Panther in the Sky (108 page)

General Procter had persuaded Tecumseh not to desert the Redcoats, demonstrating on maps why they needed to retreat to more defensible ground, showing him how the American fleet could go around to Lake St. Clair and cut the Redcoats off from their supply route. Procter had promised Tecumseh that a full-fledged battle against the Americans would be made at the town of Chatham on the Forks of the Thames, where the Thames was too narrow and shallow for the American gunboats to navigate. Once convinced, Tecumseh in turn had persuaded most of his chiefs to stay by the Redcoats, though he would have preferred to fight here and keep Harrison’s army from putting one foot onto the Canadian shore at all.

Now Thick Water saw Tecumseh point toward the multitude of Blue-Coats and heard him say:

“Look at them. Now they are out of their groundhog hole, and I can defeat them. But I will have to defeat them at a place called Chatham, whose ground I do not know, instead of here, on a place I know so well. And Detroit, that Brock and I took from them on that good day last year! It will fall back into their hands. Oh, I do not like this!”

Colonel Elliott looked aside at Tecumseh, face full of disbelief. He said in Shawnee, “But look how many! There are forty hundred, at least!”

“Forty hundred is only counting,” Tecumseh replied. “Fighting is not counting, old Father. It is strong hearts and being right. In times past you know I have defeated five times as many as my own.”

Thick Water’s heart swelled at these words. It was true. He knew it because he had been with his chief at many such times past.

Withered Hand, the terrible Potawatomi, was looking at the horde of Americans moving ashore in the near distance and saying nothing. Thick Water thought that Withered Hand did not look very brave now. Much of his celebrated ferocity seemed to have been dampened by the huge scale of things in this white man’s war. It was not like raiding Osage villages or isolated cabins of white settlers in Illinois, as in the old days. Thick Water had seen that look in the faces of other chiefs in recent days, chiefs who had grown doubtful about their British allies and had decided
to take their people and go home, and Thick Water wondered how much longer Withered Hand would stay faithful to Tecumseh’s cause. He sniffed the ashy, tangy smell of smoldering oak as the dank lake wind blew up from the ruins of the shipyard and fort. He felt the hint of the coming autumn rains in the air and heard the deep, steady hush and drone of noises from the invading army, and his heart grew heavy again. He heard hooves on the cobbles at the other end of the little town and saw American horse soldiers come riding slowly around the corner of a stone house. Elliott and Withered Hand looked very impatient, ready to flee up the road.

Finally, then, Tecumseh took one last, long look at the oncoming Blue-Coats, sighed, turned his horse, and rode slowly up the beaten road of retreat. To Thick Water he said as he rode past, “Come, brother. We will destroy that army another day.”

T
HE HEAVY RAINS BEGAN AS THE RETREATING
R
EDCOATS
moved eastward from Sandwich along the shore of Lake St. Clair and continued day after day.

General Procter stayed far ahead of the retreat, traveling in a carriage with his wife and daughter. Far behind him came his army and its enormous baggage convoy and its herd of beef cattle, beating and churning the road into a porridge of mud; behind them came the fatigued and hungry Indian families; behind them came Tecumseh’s warriors, a thousand of them. And behind them always came Tecumseh, always a step ahead of Harrison’s advancing army, deploying his chieftains to obstruct and harass them at every opportunity, to snipe at scouts, to ambush columns at the bridges and fords, slowing the Long Knives to let the refugees stay ahead at a safe distance. He patrolled the fringes of the invading army like a wolf and nipped it whenever he saw a chance.

But the circumstances grew more and more bleak as the refugees and the Redcoats plodded eastward toward the mouth of the Thames. Confusing orders came back from General Procter; soon, units of the Forty-first Regiment were out of touch with each other, the commissary was failing to get food to the bivouacs, and riverboats full of arms and supplies fell far behind. The Indian Department could not obtain food for the refugees, and they, weakening, sick, straggled farther and farther behind on the miry roads. Star Watcher and Open Door demanded and begged for their people, but the agents could only shrug and blame the commissary, which in turn blamed the general. Withered
Hand groused and sneered about how the British had destroyed his faith in them, then finally broke off and took away large numbers of his Potawatomies, as well as some Ottawas, Ojibways, and Sauks who were under his influence, saying he was tired of running and would rejoin Tecumseh and the Redcoats only if they stopped and defeated Harrison.

