normally insult senior officers? What was it now,” I paused as though trying to remember. “Ah yes, a ‘jumped up half-breed translator getting above himself’.”
“Please forgive me, sir,” pleaded the lieutenant jumping smartly to attention and saluting. “I had no idea who you were, my sincerest apologies.”
“And you are?” I enquired coldly.
“Lieutenant Davis, sir,” he replied abjectly. “And once again I do apologise.” He paused and then added with feeling, “It has been a rather trying morning.”
He looked so miserable I could not help myself smiling, “You can say that again,” I said. “But at least now it looks like we will take the fort.”
“Yes sir, they will not want to venture out in the open again.” Davis seemed very eager to agree with me. “Now they have extra mouths to feed and were probably already short of supplies. We will have to starve them out as our guns are never going to take down those mud banks.”
“Well carry on, then,” I ordered dismissing him. The man saluted, turned, took several steps, then he hesitated a moment before returning and saluting again.
“My compliments, sir, but I thought you should know that General Procter has ordered that all prisoners be taken to that old fort near our camp.” He paused, looking nervously at Black Eagle. “It still has some low ramparts, sir, and he wants to protect the prisoners from any further���unpleasantness with the Indian soldiers, sir.” With that he saluted once more and turned swiftly on his heel.
I was not surprised at the news. Procter would have been reprimanded for allowing the massacre at the Raisin and he clearly did not want such atrocities repeated. I looked across the plateau towards the trees to see a steady stream of Indians emerging. To my surprise they had a large number of prisoners with them. They certainly seemed to have captured more than they had killed. Another group of prisoners, captured around the guns, was already making its way to the old fort, guarded by some regular soldiers. The old fort was below the plateau by the river. It was called Fort Miami and while its broken down walls were now barely five feet high, it could be used to gather prisoners and show that they were under British protection. My thoughts were interrupted by the younger militia man at my feet.
“Are you really an English Lord?” he asked.
“No,” I grinned. “I was made a knight of an old Spanish town called Alcantara after a battle there. Now, if you have finished your tea, we had better get you to the safety of the old fort.”
We set off with the militia men walking in front while Black Eagle and I ambled along behind them. There seemed no rush now; the artillery behind us crashed out occasionally and the guns in Fort Meigs gave some reply, but the effort from both sides seemed half-hearted as they recovered from the activities of earlier in the day.
“There may be trouble at Fort Miami,” Black Eagle warned me as we started to walk down the edge of the escarpment towards the camp. “The Indians here will view prisoners as the property of the man who has captured them. They do not trust the white man’s system of parole and many think it is better to kill prisoners during a war so that you are sure that they will not fight you again.”
It was a grim warning and one that seemed borne out by our first view of Fort Miami. The party of British regulars in front of us were trying to drive their prisoners through the gate of the fort but Indians stood on either side of the entrance and were hitting prisoners with sticks, ramrods and rifle butts as they went past. Some reached forward to steal possessions from the prisoners and when one objected an Indian reached forward with a pistol and simply shot the man dead. I looked around expecting the soldiers to react to this act of murder, but those nearby edged back nervously. There were only fifty soldiers and they were surrounded by some five hundred Indians, many in an ugly mood as their prisoners were taken off them and sent into the fort. Procter might have wanted to avoid another massacre but he had not sent nearly enough men to avoid one. The few soldiers that were there
looked harassed and apprehensive as they were jostled and often threatened in languages they did not understand. The atmosphere was like a powder keg and it would only take a spark to set if off.
Another prisoner was shot dead running the gauntlet into the fort. It seemed to me that the Indians were trying to provoke either the prisoners or the guards into reacting so that they had an excuse to attack the unarmed men in the stockade.
“What do they hope to achieve by beating and shooting at the prisoners?” I asked Black Eagle.
“It is the old way,” he replied. “When prisoners were taken they would be beaten so that people could choose who was brave and worthy of joining the tribe.” We watched as two warriors pulled the corpses of the dead from the line and scalped them in full view of the other militia prisoners. Several British soldiers had tried to get between the Indians and the prisoners to protect them, but they were being jostled and pushed about as the Indians jeered at their compassion.
“Let us take our captives around the back,” suggested Black Eagle. “We can push them over the walls.” In the time it took us to get to the back of the fort there were at least three more gunshots from where the prisoners were being forced to run the gauntlet to enter the ruined structure. The ramparts were barely three feet tall at the back and various warriors were leaning over them and threatening the prisoners. We pushed through and made a gap. Both our militia men were pale with fear and I did not blame them. But I judged that they were marginally safer within the walls than outside. Black Eagle untied them and then when he thought no one was watching, he reached into his belt and passed the older militia man a knife that he must have confiscated from him earlier. Not a word was said, but a glance was exchanged between the two men, which must have spoken volumes. Then the two militia swung their legs over the wall. It was at that moment that somebody struck the spark.
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