Spring of 1813

By John W Egan

James Butler and George Macdonald are on opposite sides of the War of 1812 and a family division that goes back to the War of Independence. James serves General Sir Isaac Brock and George serves General William Harrison. General Brock’s army is stretched between General Harrison’s and General Dearborn’s. Before the summer campaigns start both sides must deal with what the spring of 1813 brings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Egan
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778023002

John W Egan

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

Book preview

Spring of 1813

Beyond 1812: Volume 2

John W. Egan

Published by John W. Egan

Spring of 1813

Copyright 2022 John W. Egan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, written, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

This e-book edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

ISBN 978-1-7780230-0-2

Edited by Nicki Richards, www.richardscorrections.com

Cover photograph ©kozzi/123RF.com

1st Edition: July 2022

Published by John W. Egan, Ottawa, Canada

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Map 1: North East United States and Upper Canada

Map 2: Upper Canada

Map 3: US Territories and Ohio

Chapter One: York

Chapter Two: Portage River

Chapter Three: Oak Hill

Chapter Four: Fort Stephenson

Chapter Five: Coote’s Paradise

Chapter Six: White Oak Springs

Chapter Seven: Ancaster

Chapter Eight: Sandusky River

Chapter Nine: Bouchette Creek

Chapter Ten: Fort Meigs

Chapter Eleven: Ten Mile Creek

Chapter Twelve: Fort Niagara

Chapter Thirteen: One Mile Creek

Chapter Fourteen: Newark

Chapter Fifteen: Burlington Heights

Chapter Sixteen: Gage’s Farm

Chapter Seventeen: Stoney Creek

Chapter Eighteen: Forty Mile Creek

Chapter Nineteen: Twenty Mile Creek

Chapter Twenty: Sixteen Mile Creek

Chapter Twenty-One: De Cou’s House

Also by John W. Egan

An Excerpt from Empire’s Gate, Book one of the Roman Sky series

Dedication

To Mairi and Shela.

Acknowledgments

My Beta Reader, Larry keeps track of my characters, their language, and the clarity of my telling the story in writing.

My fellow author, John W. Partington—aka RJ—provides great advice on the story’s structure, flow, and content as well as on the number and the development of the characters.

My editor, Nicki Richards is thorough in her edits and thoughtful in her comments, as all editors should be.

My thanks to all of you,

John

Spring of 1813 Maps

North East United States and Upper Canada

Upper Canada

US Territories and Ohio

The location of each chapter is marked on the maps of Upper Canada and of the American Territories and Ohio.

Chapter One: York

*** 2 March 1813—Midday ***

The door groaned against its ice-crusted frame and refused to move.

I tightened my grasp on the handle and heaved my shoulder against the door, which was tugged open from the inside before my shoulder hit it. I stumbled into darkness as warm, moist air rushed past me and slid on slush-covered floorboards.

Hannah stepped out from behind the door. Her pale-blue eyes directed me aside before she swung the door shut. As the door squeaked into its icy frame, the biting cold and bright daylight disappeared. The heavy aroma of beer, beef, and tobacco filled the inky void along with the babble of talking and laughter.

A sigh came out of the blackness, followed by Hannah’s disinterested greeting. Welcome back, Cap’n Butler, sir. Will you be here a few days again?

Yes, I said, surprised that she remembered me. I’ll be here for three or four days.

Shall Mama make you an account, the same as last time, sir?

Yes, the same. Thank you. I pulled off my mitts and cap.

Hannah brushed past me in that narrow corridor and stopped, silhouetted by the dim, yellow flicker of candlelight from the barroom around the corner. She looked about and said, There’s a throng in here ahead of you, sir. I must see to them first. But if you find yourself a seat, shall I bring you a pint of dark and a bowl of stew?

Yes, the stew and dark beer, I said as I undid my greatcoat. You’ve a good memory.

I must, sir. It makes for good business. She disappeared into the murky depths of the barroom.

Nancy’s Tavern was as dark as its beer. It had two small windows, curtained by frost and grime, with candles on the bar and a tiny fireplace that struggled to light the room. Nancy owned and ran the tavern with her daughters: Hannah, Mary, and Sarah. Each one had their mother’s black hair, pale-blue eyes, and seemed to be eighteen years old, as did Nancy. But the last time I was here, I heard Nancy say she was thirty-three and warn customers several times a day that Hannah was fifteen, Mary fourteen, and Sarah thirteen. Hannah was the same age as Bridget, but my sister lacked Hannah’s worldliness and wariness.

