Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

I gazed about aghast at how I was being embroiled in this suicidal scheme. The left flank was opposite the track that led to Moraviantown, which was the only way I was likely to leave this field alive. “The left flank—” I started to suggest before Procter interrupted.

  “No, the right flank I think. I need a good man there and it is close to the Indian position. You will be able to liaise with our allies.” He laughed. “Warburton tells me that you were out fighting with the Indians last night and that he found you washing the blood off your tomahawk. He thinks you are more a warrior than a soldier.” He held out his hand. “Whatever you are, Captain, you are an example to us all. You are a good man and a brave one. It takes courage to call a superior officer to his duty and you have earned my everlasting gratitude.”

  I automatically took his hand and gave a wan smile while inside my mind was screaming, ‘You bloody fool; you should never have listened to me. I was only playing a part and now we are all going to die.’

  I rode across the battlefield – an imminent field of slaughter seemed a more likely description – feeling like a drowning man being dragged into the depths. Every step took me further away from the road to Moraviantown, which was the only slender chance of escape. It seemed certain now that the Americans would capture us all. Some fool would blurt out my name and then I would spend my final conscious seconds dancing the Tyburn jig, dangling from a hangman’s rope. Desperate to find some cause for hope I called out to the gun crew as I passed them still tying their cannon to their improvised gun carriage.

  “Do you have canister or round shot?”

  “We have neither, sir,” called out an artilleryman, still bent over the gun. “No ammunition at all.”

  “Then what the deuce are you doing setting up the gun?” I exclaimed.

  Wearily the man dropped the rope he had been trying to tie and turned to face me. I saw to my surprise it was the artillery sergeant I had sat with at Fort Meigs. As we recognised each other a grin spread across his face. “You again, sir? There is always trouble when you are about. This day I think will be no different.”

  “I wish I could say it is good to see you, Sergeant,” I called, “but I suspect that we would both rather be somewhere else, anywhere else in fact. So tell me, why are you wasting your time with that gun if you have no ammunition?”

  “The general thought the sight of it might intimidate the enemy, sir.” The sergeant shook his head in weary disbelief before brightening slightly. “We do have some powder and Aldridge here is trying to carve us a cannon ball out of wood.” He gestured to a soldier attempting to carve a lump of tree trunk with a knife.

  “A wooden cannonball?” I repeated wondering if this situation could possibly get any worse.

  “Well it will probably splinter in the barrel, sir,” declared the sergeant, “so I would not raise your hopes.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said the soldier called Aldridge. “If this doesn’t work we have another plan. We will pretend to load the gun and then we will all shout ‘Bang!’ at the same time.” Several of his mates guffawed with laughter as he added, “That should scare the shit out of them.”

  “Bill!” shouted the sergeant to Aldridge. “You know better than to talk like that in front of an officer.”

  “Oh it is all right, Sergeant,” I replied. “I think I can honestly say that his idea was the best one I have heard so far today.”

  When I reached them, the morale of the men I was supposed to be commanding on the right flank was no better than that of the gunners. The sergeant morosely informed me that most of his men had no more than three rounds of ammunition each. “But don’t worry, sir,” he added gloomily, “their cavalry will be in among us long before we run out.”

  I looked at the ground in front of us which was interspersed with a score of trees between our line and the edge of the forest. As their officer I thought I had to think of something positive to say, to encourage them to make a stand. Not least, because I did not want them getting in my way when I tried to get back to the road. “Surely,” I suggested, “those trees will break up any cavalry charge and cause some confusion. They may even get that cannon to fire,” I offered, snatching at straws of hope.

  The sergeant just laughed. “You’re that officer who was fighting in Spain, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply he continued. “Those Kentucky horsemen don’t ride knee to knee in neat lines like the French. They will swarm around those trees like rats with their tails on fire and just as vicious.”

