Winter of 1813

By John W Egan

Despite the trauma of battles that haunt him and an estranged family he struggles to accept, James Butler tries to do what is right, find love, and make his own way in the world. By saving one life, James takes history down a different path from ours. By following his premonitions, he will shape the events of this war, the lives of millions, and the map of a continent as the winter edges into 1813.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Egan
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995847415

John W Egan

After several careers and adventures, I have settled in Ottawa, Canada to write.

Book preview

The United States declared war on Great Britain in June 1812. The states in the south and the west insisted that war was necessary to stop the British from blocking trade with Napoleon, taking back British sailors found on American ships, and supporting the First Nations of the Old North West who resisted America’s acquisition of their lands. Upper Canada bordered on the United States and the Old North West. It was a lightly defended British territory that was far beyond the protection of the powerful Royal Navy. Conquering it would be a mere matter of marching according to some, but by August, the Americans had instead lost the Michigan Territory and General Hull’s entire army.

In September 1812, Major General Isaac Brock, the commander of the British forces in Upper Canada who had inflicted these losses, wrote to his superiors about the need to continue active warfare in the west, to keep the First Nations as allies and divert American war efforts to that frontier. Brock also sought an assurance from the British government that the war aim of these First Nations to recover and keep their territories would be supported when peace was made. Lord Bathurst, the British Secretary of War, replied in December that the British would not forget the First Nations’ interests in any negotiation to end the war. Brock never saw that reply. He was killed at Queenston Heights in October. As it turned out, that promise died with Brock.

The northern states had opposed this war before and after it was declared. By December 1814, the war’s impact on the north’s economy and the south’s domination of the federal government led five northern states to meet at Hartford, Connecticut, to draw up demands for changes to the constitution. Several representatives spoke of secession if they were ignored or if the war continued. Their demands reached President Madison in February 1815, as did a peace treaty that demanded nothing of the United States for having started the war. The treaty let America keep the First Nations’ lands it had acquired, and effectively left it free to take the rest. This status quo antebellum treaty was as good as a victory, and it discredited the demands of the north. In many minds, the second war of independence had been fought and won.

This story is set in a world where Brock lived beyond October 1812, to create a different history. Also in this world is the Loyalist, Walter Butler, who did not die in 1782. His children must deal with the effects of this war and the choices each of them makes. His oldest son, James Butler, plays a critical role in this history—one that many will remember, and many that few will ever know. Many of the struggles that James and the others faced in this world are no different from those in our world, then or now.

John W Egan

Western Theatre

Area of the Winter Campaign

Chapter One: Lake Erie Shores

*** 18 August 1812 ***

Flashes burst from the cedars at the far end of the field. White smoke billowed from behind each flash. A bank of smoke masked the scraggly hedge to our right, west of the road we stood on. Puffs of dust flecked off the dirt track ahead of us from the musket balls bouncing off it. A few of those balls wobbled slowly past us, without hitting anyone. The volley was well beyond the effective range of a musket.

Behind me, my twenty-four men kept marching down the road, four abreast, six men in each file. The shots fired at them were too far away to cause harm or fear, even though most of the men in my platoon had never been fired upon at any distance. I was relieved that their first taste of war was so weak, but I also wondered how soon that would change.

Following my platoon, Captain Elliott’s mare snorted and scuffled the dirt. Captain Elliott, our Detachment Commander, called out, Lieutenant Butler ... James, how many muskets would you say?

I called back, continuing to march, looking ahead, Closer to fifty than a hundred, sir!

And the distance?

Four hundred yards!

That’s what I’d say, too. Then he shouted, Detachment, halt!

I repeated his order and my platoon halted. Two companies from the 1st Essex, a company from the 2nd Essex, and a platoon of Kent Militia were in column behind us. They also halted as their officers repeated the command.

In one long, loud breath, Captain Elliott bellowed, Detachment, to the right of the lead platoon, by company, wheel into line. March!

I spun about to face my men. Fifth Lincoln, from the center, outward turn, wheel into line!

Sergeant Hughson shook his head at my improvised command. He stepped forward as the men between us swung out into the line I had ordered. A few of the men grinned at my addressing them as a regiment, but we were all that was here of the 5th Lincoln, one platoon of Samuel Hatt’s Flank Company.

The four men standing in front of me became twelve. They all fit between the weeds and bushes lining the road without pressing against each other. Another twelve men stood two steps behind them. My platoon was now in a line of two ranks, holding the left flank.