I had come to York two weeks earlier with General Brock and his aide, Major Glegg. We had sleighed here the entire way from Fort Miami in northern Ohio. As General Brock’s residence at the fort was occupied by a sickly General Sheaffe, his aides, servants, and medical staff, we took rooms at Jordan’s Hotel. Sheaffe had been the acting lieutenant governor while Brock had recovered from his wounds last autumn and was then away in the west until now. And so, for three days, General Brock shuttled back and forth between his residence and the government buildings to discuss ongoing matters with both Sheaffe and the Council.

I spent those days here, at Nancy’s. General Brock had made this place—poorly lit but clean and comfortable—my post. It was midway between his residence and the government buildings. As General Brock shuttled between those locations several times a day, he stopped here to talk about his last meeting and the next one. He liked the bustle of this tavern as well as its location. It allowed us to speak without being noticed or overheard, unlike the offices in his residence or at the government buildings.

General Brock sought my reactions to the issues of the war and the province, even though I was a militia captain with little experience. He still believed I could foresee threats. While I had foreseen the shot that would have killed him at Queenston and the shot that would have warned the Americans of our assault at Frenchtown, I no longer believed I had such an ability.

I must have seen or heard something that had alerted me to the threats I had foreseen. But I had not foreseen the fate of the eleven soldiers I had placed behind a log pile at Fort Miami. A single, large cannonball struck the pile and flung full and fractured logs in all directions at great speed, maiming and killing those soldiers—my soldiers. It was not quite a month ago, in the last hour of the last day of the last battle of this winter. My supposed gift had not saved my men from that fatal moment.

Brock still valued what my mother called my second sight. It was a childish notion that sometimes led to my being accused of lying about, spying on, or arranging for what I foresaw. It was not a gift but a curse. And now that I was no longer a child and there was a war, it was a dangerous notion. I had to either recognize the clues that alert me or stop acting on my premonitions. In any case, I must never speak of them again.

General Brock had another reason for consulting me. While we recovered from the wounds we had received from the same musket ball at Queenston Heights, he had employed me as his aide. Brock found my views were identical to his own on most matters, and he liked my ideas on what to do about them. He had taken my idea for a subsidiary alliance with Tecumseh’s Confederacy—which Lord Wellesley had used in India—to formally recognize the Confederacy’s territorial claims and so secure Upper Canada’s western frontier. He had sent this proposal for the King and British government to consider. He had also taken my advice on the terms of service that would attract more Canadians to serve as soldiers for a year or longer. On such matters, I was happy to be consulted.

After three days at York, Brock signed directions on the issues over which he had authority. Then we set out for Montreal where Brock would seek approval for his other plans by the Governor General of British North America, General Prevost. Although we never reached Montreal, Brock’s plans were approved by Prevost on the road, as it were. So we returned to York last night and took rooms at Jordan’s Hotel again. General Sheaffe had continued as acting lieutenant governor and remained in Brock’s residence.

General Brock had no need to see me today. He would be busy, convincing the Executive Council and Assembly to approve and fund the plans approved by Prevost. Whatever the Council decided would determine my future. Until those decisions were made, I was free to do as I pleased. This morning, I went to the armoury to wipe my rifle dry, as I did each day, so the damp and cold would not form frost and rust it. Then I came to Nancy’s.

My previous days spent here gave me time to reflect on my last nine months—the bloody summer along the Detroit, the slaughter at Frenchtown, and the assault at Fort Miami where William and his platoon were smashed by the exploding log pile. Contemplating these disturbing moments while I was awake and undisturbed somehow drained the horror from my nightly dreams. I was no longer haunted by these events as deeply or as often as I had been. Nancy’s was a good place to confront my past and await my future.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, I searched for an empty chair. Near the fireplace was a small table. One of its two chairs was unoccupied. I made for it and was about to ask the older officer at the table if the vacant seat was claimed when I recognized his grey-streaked, rusty hair and his surgeon’s uniform. Uncle Jamie?

My uncle looked up, puzzled for a moment before his eyes brightened. He jumped up and shook my hand. James!