  Well that was just the uplifting news I needed. I stopped trying to cheer the men up before I got too depressed myself. Instead I studied the ground between where I stood and the road and tried to imagine how long it would take to cross it. My contemplation was interrupted by a murmur of interest among my new command. When I turned round I saw two men emerging from the trees to our right. The tall slim warrior in the patterned shirt and deerskin leggings was unmistakably Tecumseh even without the white ostrich feather he wore in his headband. Beside him was the familiar figure of Elliot. As the pair slowly approached I saw the chief’s eyes gazing around the British position. There was almost an air of pity on his face; he must have been bemused by Procter’s insistence to fight out in the open rather than behind cover like the Indians.

  “Flash-man,” called Tecumseh, holding out his hand in greeting. Then he said something in his native tongue to Elliot.

  “He says he is pleased to see you.” Elliot paused before adding, “And so am I. I am sorry I was short with you before. You were just quicker than me to accept that our friend here’s dreams are over.”

  “Think nothing of it. You have not seen that big warrior I have travelled with, have you?” I had assumed that Black Eagle would fight with the Indians, but I had not seen him since the previous day.

  “Yes he is back there in the trees,” confirmed Elliot gesturing behind him. He lowered his voice. “Tell me, do you think this line will stand?”

  “Not a chance,” I whispered in reply. “Tell Black Eagle for me that I will ride down the road to Moraviantown if I get the chance and meet him there.” Elliot nodded and then we both turned as one of the soldiers asked Tecumseh the question on everybody’s mind.

  “We are going to die here, sir, aren’t we?” It was a young soldier who spoke, little more than twenty. Tecumseh had been riding down the line of men, as though inspecting them, but making sure that he looked each man in the eye. As the young man spoke to him he looked across at Elliot for a translation. When he heard the question Tecumseh slipped easily down from his horse and gripped the young man by the shoulder, staring into his face as he spoke his reply.

  Elliot rode around to stand beside him. “Tecumseh says that the Great Spirit will decide who lives and who dies. But he thinks it is better to die bravely as a warrior on a day that history-keepers in your tribe and his will remember for generations to come than to die old and forgotten in some winter lodge. He tells you to trust in the Great Spirit to decide what is best for you.”

  Tecumseh got back on his horse as the lad who had spoken gazed in a kind of awe at this famous warrior leader. Given how many times he had been disappointed and with his vision now in tatters, I was surprised that he had any faith left at all in a Great Spirit. Well the young soldier might have been impressed with the speech, but I wasn’t. Dying an old man peacefully at home in a bed, sounded infinitely preferable to being brutally killed on some godforsaken bog at the arse end of the world. He could trust to the Great Spirit if he wanted, but I was putting my faith into my sword, the militia pistol and most especially, my fast horse.

  The chief continued his progression down the entire British line, looking every man in the eye, shaking hands with every officer and even sharing a few words with Procter when he reached him. It was as though we were fighting for Tecumseh rather than futilely wasting our lives in a pointless gesture. Having examined his ally’s position Tecumseh and Elliot rode back to the forest-covered swamp on our right where the Indian force was h
idden.

  The last of the British stragglers had by now joined the two wavering lines of men dressed in red on either side of the useless cannon. Several claimed to have seen American scouts peering out from the trees at the far side of the clearing. Certainly the Americans must have realised that we were finally waiting for them and I imagined Harrison pulling his various units into some kind of order before he launched the attack. There was nothing to do but sit on my horse behind the line of my men and wait for the inevitable.

  Chapter 25

  It was without doubt one of the shortest battles I have ever been in. It was also the most shameful performance of British soldiers under arms that I have ever witnessed, not that I am in any position to criticise. A chorus of bugles signified the engagement was about to start. For a moment nothing happened and then I heard the distant drumming of hooves. The American cavalry burst out of the trees on the far side of the clearing in a single mass. By Christ there seemed no end to them as they poured out of the forest, hundreds and hundreds of the devils.