Captain Elliott’s company ran across the field of waist-high grass and swung out to add to our line. At the same time, Captain Caldwell’s company and Captain Alexis Maisonville’s company crossed the field farther back and swung out in turn, doubling our frontage. Then the end of the column, Lieutenant Dolsen’s platoon, swung out the farthest to form the line’s right flank. Unlike the rest of us, Dolsen’s platoon had rifles instead of muskets and wore green jackets instead of the red jackets of our regiments, of those who had uniforms.

I spun about to face our front again as Captain Elliott rode to the center of our line and faced the distant cedars before giving us the order, Load!

After passing on the command, I loaded my rifle using a cartridge from the stock captured at Detroit. Because I had an American Army rifle, the American rifle balls fit it. A cartridge took me half the time to load compared to tapping powder from a horn into the barrel and onto the pan, and fiddling around for a ball and a patch. The 5th Lincoln’s commanding officer allowed me to carry my rifle instead of a sword not only because he was my uncle, but because he had given me this rifle eight years ago, on my sixteenth birthday.

When the rattle and click of ramrods and locks had ended, Captain Elliott issued the command, Detachment, fix bayonets!

American rifles did not take a bayonet, but I had had a lug welded onto my rifle’s barrel that allowed me to fix a British sword-bayonet onto it. The two-foot-long blade made up for the shorter barrel of a rifle, giving me the same reach as a musket’s bayonet.

Once the troops had affixed their bayonets, Captain Elliott’s voice echoed across the field. Port Arms! Detachment, to your front, quick march!

A hundred bayonet-tipped muskets in the front rank and a hundred more in the second rank nodded and swayed as we stepped out. It had taken us less than ten minutes to form line, make ready for battle, and resume our advance. The premature volley had not delayed us much, and there had not been so much as a single shot since then. Perhaps they were waiting until we were closer. A volley at fifty yards would wound many and be fatal for some.

My stomach tightened in anticipation of the volley that might come and the battle that could follow it. I had time to anticipate what was coming. This would be my third battle in two weeks; my fourth in total including my first a month ago. This would be my platoon’s first battle, not counting Sergeant Hughson and the four men who had been with me at Aux Canards, Maguaga, and Brownstown. The sights, sounds, and smells of what others and I had done at those places came back to me. These intrusive recollections drew my attention away from the cedars I was approaching. This was not the time to ponder my past. These recollections would return tonight, as they had done every night since Aux Canards. I wondered, Will I have even more nightmares after today? And then I braced myself: Think about what’s happening now!

As our column had formed into line, fifty Wyandot warriors on horseback had pounded their way forward through the man-high corn field that was on our right. They had reined back their horses and now kept even with us as we marched toward the cedars.

Shouts came from behind those cedars when we were two hundred yards from them. Through the gaps in the hedge, I saw men mounting horses and riding away. Some of the men wore red coats and black fur caps with white plumes, a few wore blue jackets and black round hats, but most wore tan hunting shirts and slouch hats. The uniforms were those of the Michigan Legion and the Michigan Militia, which I had seen at the surrender of Fort Detroit, two days ago.

We kept advancing in line of battle while the Wyandot horses galloped through the corn stocks, swept behind the cedars, and came back to us along the road. Chief Stiatha led the returning riders until he and another Wyandot broke away to go over to Captain Elliott. I knew this Wyandot chief. He was a fierce, old warrior, whom the other officers called Roundhead. I had been with Stiatha at Maguaga and Brownstown. I also knew the man riding beside him, Danny, Stiatha’s interpreter.

While the other Wyandot eased their horses into the field to pass around my platoon, Stiatha spoke to Captain Elliott and Danny translated. They were close enough for me to hear Danny say, It is clear up to the village. Stiatha thinks the Hunting Shirts wanted us to chase them to the river, behind the village. It would make a good trap.

Yes, it would, Captain Elliott agreed. So, we will stay together, side by side, until we are at the village.

Danny explained what had been said. Stiatha nodded. Then they turned their horses and cantered over to the mounted warriors, back in the cornfield.

After we eased our way through the gaps in the cedars, reformed our ranks, and resumed our march, I had a clear view of our destination, Frenchtown. All but the rooftops, chimneys, and upper half of a small, dilapidated blockhouse was hidden behind an old, twelve-foot-high stake-wall and its closed gate. My platoon advanced on the road toward the gate, which kept the rest of our line to the west half of the palisade facing us. The heads of men in slouch hats rose above the top of that palisade, but their muskets remained shouldered, pointing upward.