I looked again as he had an epaulette on each shoulder—the rank of a major. Although he was promoted to major after saving Brock’s life last October, Uncle Jamie had still not worn his new rank when I left Newark last December. I grinned at him while asking with mock formality, Why, Major Muirhead, sir, what brings you to York?

Uncle Jamie laughed as he sat back down to his plate of beef, cabbage, and potatoes. He pointed at the empty chair with his knife. Sit down and I’ll tell you.

I hung my greatcoat over the chair and waved across the room to Hannah. After she nodded, I sat down.

Uncle Jamie’s nose and cheeks were still rosy from the cold, but otherwise he looked the same as when I saw him last. He spoke between mouthfuls of food and sips of ale. I don’t know who’s more surprised to see the other; you or me? But since you asked me, I’ll start with why I’m here. General Sheaffe sent for me. He’s been sick since the start of the year.

I nodded. Yes. He’s been sick for some time, but he’s able to work from his bed.

Uncle Jamie raised his eyebrows. I didn’t know he was well enough to do so.

General Brock had commented on the number of army and local surgeons who attended Sheaffe and cluttered up his residence. So, I asked my uncle, Why would General Sheaffe send for you when he has a dozen surgeons in York at his call?

I think he’s seen every doctor in the district. Uncle Jamie waved his knife in the air to indicate the region around York. And he’s no better for it. But you see, General Sheaffe thinks I cured him of Lake Fever last summer at Newark, even though there’s little anyone can do to change its course. My uncle looked around and lowered his voice. From what the letter ordering me here described, I’d say he has a prolonged case of pneumonia.

When Uncle Jamie said pneumonia, images of Uncle Johnson, Uncle Thomas, and Lydia flashed through my mind. Pneumonia had killed them all in the same week last December, along with Lydia’s newborn daughter, Lorna. My brother Charles had lost his wife and a child he never had the chance to see. My chest still ached each time I thought about Uncle Johnson being dead. Our family had never lost so many in such a short time, not even during the last war.

Uncle Jamie sighed and whispered, If General Sheaffe has pneumonia, it’ll either pass or worsen over time, the same as the Lake Fever did. In any case, I’ll see what I can do for him.

You haven’t seen him yet?

Oh no. I arrived here not an hour ago. It took the coach all morning to fight our way over the Credit River and those furrows of frozen mud that claim to be Dundas Street. I’m warming and feeding myself now so I’ll be at my best when I see the general.

My thoughts turned to our family in Newark. I haven’t had a letter since New Year. How’s everyone doing?

Uncle Jamie’s knife and fork clattered on an empty plate. Deborah and our John are doing fine, as is your sister Bridget and your mother. They dined with us the night before I left for here. Your sister Flora, Daniel, and their children are all well. Daniel’s company is called out along the Niagara every third week.

I nodded.

I missed seeing your brother Andrew, but then you’ve seen him more recently in Michigan. He arrived at Newark as I was departing. And your mother had a letter from Charles. He wrote it a few days earlier, after he was back at Ancaster.

I laughed. Charles probably left me nothing new to tell you now.

Bridget read us his letter. He wrote about his winter in Michigan, the march through the wilderness, capturing the fort, and how you and Andrew fared. We were grateful you were all spared in that last battle. Charles also wrote that you had come back ahead of the returning companies with General Brock, and that you were headed to York.

So when you said you were surprised to see me here, you meant in this tavern, not in York.

He shook his head. Oh, but I was surprised to see you had returned to York already. I met your friend, Hamilton Merritt, at a coach stop two days ago. His troop carries dispatches between Fort York, Fort George, and Fort Erie. He said you and General Brock left York two weeks ago and should be at Montreal by now.

The staff at the fort must have told him. I haven’t seen Hamilton since the start of January when he came to Detroit— I said no more. It was that night at Detroit that Hamilton gave me Catherine’s last letter. It had taken her two years to decide. She had chosen him, not me. Although Hamilton and I had agreed from the start that we would remain friends no matter which one she chose, her decision had crushed my heart. I had congratulated him as happily as I could, although I was numbed by having been rejected. Hamilton was still one of my few friends.

Uncle Jamie prompted me onto another topic. And did you reach Montreal, see General Prevost, and come back, all in a fortnight? Or did the battle at Ogdensburg cause General Brock and you to turn back?

