Flashman and Madison's War

by Robert Brightwell

  “Have you seen my husband?” asked Magda.

  Black Eagle glanced again at Morag before replying. “I have, lady. I found his body along the track. He had fallen off his horse and his head must have hit a rock.”

  “Is he…?” started Magda.

  “Dead?” finished Black Eagle. “Yes, lady, I am afraid he is.” The big warrior was trying to look solemn but I was sure he was lying. I sniffed – there was a strange smell that had entered the cabin with him.

  “We must take him to the chapel,” whispered Magda. “The congregation will want to prepare his body and bury their preacher there.”

  Black Eagle hesitated a second before replying. “I have already done it. The people are preparing the body now.” I knew he was lying then. He was scornful of Christians; he would never have taken the preacher to their chapel. He probably wanted to thrash the man almost as much as I did.

  Magda put her hand to her mouth and started to tremble as the implications of what had happened began to sink in.

  “Come, girl,” ordered Morag, picking up her bottle of poppy juice. “It is time you rested again. Come back to bed and drink some of this.” Morag started to lead Magda away. The new widow looked over her shoulder to see if I was following, but I just smiled encouragingly at her and stayed where I was. I wanted to hear what had really happened to Johannes.

  As soon as Morag closed the door behind them I whispered at Black Eagle, “Quick tell me, is he really dead? How did he die?”

  He just grinned, held a finger to his lips and gestured at the door. “Patience, Little Father, we must wait for Morag so that I only tell the tale once.”

  I was beside myself with curiosity, but the big warrior would say nothing more. We heard Morag talking soothingly to Magda and I paced up and down the room with Black Eagle chuckling at me until we heard low regular snores from the bedroom. The door opened quietly and Morag came out. “All right, now tell us everything,” I demanded.

  “I took the horse and rode out on the track to the village to catch him on his return,” Black Eagle told us. “On the way I picked up the whip that he had used on his wife; I knew you would not want him to die too quickly. I caught him easily, he was an old man, and I tied him to a tree. I told him that he was going to be whipped for what he did to his wife, but he kept shouting that he was a man of the Christian God and that I could not do that. He was wrong. I had given him about twenty lashes when he slumped down with some sort of seizure. He would not come round even after I slapped him and when I checked his heart I found he was already dead.

  “Did you cut off his balls as I asked?” Morag enquired.

  “There was not time before he died,” replied Black Eagle and I realised that the two of them must have planned this while I was sitting with Magda.

  “What about his body?” I asked. “Where is it really and what is that awful smell?”

  “I buried him in the dung heap,” said Black Eagle, answering both questions at once. “It seemed the best place for him and it was soft to dig while the ground is cold and hard.” He looked at the plates on the table. “Now where is my dinner?” As Morag went to the pot over the fire Black Eagle passed me a small deerskin-wrapped bundle. “You can have that if you want,” he whispered. I opened it up and felt a mixture of revulsion and delight. There on my lap was a patch of skin covered in grey and strangely fuzzy hair: it was Johannes’ scalp.

  “Put that away,” scolded Morag when she saw it. “Listen to me carefully, both of you.” She glared at us sternly. “That girl will question the story when the poppy juice has worn off, but she must never know what really happened, do you understand?” We both nodded sheepishly. Morag looked at me. “You Christians like to suffer for your faith – you worship a man tortured to death and this girl thinks she is a good Christian. I know you have feelings for her and so you had better heed what I am telling you. If she ever finds out what really happened here tonight, then she will never forgive you, but more importantly she will never forgive herself.”

  I realised that Morag was right, she usually was. That evening I went outside and with the handle of a rake I pushed the scalp deep into the dung heap with the rest of its owner.

  Chapter 27

  Magda must have wondered about Black Eagle’s story as she lay in bed the next morning, but the lie we told was what she wanted to believe. While we all stuck to our story she did not have to face an unwelcome truth. She got up and pointedly did not mention Johannes at all. In fact in all the time I knew her, she did not speak of him ever again.

  The farm was hers now, but she did not want it. She prepared to leave with us, taking just a handful of possessions and clothes. Then just before we departed, she asked us to burn the farm house. She did not explain but we all understood that it marked the end to an unhappy time of her life. Black Eagle found some lamp oil and splashed that around the little cabin. Then Magda stepped forward with a burning torch in her hand and tossed it through the door. The fire took hold quickly and a plume of smoke was soon rising high into the air. We watched for a while and then turned and headed east towards the Indian village.

  It was strange being back in Brant’s Ford again and it gave me very mixed feelings. On the one hand it was good to be welcomed by old friends such as Norton, Smoke Johnson and others I had spent the previous winter with, but on the other it reminded me that I was no closer to getting home to Britain. The war still raged on in Canada and in Europe, so no fit British soldiers would be allowed to leave North America. Even if I wanted to risk deserting under some disguise, the first snows of the winter had already begun to fall as we arrived in the little settlement. The only major seaport that would be open was Halifax, and that was eight hundred miles away.