Immediately behind the stockaded village, hidden in the low ground, ran the Raisin River. Farms on each side of the village also stretched back from the Raisin. Each farm strip had a home and a garden on it, close to the river. What small barns there were, we had already passed. Judging by the number of farm lots I could see, this settlement ran along the Raisin for a mile east to the coastal swamp that hid Lake Erie and for two miles upriver, west of Frenchtown and into the wilderness.

When we were a hundred yards from the palisade, the extreme effective range of musket fire, the gate swung back to reveal an empty road and several homes and gardens. Captain Elliott called out, Detachment halt! Order arms!

Our soldiers brought their muskets down along their sides to rest on the ground. My stomach relaxed a little.

Captain Elliott approached me on foot while he fixed a white handkerchief to the blade of his sword. Lieutenant Butler, leave your rifle here and come with me. Take my sword and hold it up. I’m going to see what they know.

Turning about, I held out my rifle. Sergeant Hughson, take my rifle and take command.

Once my sergeant had my rifle, I took the Captain’s sword and the two of us set off along the road to the open gate.

We were steps from the entrance when a man in the dark blue jacket of the Michigan Militia came out to meet us. He was a tall, large man with a tanned, weathered complexion and pale blue eyes. His sandy hair, streaked with gray, was partly covered by his black round hat. The epaulets on his shoulders identified him as a colonel.

Captain Elliott saluted while I continued to hold the sword up.

Returning the salute, the senior officer announced, I’m Colonel John Anderson. He had a slight Scottish accent with a touch of French. It annoyed me, as it was the same accent as my mother’s.

He introduced himself, I’m the commanding officer of the 2nd Michigan Regiment, and commander of this post.

I’m Captain William Elliott, 1st Essex, and this is Lieutenant James Butler, 5th Lincoln.

The Captain held out his hand; I lowered his sword and handed it to him.

As Captain Elliott removed the cloth and sheathed his sword, Colonel Anderson remarked, I was expecting the British today, not Canadians and Indians.

Captain Elliott replied, Is that why you fired at us?

No one under my command fired at you. We’ve been in this stockade since sunrise, waiting for you to arrive with General Hull’s instructions.

So, you do know that you’re to surrender.

Yes, but without any offense intended, I’d like to see a written order confirming what the rider from Detroit told me and what you claim.

Then who fired at us?

It was a gesture of defiance by Lee’s Cavalry, before they headed south to continue the war. Some of the men in my regiment quit last night and joined him. I no longer command them.

Pointing at the trampled fields east of the village, Captain Elliott asked, And what of Captain Brush’s detachment, the herd of cattle, the pack horses, and the bags of flour that were here? They’re included in General Hull’s order for your surrender.

The Ohio Volunteers took the beeves, the horses, the flour, and themselves back to Ohio last night. Those who are still here have families and property that we won’t abandon.

Then here’s the order for you and what’s left of your command, sir. General Hull’s signature’s on it, countersigned by General Brock. I’ll accept your surrender on behalf of General Brock, collect your arms, and ask for your paroles.

After the Colonel had read the order, Captain Elliott told him, We’ll also inspect all of the buildings within the stockade before we establish ourselves in here tonight.

Colonel Anderson looked up at our soldiers and at the warriors. What about the farms outside the stockade? He pointed at the Wyandots at the far end of our line. You brought your Indians with you. How will you stop them from looting our properties or attacking us?

If the surrender’s calm and immediate, why would there be such trouble?

I know some of the Indians you’ve brought here. I’ve traded with Roundhead, Checkposa, and Mononcue for years, and I strike hard bargains. Most of them don’t like that. But over that time, they always claimed to be my friend, and the friends of the American Government.

If they hadn’t claimed to be friends with your government, they would have lost more of their land in a shorter time. They were provoked into this war by your government, as were we.

They joined your side because you armed and provoked them against us since the last war. Back in July, Roundhead told me that I also had to join your side if I was their friend. He wouldn’t accept that I had become an American citizen years ago to stay here. He called me a traitor. Checkposa said I was a dog who should be killed. I’ve no doubt they’ll use this situation to settle with me. My home is in the open, a few lots east of here.

I’ll post a guard at your home.

There’s one more thing. It’s known that I’ve barrels of whiskey under my home. Those could create problems for you as well for as me. Would you send an officer with some men to destroy them now, before your soldiers or these Indians indulge themselves?

Captain Elliott nodded in thought and then said to me, Lieutenant Butler, take your platoon to Colonel Anderson’s now, destroy those casks, and establish a guard around his home.