Then came a runner to Tecumseh, saying that one of Harrison’s brigades, backed up by Perry’s American warships in the Detroit River, had driven the few remaining Indian defenders out of Detroit, lowered the British flag that Tecumseh and Brock had raised over the fort a year ago, and raised the American flag. Everything, it seemed, was falling like the dead leaves.

As the retreating column left Lake St. Clair and moved eastward on the road along the Thames under the gray sky, some of the smaller American gunships passed on through the Detroit River channel into Lake St. Clair and entered the mouth of the Thames in pursuit. Tecumseh watched them coming on the rainy west wind, their sails white through the autumn foliage, and saw an opportunity to play wolf again. The river was narrow, so he put warriors along its banks and in trees to shoot down into the American gunships. At last, unable to proceed under such fire, the ships dropped back down the river.

Stopping the gunships was a momentary victory for Tecumseh, but he had no chance to rejoice over it. Another runner came. Roundhead, that staunch friend since the beginning, had been killed while harassing the edges of Harrison’s army. Tecumseh’s heart grew harder and colder. The bitter worm of vengeance was eating in his soul, and he was impatient to reach Chatham at the Forks. There at Chatham, Procter had said, showing him a map, stood a blockhouse, several strong log houses, and two bridges nearly a mile apart that the Americans would have to try to cross. It did sound like a good place to ambush Harrison and stop his army. Surely Procter was there already with his Redcoats and cannons, building breastworks, as he had promised he would do. The refugees would go across the bridges to safety, then the warriors would cross and tear up the bridges behind them and turn around to fight Harrison at the Forks, to kill him for his great crime of trespass. Tecumseh’s blood was seething for battle now. His dead father and brothers, his great friends Brock and Roundhead, his teacher Black Fish, all who had been killed by the white men’s bullets and diseases, all sang in his soul their wish for revenge, and he was eager to die if the Master of Life meant to sacrifice him for it.

B
UT WHEN
T
ECUMSEH AND HIS REAR GUARD CROSSED THE
bridge over the fork and arrived at Chatham, they found no fortifications. On the other bank of the river a few Redcoats were casually encamped, doing nothing but trying to keep themselves dry. Three cannons lay dismantled on the south riverbank, and a hut had been filled with muskets, but there were no British here, except old Elliott, who stood pale and shaken amid a horde of yelling, infuriated chieftains and warriors who were demanding to know why there was no fort here as Procter had promised there would be. Walk-in-Water was waving a club, howling that he would kill Procter if he saw him, that he would kill Elliott now. Charcoal Burner seemed to be shielding the old agent, but only halfheartedly; he, too, turned to him and bellowed, “Father, your Redcoats are cowards! They are liars!”

Some of the chiefs even met Tecumseh himself with lightning in their eyes and thunder in their mouths. “Did you not promise us the fat general would have a fort here, and supplies for us?” cried South Wind, a tall Ojibway chief, with tears of frustration in his narrowed eyes. As if this question had suddenly thrown the weight of their suspicion upon Tecumseh, many began crowding toward him, yelling, thrusting up their arms. Thick Water, suddenly tense, drew his tomahawk and rode his horse between them and his chief, forcing some of them back, and others of the bodyguard began to form a circle around him.

But Tecumseh himself was soon able to shout down the uproar. He shamed the crowd for accusing him and convinced them that he was as bewildered as they were. Elliott got close to Tecumseh and hung near his stirrup as if to save himself. Tecumseh reached down and grasped the shoulder of his coat.

“Old Father! What is this fat general doing? Does he not tell even you?”