  There was a different mood about the village now as well. When I had first come to Brant’s Ford I had arrived with a group of triumphant warriors and British arms were at the peak of their success. Now there had been a string of defeats and humiliations. Many of the Grand River people had recently abandoned their homes and moved nearer the main British garrison at Burlington for protection. They knew of the Moraviantown defeat and were worried that Harrison would bring his army to attack them. We could, at least, reassure those that were left on that score, as we had seen Harrison start his withdrawal back to Amherstburg.

  Norton told me that Iroquois loyalty for the British could no longer be guaranteed. “The Americans have recruited the Iroquois in New York State to fight for them. We have already skirmished with them several times and I suspect that the Americans have sent some of their Iroquois to persuade the Grand River people to stop fighting or to change sides and turn on the British.”

  “What do you mean, ‘you suspect’?” I queried. “Don’t you know? You are still one of the war chiefs, aren’t you?”

  “Oh now I am seen as too close to the British to be trusted by many, but I still have a war band of loyal warriors.” Norton then introduced me to a young girl called Catherine, who had been busy cleaning his cabin. I thought he had hired her as a domestic but it turned out he had married her. She was not more than fifteen years old while Norton was well into his forties. This may have explained why Norton’s ardour for the war seemed to have cooled over the previous few months. He told me of the American invasion of the eastern end of the Niagara peninsula and how the Iroquois had been used as light troops to keep it contained. It had been a long and bloody business with massacres on both sides. A British fleet still contested Lake Ontario with a larger American flotilla and supplies had become scarce. With fewer gifts, some warriors had resorted to raids on white farms and relations between the two communities were becoming strained. When I told him of what had happened to Magda, he suggested that the burning of the farm and disappearance of the occupants would probably be attributed to an Iroquois raid as the farm was close to the Grand River.

  Magda and I were given an empty lodge in the village to make our home during the winter and gradually many of the other villagers drifted back when
word spread that Harrison’s army was not coming. Magda spent much of her time with the healer of the village, who helped ensure that her back did not get infected. Magda became fascinated with the medicine woman and her work. The old woman’s English name was Spotty Pots. Her lodge was lined with jars of ointments and dried herbs, seeds and powders. She was illiterate, but each pot was marked with a code of spots to help her identify the contents. She was certainly an effective healer; once, when I badly burned my hand she had treated it with one of her potions, and within three days it was as good as new.

  During that long winter while Black Eagle and I would go out hunting, Magda would spend time with Spotty Pots. Soon she was learning Iroquoian and throwing herself into the heart of the village’s activities. With the Iroquoian culture of integrating outsiders she was welcomed by most with open arms and was soon keeping me updated with news and gossip. At first I was puzzled by her enthusiasm to get involved with what was for her an alien culture. Then I realised that she had been brought up as part of a tightly knit church congregation and had missed that with Johannes’ forced isolation. Now she saw the village of Brant’s Ford as her new community. Not only that, her past life was full of prohibitions and strictures, while the Iroquois made very few demands. Christian and pagan practices were practised happily side by side. She relished the freedom her new life offered and while she attended the little church every Sunday, she was also happy to learn about medicines and treatments that owed much to beliefs surrounding the Great Spirit.

  As the snows fell the war continued on around us and at last the British forces saw some success. Harrison’s men remained in Amherstburg while the Americans in the east, after another push, were forced to retreat to Fort George, their last foothold on our side of the Niagara River. Norton led his war band east again to join a British attack on Fort George. He asked me if I wanted to come but I used Magda as an excuse to cry off.

  It should have been an idyllic winter: a beautiful woman to share my cabin; plentiful food and drink from the village harvest; good friends to chat with around the fire and the war being fought too far away to disturb my peace. In truth it was a good winter, but it had something missing, which gnawed away at me. At first I was unsure what it was. It was certainly not the call of battle; during the final months of 1813 the war went well for the British. They pushed the Americans back over the Niagara and even carried out some raids on their shore. The British generals seem to have forgotten I existed and Norton told me that they had long since stopped asking about my whereabouts. Magda was a willing lover but she had lost her enthusiasm for the two-backed game and there was a worldly sadness to her sometimes. I am no expert but while she never mentioned him, I think Johannes still inflicted a dark influence to stop her enjoying herself in bed. I asked her once if she ever thought about going back to her family in Pennsylvania but she shook head.

  “My father would just try to find me a new husband to obey. I like my life here. I have the freedom to do what I want and I am learning ways to do God’s work as a healer. I feel more at home here in just a few weeks than I think I have ever felt before.” Her eyes sparkled and she leaned over and kissed me. “You know I will always be grateful to you for what you did to help me get here. But what about you, don’t you want to go home? Spotty Pots says your spirit is pining for your own lands and people.”

  “Does she indeed,” I grumbled, annoyed that they had evidently been discussing me as they made their potions. “Well she does not know what she is talking about. The day I take advice from someone who thinks burning feathers is a cure for a headache, hell will freeze over.”