Before I could reply, Colonel Anderson called to a group of women and children standing in a nearby garden, Mary, come here!

A barefoot, middle-aged black woman in a kitchen smock came forward as he turned back to me.

This girl will show you to my home and assure my wife that this is my doing.

I looked back at Captain Elliott, who nodded.

Walking back to my platoon, I was relieved there would be no battle, but it angered me that we had to look after this man and his property. My men had seen the looted houses, emptied barns, cut-down orchards, and trampled crops left by General Hull’s army. These were the homes of the Essex militiamen who were here with us—some of them were relatives of some of my men.

Perhaps it was good that we had this task, rather than the Essex. It was also good that we would return to Canada as soon as this post was secure, although it would be a long march back to Fort George. After Detroit, the rest of our company and most of the militia had been ordered to that fort in anticipation of another invasion across the Niagara River.

Taking back my rifle, I summed up what was to be done and told Sergeant Hughson, Have the platoon unfix bayonets and form columns. When all’s ready, we’ll take up our post outside the stockade to guard a home and its occupants.

I led my platoon to the gate, and from there followed our guide, Mary. We cleared the corner of the stockade, turned toward the river and took the road that ran along its bank. The homes and gardens lining our left and the piers and canoes on the Raisin lining our right were a calming sight. It made me think again about this task and our short time here.

I silently concluded, Better to be a guard than fight a battle.

*** 19 August 1812 ***

The morning was distinctly cool, a reminder that autumn was approaching. Unlike yesterday’s cloud and the many days of rain all summer, this day was bright, dry, and clear. It was the opposite of how my men and I felt. Leaving them to their breakfast, I went back to the stockade with Colonel Anderson to see Captain Elliott. Colonel Anderson waited at outside the home that was now the headquarters of this post while I spoke inside with my Captain.

It was a long night, sir, I began. Ten Wyandot rode up at sunset. They saw my platoon around the house and left us. Another group came at midnight. They shouted threats, to which I shouted back in reply. One of them knew me and he talked the others into leaving. Then at first light, a dozen came up quietly on foot, crouching behind a stone wall. My men were alert and fetched me before they broke cover. I shouted at them that Stiatha, er, Roundhead had promised you that no one would harm Colonel Anderson. They also left us alone.

What I had reported was not quite true. I had had my nightmare, shouting orders in my sleep. Sergeant Hughson shook me out of it as usual now, but my cries had alarmed our sentries while the Wyandots behind the wall thought I had seen them.

Captain Elliot nodded calmly at my news. I played down the animosity of our allies yesterday, but I thought there would be trouble. That’s why I put your entire platoon there. I would not have been surprised if some of my own soldiers had shown up with the same intent. Who was the Wyandot who intervened?

Sanoskee. In the skirmishes before Detroit, I had tried twice to restrain him from seeking revenge, but last night it was he who restrained the others. He also speaks English.

Such an ally would help me keep the peace here. I’ll speak with him.

And there’s something else, sir. The whiskey kegs were too large and heavy to bring up out of the cellar or destroy them quickly, or without drawing attention. It was agreed that we could empty them in the cellar and let the earth soak up their contents. Before we staved in the kegs, we inspected the rooms above to ensure there was no flame to ignite the vapors that would rise up.

And the Colonel’s wife agreed to this?

Yes, sir. She was consulted. But upon entering a large extension that was the storeroom for their trade, we discovered a dozen muskets, as many ammunition boxes and bayonets, and several crates of musket cartridges.

Military stores. He told me the blockhouse was the depot for his regiment. We found only a few items in it. The Colonel had not told me about these items. But this will make it easier for him to accept what I’m about to tell him. You can call him in now.

Colonel Anderson entered the room and told Captain Elliott, Lieutenant Butler saved my home, my family, and my life three times last night. Each time the Wyandot arrived in a fresh rage, James talked them down and sent them away. I wanted to thank James and yourself, and ask that your protection be maintained until these attempts against me stop.

Captain Elliott shook his head. Sir, I cannot keep a platoon aside for your protection. When I’m satisfied that this post is secure, half of my force will depart, including James’s platoon. Also, some of my soldiers believe you are a traitor, complicit in the destruction of their homes, and they may also seek to harm you. It doesn’t matter to them that you’ve been here since the war began.

You can’t leave my family and me exposed and defenseless!

Sir, the only way to preserve your family, your property, and your life is for you to leave. Without you here, my soldiers and the Wyandot will soon leave your family and home alone.