Elliott was shaking his head, his mouth slack and drooling, his whole frame trembling. He moved his lips with no voice, then finally croaked out: “I’m confused.… He told us … yesterday? … told us we would fight back at the Dolsen farm … yes, Dolsen’s, it was, that it was a better place than this … more buildings there, but … then changed his mind again, I suppose. I’m sorry! I’m confused. Procter’s made such a botch of it all.… My friend,
tell
them it’s not
my
fault. My God!” he cried in English then. “I’ve given my whole life to your people! My whole bloody life; you know that’s true!”

A voice called from downstream that Redcoats were coming
up the river road, up the other side. Tecumseh released Elliott’s shoulder and stood in his stirrups. He heard troops coming, saw scarlet uniforms through the distant foliage. “Let this be Procter,” he said. “I will have an answer from him. Clear a way for me!” he shouted, urging his horse toward the bridge that crossed the river.

When he careened onto the road at the other end of the bridge and galloped to meet the British column, he recognized at its head not Procter but his first subordinate, Colonel Warburton of the Forty-first Regiment. Following the colonel were some three or four hundred foot soldiers, a few dragoons tall on their horses, and a cluster of refugee Indians, mostly women. Tecumseh reined in alongside the officer, crying, “Warburton! Where is Procter?”

Colonel Warburton, looking awfully angry himself, pointed up the river road. “Gone on ahead, I suppose. Who really knows?”

Tecumseh clenched his jaw. “Why has he gone ahead? Why has he made no fort here? Is this not Chatham? He said he would stand here with me and meet the Long Knives! Why is he up that road?
I want to know!”

Warburton tilted his head and replied with sarcasm: “As you may or not know, Chief, I’m not one of that select group of officers whom the general deigns to favor with information. I’m merely his second-in-command. But from what I can gather of it all, he’s changed his mind, and wants to fortify at the missionary town instead.”

Tecumseh’s eyes for a moment looked like a madman’s. “Warburton! Procter gave me his
promise
we would have a fort here and fight the Americans at last! Has he lied to me? You heard me tell him that if he ever lied to me, I would cut off your end of the wampum belt!” Tecumseh was all but grinding his teeth and was ready to ride back across the bridge and lead his warriors away and throw Procter and his army to the Long Knives. Pounding his fist on his knee in frustration, he swept his gaze around in the dusk. It would have been a strong place for a defense, if it had been made ready, and there had been days and days of time to make it ready. But now there was no time. The Long Knives were less than half a day’s march behind. Tecumseh groaned. “Warburton! I wish I had never listened to Procter! Everything he promises blows away like smoke!”

Now many of Tecumseh’s chieftains and bodyguards had come across the bridge to join him in this confrontation and were gathering around. Among them came Colonel Elliott, hitching along on foot, his face red with exertion and anger. Panting, he looked
up at Warburton in the rain and tried to say something, but then broke into abject weeping before he could sob out: “Colonel, do something about this disgraceful rout! I will not by God sacrifice myself!”

Warburton could do hardly anything. Dusk was deepening. He sent a company of grenadiers a mile down the river toward the enemy, to form a picket line on the north bank. Tecumseh had managed at last to contain his own fury and was calming his chieftains, trying to persuade them not to desert their allies just because of Procter’s confusion. He counciled with them quickly, and they agreed to stay at the Forks until the next day and make an ambush at the bridges, to slow the American advance and allow the refugees a few more hours of safe flight.

“Your soldiers should be on that side of the river with my warriors,” he told Warburton. “Harrison comes on that side.”

Warburton replied with more firmness than he felt, “I’ll not move them over, Chief. I must stay on this road, if I’m going to the missionary town.”

“Then
go!”
Tecumseh snarled. “Go on up and leave
brave
men here to fight your enemy for you! Let your soldiers sleep safe on this side of the river! My red men will stand with me tomorrow and meet Harrison,
without
your cannons or your soldiers! Get out of my way!” He rode a few paces away, then wheeled and came back, an indistinct shape in the early darkness. “Colonel Warburton, I know you are a brave soldier. I wish you, not Procter, led your army. I know you must be ashamed of how he always runs backward, like a crayfish.” Then he pressed his horse’s flanks with his heels and galloped away across the resounding planks of the bridge.