  Many of my men turned to look at me over their shoulders, their eyes white with fear. Normally a man who looks to me for leadership in time of battle is destined to be disappointed, but I did not want my own escape obstructed. I drew my sword and called out in a loud voice, “Stand, men, stand. Take aim and wait for the command.” Then I glanced over to my left. The line held for now; muskets were being levelled. For the thousandth time I gauged the distance to the road – some three hundred yards but on horseback I would cover that quicker than most of the infantry. I would order one volley and then I would be gone. Those damned Yankees were not getting a noose around my neck. I turned back and out of the corner of my eye saw that the gun crew were already abandoning their useless weapon. Closest to the charging horsemen, they were the first to break but now one or two shots were fired in panic along the line.

  “Stand still!” roared the sergeant at one soldier who looked about to run. By Satan’s beard the horsemen were getting close. Then they let out some unintelligible roar of a challenge and I saw more men look round at me, little less than terror in their eyes. It is now or never, I thought. If they do not fire now, they will run anyway.

  I raised my sword and brought it sweeping down. “Fire!” I shouted and a fusillade of shots rang out. I did not bother waiting to see their effect for I was already wheeling my horse to the left … and discovering I had left it a second too late. The company to the left of mine was already breaking and streaming across my path. Looking over their heads, it was as though Procter and the mounted officers about him were re-enacting the start of the derby. Every one of them was racing their horse to the track leading away from the battleground and behind them hundreds of men were running in their wake. I tried spurring my horse after them but it was useless, the throng was far too intent on its own survival to get out of my way. One wretch even tried to pull me from the saddle to take my horse and I had to beat him down with the flat of my blade.

  There was another fusillade of shots and when I looked up I saw that the American cavalry were barely a hundred yards off, now firing over their horses’ heads into the throng. A man near me went down clutching his face, with blood streaming through his fingers. It was hopeless. I would never get to the road and in any event that was where the American riders were now concentrating their charge. They wanted to kill or take as many prisoners as possible. I yanked again on the reins; there was only one possible escape now: into the forest with the Indians.

  Two more shots from passing horsemen whistled past and I dropped low, my head down by my horse’s neck. My heels raked back and the mount sprang forward. I glanced over my shoulder; most of the American troopers were ploughing into the fleeing throng but one had seen me and was wheeling his horse in my direction. There was just a fifty yards to the edge of the trees. One bewildered British soldier got in the way but just managed to throw himself clear as my mount thundered past. Another shot rang out close by. I looked behind again; the trooper was on my tail. He was putting his carbine into the holster and as I turned to watch the ground ahead I knew he would be drawing his sabre next. Well he had to catch me first, but now there was splashing under my horse’s hooves as we began to enter the swamp area. The horse was slowing; it could not gallop through thick mud. I heard a cry of triumph from the man behind but then there was the sound of another shot. Peering back I saw that he had pulled a pistol rather than a sword and I thanked my lucky stars he was a poor shot, missing both horse and rider. But as my horse struggled forward a few more paces, I saw over my pursuer’s shoulder that two more of the troopers were heading my way.

  My screw was sinking past its fetlocks in the mud now and was struggling to make any progress at all. With three of the bastards on my tail I dropped from the saddle and into the thick ooze. I managed to run forward three paces, trying to move before my boots sunk into the mud but then I heard hooves to my right. The first pursuer had found a ridge of firmer ground and was rounding on me to cut me off, his two comrades fast approaching to cut off any escape.

  “Yield, you devil,” he shouted. This time he did have his sabre in his hand and he hauled it up above his head for a killing stroke.

  If there was anything better than a hangman’s noose awaiting me, I would have yielded then, but the fear of death kept me going. I twisted away, getting my own blade up just in time to block his blow. As the trooper wheeled his horse around for a clearer swing, I remembered something I had learned years ago from an old East India Company cavalryman. With all my remaining strength I swung my left hand to punch the animal on the nose. The horse, not surprisingly, reared up at this rough treatment and with a yell of alarm its rider was pitched out of the saddle.