You know about Ogdensburg? We only went as far as Elizabethtown, or Brockville as they call it now, to honour General Brock for his victory at Detroit. We met General Prevost there as he was coming west from Prescott. The noise of muskets and guns from there reached us not long afterward, but we remained at Brockville while the battle was fought.

The generals didn’t go to take charge or see what was happening?

Brock was determined to go, but Prevost said we must continue west with him. He had received a report the previous night that American troops were coming to capture him at Prescott. Prevost left there a few hours after midnight. We met him as we were about to set off from Brockville at first light.

And you all rode away from the battle?

Brock convinced Prevost to stay at Brockville as they were well protected by the escort and the reinforcements Prevost had with him.

And so they had their meeting while a battle raged nearby?

I nodded. A steady arrival of riders kept them informed. A few hours after it began, we had the report of a complete victory. General Prevost sent for Major MacDonnell—the commanding officer at Prescott. They spoke in private for an hour. After the major departed, Brock and Prevost resumed their discussions into the night. We started back for here the next day.

Did General Prevost say why he was coming here?

He wanted to see if Sheaffe was well enough to perform his duties, and if not, he planned to assign another officer to act for General Brock. He also wanted to inspect the defences along the Niagara while winter allowed him to travel quickly.

I’m impressed our generals are able to move about without it being common knowledge. Was General Brock looking for General Prevost about something new, or is it as secretive as his campaign out west? His eyes were bright with mischief.

I can tell you that General Prevost approved what General Brock proposed. Some of what’s approved requires the province to fund it. Yesterday, the Council heard what’s wanted. The Assembly’s hearing it now. And once something is said in the Assembly, it becomes public knowledge.

Aye, that’s true, Uncle Jamie sighed. His next question was the one I had hoped he would not ask. You know, your father’s still working here with General Shaw. Did you see him during your last time here, or will you see him this time?

No. Not yet. Although I had been a boy, my father seemed threatened by me and criticized whatever I did. After his temper and drinking caused him to injure me one day, Maman sent me to live with Uncle Johnson in Ancaster. Even now, my father found fault with my saving General Brock, and he had delayed the awarding of my teacher’s certification. He also set the influential Bishop Strachan against me and my plans to establish a school. I diverted Uncle Jamie onto another topic. I expect he’s being kept busy as the militia have insufficient stores, weapons, and training.

It’s no fault of General Shaw’s, nor your father’s! Uncle Jamie’s whispered shout hissed with fear. He was probably concerned that someone in the tavern might say I was criticizing the conduct of the war.

The popular opinion before the war was that stopping an American invasion would be a futile gesture. Our victories of last summer and this winter proved our resistance was not futile, but some still believed it was, and they wanted the Americans to win. Criticisms that had been wisdom once were now deemed sedition. Even identifying what had to be improved to defend our province was treated as defeatist or treasonous. I had been conditioned to speak freely about our shortfalls and what could be done, as Brock and other senior officers did, but in our offices and camps.

I tried to clarify my remarks and change the subject. General Shaw and my father were given responsibilities but have limited means to carry them out fully. Our militia system was designed for a short, limited war. Britain can’t spare us supplies or troops while they need them to fight Napoleon. But that obstruction might have been removed as the war in Europe has turned in our favour.

Uncle Jamie’s eyes flashed. The American papers are right? Napoleon’s army was destroyed?

Everyone in the province read New England newspapers. They told us not only everything about their own armies and plans, but of events in Europe. These American reports reached us weeks before the same news reached Halifax and weeks again before it reached Upper Canada. I described what was public knowledge. Napoleon lost his army in Russia, but he’s already raising a new one. It’ll take him a year or two. So, the British Army might send us something now. In fact, Prevost had named which regiments were being sent and more, but neither my uncle nor anyone here needed to know those details.

It would make all the difference! Uncle Jamie said. He smiled as he leaned back, pulled out his watch, and said, I must be off to see General Sheaffe. Perhaps we can dine together tonight. I’m at Jordan’s. Where are you quartered?

I stood up with him and shook his hand. I’m also there and I’m free tonight.

Then I’ll see you in the dining room at seven, my uncle said as he put on his coat. If our duties allow.

As Uncle Jamie threaded his way to the entrance, Hannah came with my drink and meal. I thanked her, sat down, and took a long sip of the strong, dark beer.