How far do you think I’d get on foot or on horse before I was found and brought down?

You’ll not leave on foot or on horse, but by boat.

How would that be done?

Last night, I hired bateaux and crew from Joseph Rheaume to transport James and his platoon up the coast of Lake Erie to Amherstburg tomorrow and return here with supplies for this post. You will go with James, before dawn, hidden among his platoon, to board one of the vessels at—

I can’t go to Amherstburg! That would make me a prisoner! I gave you my parole!

Sir, James will first take you down the coast to Pierre Navarre’s home in Ohio. I understand that you’ve been there before.

What about my family and my property here?

I was going to set a sentry on it for a fortnight after you left, but I’ve another plan now. Since I must tear down the blockhouse before it falls down, and I need somewhere to secure my stores, I’ll use your house as—

My home’s private property! You can’t do that!

Ah, but since you’ve stored your regiment’s weapons under your roof, that makes your home a depot—public property that can be seized and used by the King.

Colonel Anderson’s eyes flashed at me, and back at the Captain. It was a temporary necessity, until we repaired the blockhouse. If you’re going to prevent my wife from running our business and evict my family from our home, they might as well come with me!

I was about to say, sir, that I will allow your family to stay in your home, and leave space in your storeroom for your trade goods. As we must guard our depot at all times, your family and property will also be guarded at all times for as long as we’re here.

You strike a hard a bargain, the Colonel said with a hint of admiration under his aggravation. I see that I’ve no good choice but to prepare myself and my family for my going.

It’s the best choice, sir. Now, if you would wait on the porch once again, I’d like a few words with James.

*** 20 August 1812 ***

It was not yet first light when we reached Joseph Rheaume’s home. We set out as soon as we were relieved by a platoon from the 1st Essex. My men had no idea why we had left, or why Colonel Anderson was with us. Their whispers reflected their growing puzzlement as they followed me past Rheaume’s home, across the riverside road, and up to a wide, short pier. A short, stout man holding a lantern stood between us and the men preparing the two bateaux that were tied to the wharf.

Monsieur Rheaume, I said to him in French, are the bateaux and crews ready?

They are, sir.

Sergeant Hughson, put a dozen men in each bateau. Colonel Anderson and I will ride in the lead. You take charge of the other.

Yes, sir.

Keep everyone moving.

Yes, sir. And we explain it all to them once we’re on the lake. Right, sir?

Yes, that’s right.

Both bateaux edged around the last sand bar and onto the lake, and then turned south to follow the coast as the tip of the sun lit up the surface of Lake Erie in blindingly bright sparkles. The day was clear again, with a promise of being hot. A large, square sail rose up the single mast on each vessel to catch the light breeze and speed our passage. I could hear Sergeant Hughson’s voice atop the water, explaining my orders to the men in his bateau, while I spoke to the men with me.

Following the coast southward, we eventually crossed the wide mouth of the Miami. Before we lost sight of the forested shore behind us, the tree tops of a point of land to the south came into view. Presque Isle. The lone cabin of Pierre Navarre, on the west side of the point, came into view, partly hidden by trees.

Colonel Anderson, we’ll soon have you ashore.

He nodded. He had said little since he had left his home. I suspected that he was filled with anger and sadness at being separated from his family. Perhaps I assumed that these were his emotions because of what I had felt when I was separated from my family as a child. I hoped his separation would be a shorter one. At least he understood the reason for it.

The shallow draft of our flat-bottomed boats let us come near the sandy shore on the lake side of the point. The Colonel climbed over the gunwale, eased into the knee-deep water and waded ashore. After he was on dry sand, he turned around and waved back—I assumed at the crew whom he knew, and not at me or my men. We left him there at midday.

Once our bateaux were a good distance from shore and still close together, I shouted to the crews in both vessels, We will head east to Cedar Point and land near its tip. It should take us two hours by sail, or three by oar to reach it. It was not only an order, but the details provided to me from the sailors and traders on this lake who were among the Essex were a warning to the Frenchtown crews to not go elsewhere or land us among our enemies.

Then I spoke to my men in both boats. We haven’t enough light left to reach Amherstburg today and we can’t return to Frenchtown. So we’ll overnight in Ohio.

A few gasps and grumbles met this news. After they subsided, I told them, Cedar Point’s tip has no settlements, and it’s isolated by a large swamp. If you do see someone, leave them be. This is not a raid, and we’ll be gone before any force can be alerted and make its way to us.

A few murmurs came back this time, instead of grumbles. The bateaux separated, pulled up their sails,