  For the briefest of seconds I thought I would get away. I pulled my boot out of the mud and tried to take another step forward. But then I heard a yell of rage behind and a bullet smacked into the muddy hole my foot had just vacated. I turned and there were the two other riders, sensibly staying clear of the mud. The first had rushed his shot but the second was taking his time while his comrade reloaded. The man aiming grinned as he squinted down the barrel; the muzzle looked like a black eye of death as it pointed directly at me. I swear I could see the light glint on the rifling grooves inside the muzzle. From that distance the man could not miss. I tore my other boot out of the mud but the first was already sinking again. I would never get away this time, I was done for. I shut my eyes my body tensed for the impact of the ball in my flesh. There was the sound of the shot, but remarkably no pain. Half in disbelief, I opened my eyes to look back at the trooper who had been aiming at me. I was just in time to see him topple lifeless from the saddle. Then I heard a voice ahead of me

  “Flash-man.”

  I turned and there was Tecumseh at the edge of the trees, a rifle in his hand with a trail of gun smoke to show that it had just been fired. A handful of other warriors were also appearing and the two surviving troopers were quick to make their escape as two more shots rang out.

  “Flash-man,” repeated Tecumseh, “come.” He pointed into the trees and I did not need telling twice. As I struggled forward through the mud he pointed to a cluster of blue flowers growing to my right. “There,” he shouted. It seemed a strange time for a botanical observation, but then I realised that the ground was dryer under those flowers. The trooper who had overhauled me must have seen them and known that. I hauled my feet out of the mire until I stood on the little blue blooms, panting with the exertion of the last few moments. I turned back. The two surviving troopers who had chased me were now both mounted and racing back to their fellows. In the distance I could see redcoats being herded like sheep and almost queuing to surrender.

  The troopers must have been yelling that the woods beyond the swamp were packed with Indians as I saw several heads turn and look our way. But if they were in any doubt, Tecumseh now issued a challenge of his own. He was still standing in plain view in front of the trees, his white ostrich feather marking him out as a
chief. He raised his rifle in one hand above his head and lifting his chin he gave a long ululating war cry. Within a moment this was taken up by every Indian in the forest. It sounded as though there were thousands of the painted warriors in those trees, which of course was the point.

  The American cavalry commander must have known who it was with the white feather and he did not hesitate. I saw him wave his sword and give the order to charge, spurring his horse towards us. Only around twenty of his nearest men came with him. The rest were still in a disordered group, trying to disentangle themselves from hapless British prisoners. I reached Tecumseh and he slapped me on the shoulder and turned to re-join his men. As we entered the trees he was laughing and shouting something to his warriors, while he seemed to be miming me punching the horse. Whatever he said his warriors guffawed, apparently unconcerned at the horsemen charging towards us. I looked over my shoulder at the approaching Americans. The twenty men were still out in front, but now a much larger body of men was charging along behind.

  I’ll say this for that cavalry commander; he was a brave man as his small advance party acted like a mounted ‘forlorn hope’ as they approached the wood. As I pushed on through the trees desperate to get as far from the coming carnage as possible, I saw hundreds of muskets levelled at their approach. There was a rippling crash of musket fire and when I looked again virtually all of the twenty men were down and horses were thrashing wounded in the wet mud. But now at least half of the nearby Indians were unloaded and the smoke gave away their positions. The much larger group of horsemen hurtled on and more than a few seemed to be heading for the dryer ground marked by the blue flowers. The Americans crashed through the outer trees of the swamp and the Indians gave way, falling back. More guns fired and musket smoke marked the edge of the swamp as Indians either screamed in agony or victory, as they were either hit or took down an enemy. I heard orders to dismount and saw the first of the Americans emerging from the smoke behind me and firing through the trees.