A gentleman appeared at the entrance as Uncle Jamie left. He spoke to Hannah’s sister, Mary, who pointed in my direction. He squinted in the poor light and limped over to me. The young man was about my age. His copper hair and green eyes looked familiar, although I was certain we had never met. He stood before me and asked, Sir, are you Captain James Butler of the 5th Lincoln?

I am, sir. How may I be of service?

His squint became a glare, and his arms stiffened against his sides, fists clenched. I’m Richard Shaw, Sophia’s brother.

Sophia Shaw. Richard had his sister’s distinctive colour of hair and eyes. Their father was General Shaw—my father’s commanding officer. Had my father said something to anger him? Something about me to cause trouble?

Before I could reply, Richard snarled, You insulted Sophia in a most cruel and mocking manner!

H-How’s that possible? I stuttered. I’ve never spoken more than a few words to her, and I’ve not seen her since November. I had last seen Sophia when she came to see how General Brock was recovering from his wound and then ran from his study.

You sent her an unsolicited note that mocked her sorrow.

I’ve never sent Sophia any note. There must be a mistake.

You deny sending her a Valentine? he shouted.

I jumped to my feet and shouted back, I’ve sent her nothing! A cold knot formed in my stomach—I had written a Valentine to Catherine last December. Hamilton had brought it to my sister, Flora. She knew merchants who crossed the Niagara to Lewiston and Buffalo and could post my note to Catherine from within New York. That Valentine was the last thing I sent Catherine, before I knew she had chosen Hamilton. But neither Hamilton nor Flora would have sent my Valentine to anyone else, let alone Sophia.

Sir! Richard pulled a note from an envelope and gave it to me. Is this not yours?

It was, but I would not tell him about Hamilton, Flora, or Catherine. I would not involve my sister, my friend, or the woman I had loved in this matter. I looked up at Richard. It was not meant for Sophia.

Really? Then for whom?

Another, whom I won’t name. My thoughts raced as fast as my heart was beating. It was unlikely Catherine had seen this note or sent it back to this side of the Niagara, addressed to Sophia. Naming Catherine would do nothing to solve this mystery.

Richard held out the envelope. If it wasn’t meant for Sophia, then why is it addressed to her?

I stared at the flamboyant lettering.

Mistress Sophia Shaw, Oak Hill, York

I looked up at Richard again. That’s not my writing.

By God! You admit it’s your note, but not your envelope. You wrote the one, but not the other? He took a breath and continued to convict me with more revelations. Sophia said that you alone know why this note would hurt her. She won’t tell us what’s caused her these months of sadness, only that you knew it. How can you claim this isn’t your doi ng?

Oh. I saw Sophia run from General Brock’s study—where she had been waiting for him—after she read a letter he had been writing. I had not seen her pick up the letter as I was engaged in writing another for the general. Her carriage departed before I reached the door. I read the letter to see if it contained anything that might compromise Brock’s winter campaign. The unfinished letter was personal. Brock had written to assure his brother that he would marry an English lady of title and wealth to preserve the family’s position, and that he would never marry a colonial.

Everyone in Newark knew that Sophia had been infatuated with the general, as were so many other young women. What the letter said must have shattered her hopes. As it was a private matter and nothing but harm would come to Sophia if I revealed what she had done, I told no one, not even the general. I would not reveal it now. I can only tell you that I wrote this Valentine for someone else. I’ve no idea how or why it was readdressed and sent to Sophia. Please assure her that I would never make light of what happened to her.

First you mock Sophia, then you deny it, and now you try to excuse it. My sister needs your apology, not your lies.

I’m not a liar!

I say you are and that you must answer for your cruel taunts and deceptions. If you’re not also a coward, we’ll settle this with pistols at dawn tomorrow!

The barroom had gone quiet at some point. Everyone held their breath, waiting for my reply. I opposed duelling. But if I refused his challenge, I would be marked as a coward, unfit to be anyone’s friend, given any appointment, or engaged in any business. Duelling was against the law, but no one was convicted for it as long as the duel was considered to have been a fair one. And no one had ever been convicted. I had no choice. I accept.

I know you’re at Jordan’s, Richard said, somewhat calmer now. I’ll send you a note this evening naming the location and your second—one of the officers here—if you haven’t found someone else by tomorrow morning. And with that said, he spun about and limped out of the tavern.

I sat down and tried to see how my Valentine to Catherine had ended up with Sophia and led to this duel.