  It took me several days to admit to myself that the healer was right; I was missing home more and more and the passage of a whole year in this wilderness just made the feelings worse. What wouldn’t I give to stroll down Piccadilly in London and listen to the civilised conversation of a coffee shop? Even the high-blown drivel spouted at one of Byron’s poetry evenings seemed appealing then – at least it would not include hunting, scalping or the extraordinary boils on a warrior called Little Feather’s bottom – topics which seemed to dominate village conversations at that time.

  A few days later Magda tried again. “Norton has been talking in the village about how Napoleon lost a million men in the attack on Russia last year. He gave up trying to explain the amount of men to some in the council because they could not envisage such a huge number, never mind that they were all dead. He says that the French will not be able to replace such an army and that the other European countries will force the French to stop the war.”

  “It could happen,” I agreed.

  “If it does then the British will send their soldiers to Canada.” She paused before continuing. “Which means that they might now let soldiers who have already been here too long go home.”

  “They might,” I conceded again. It was a delicious prospect but I did not want to raise my hopes. On the other hand I had to remind the British commanders that I still existed or I would never be considered for leave. The main command was still at Burlington, only thirty miles away, less than two days on horseback.

  “If you want to go, it would be best to go now before the spring thaw turns the roads into a quagmire,” said Magda, grinning as though she could read my thoughts. “Shall I get Spotty Pots to burn you some more feathers? You will probably get another headache if you have to cope with hell frozen over.”

  Chapter 28

  Two days later and I was riding into Burlington. I knew that Sheaffe had been relieved of command in the east the previous year, but I knew little about the new general. It would have been foolish to seek out an interview unprepared, so I retired to the nearest tavern and fell into conversation with two young army lieutenants. If I had been apprehensive about the meeting before, I soon relaxed as all the news they told me was good. General Drummond was in overall command in the east but the man in charge of the Niagara peninsula was an Irish general called Phineas Riall. By all accounts friend Riall was a short, stout, naive character who relied heavily on the advice of junior officers. He had largely bought his rank and had little battle experience apart from putting down some revolts in the Caribbean. He sounded just the sort that would be impressed by tales of my heroics in Spain, Portugal and Paris before my latest adventures in North America. I was soon convinced that by the time I had finished piling it on with a trowel, I would have him piping his eye and wishing me bon voyage.

  After a final brandy to help hone my performance I tooled round to Government House to seek an audience with my new commander. It seemed I could see him immediately and I was shown into a grand office. Immediately my spirits dropped for instead of the general there was a vaguely familiar figure bent over some papers at a desk on the far side of the room. He heard the door close behind me and without taking his eyes from his work announced, “Major Fforbes, with two ‘f’s. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping to speak to General Riall,” I asked hesitantly.

  Still without looking up Fforbes continued in a bored tone, “The general does not see anyone unless I have approved the interview. So what is it you want?”

  “I would like to go home,” I stated simply.

  “Wouldn’t we all,” said the adjutant as he gave a flourishing signature to the bottom of the document he had been reading. Then at last he raised his head. There was no sign of recognition on his face. I had grown a winter beard and my buckskin tunic had seen better days. Only the gold sword at my hip gave any clue as to my military background. A look of irritation crossed Fforbes’ face as he surveyed me. “I only deal with army matters here. You would probably be best to speak to your militia commander or perhaps the Indian Agency?”

  Fforbes had already returned his attention to the papers on his desk when I replied, “But I am military. I am Captain Flashman. We met once before, just after Queenston.” The man could not have looked more surprised if I had just dropped a venomous scorpion on his desk. His head whipped back up and he stared
at me open-mouthed, trying to make out the face behind the beard.

  “It is you! My God, sir, you have a nerve turning up here.” His face was flushing with anger as his voice rose. “And to ask for passage home too, as if His Majesty’s government is at the whim of cowards and deserters.”

  Now it was my turn to be shocked and my jaw dropped in astonishment. Oh, he had me bang to rights on both points, but I thought I had hidden it pretty well. In India, Spain and I thought in Canada too, I had gained the reputation of a brave and resourceful officer, but now Fforbes was calling me out. Well I wasn’t duelling with the bastard in case he shot straight, which only left one response: outraged bluster.

  “How dare you, sir, impugn my honour! I have fought with courage at virtually every major engagement of this campaign and I will not have my reputation tarnished by some jumped up desk monkey.” His eyes bulged at that but I was just getting into my stride. “Where were you at Queenston when I and eighty Iroquois held down over one thousand Americans? You, sir, were not with me at Fort Meigs to repel an American surprise attack, nor were you with me when I stood on Barclay’s flagship fighting the American fleet, or at Moraviantown where I commanded the right flank of Procter’s line. Yet now you dare stand before me and accuse me of cowardice and desertion. I demand to see the general and report you for your insolence.”

  I had expected Fforbes to show some surprise or alarm at that, but instead he just laughed. “A pretty speech, sir, but with as much truth as your earlier tales. For your information all of Barclay’s crew are still prisoners. But don’t worry, I will make sure that you will see the general, at your court martial and perhaps again when you face a firing squad.”