War 1812 (27 page)

I
t was 2:30 p.m.
when the American army formed up to attack. Lieutenant James Johnson had his mounted rifles on the left, along with Governor Shelby’s division. General Harrison lined up his infantry on the right side. In the distance, behind the British line, General Proctor could be seen riding among his men, urging them to stand fast.

The powder smoke from the muskets fired at the ‘forlorn hope’ had been swept away by a gentle breeze. With a nod from General Harrison, the bugler’s nervous lips blew the bugle. As the charge was sounded, riders kneed their mounts and horses bounded away.

The British infantry watched the thundering riders approach. Unlike the ‘forlorn hope’ riders’ small line, this group was so big, there was little doubt that the British line would be overrun. To add to the frightening sight of a charging brigade, a yell came from the group that was taken up and repeated time and time again. “Remember the Raisin! Remember the Raisin!” Closer the charging riders came.

“Wait… wait,” a British officer spoke to his men in a trembling voice that could not hide his anxiety. He, like several of his Grenadiers, had been at the “Battle of the River Raisin.” They had marched away before the Indians butchered the wounded prisoners, but he’d heard of the ungodly acts and knew in his heart the lack of vigilance in keeping the wounded prisoners safe would come back to haunt them.

The honor of the battle had been lost by the atrocities of the savages. Now, they would have to answer for their injustice. Would anyone survive? Would those that survived write his parents and say Lieutenant Richard Bullock died bravely fighting for king and country?

The sound of the bugle continued to blast. The riders were now two hundred yards away, one hundred fifty, seventy-five, and fifty. Clods of dirt were flying in the air from the horses hooves as froth flew from the mouths of the wild-eyed steeds. The screaming riders rode with reckless abandon. Today the British would pay. A Brown Bess smooth bore musket fired from the British line; a nervous soldier with an itchy trigger finger.

“Take that man’s name, Sergeant,” an officer ordered.

A chuckle was heard down the line. “Damn, little good that will do,” another soldier said.

“Ready,” the British officer roared out, yelling to be heard above the thundering drum of horse’s hooves. “Aim… fire!!!”

The first volley emptied a few saddles but did nothing to slow the charging Americans. British Lieutenant Bullock found himself yelling, “Fire the cannon! Fire the bloody cannon.”

As close packed as the riders were, it would surely disrupt the charge.
Where is Proctor?
Bullock wondered. He should be directing the British defense. The roar of muskets being fired was deafening as the British got off its second volley, but it did nothing to slow the onslaught of determined American riders.

The British infantry was busy trying to reload their Brown Bess muskets when the charging riders pierced the line and then wheeled, pouring a destructive fire into the British. The infantry lost its composure and men began to break ranks and flee. A few were tied up in hand to hand combat, but by now, the second wave of the riders had surrounded the British.

Seeing the British were beaten and further fighting would only result in useless death, Governor Isaac Shelby shouted, “Surrender! Surrender! There’s no use resisting, you are surrounded.”

A British officer, seeing the battle was lost, threw down his sword and raised his hands. Seeing the officer surrender, the other soldiers laid down their weapons, knowing the battle was over.

The American infantry had now rushed up on the line and began collecting weapons.

“Where is Proctor?” General Harrison asked. His answer came from a British officer.

“We’d like to know the same damn thing, General.”

Finally, a British colonel said, “The coward, with a company of dragoons and savages, were seen escaping toward Moraviantown.”

“Ten minutes, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel James Johnson spoke to General Harrison.

“What’s that?” Harrison asked.

“Ten minutes, sir. Richard said we’d defeat the British line in thirty minutes. We did it in one-third the time.”

“Well that’s fine, Colonel,” Harrison replied. “But is that not the sound of gunfire coming from the swamp?”

Governor Shelby was within hearing distance of the exchange. “I’ve sent my men to the swamp to aid Colonel Johnson,” he stated. “They are likely having a much harder go of it fighting the Shawnee hidden in the swamp.”

While the three men had been talking, the sound of gunfire had picked up, and so had the sound of yells, curses, and war whoops.
Men are fighting and dying in the swamp,
James Johnson thought.
And all I could think of was that we defeated the British line in ten minutes. The war, however, was not yet won. God be with Richard and his men,
he prayed.

Chapter Thirty-Three

W
hen the bugle blasted
the charge for the assault on the British lines, Colonel Richard Mentor Johnson’s brigade made their way into the swamp. Smiling at Jonah, Johnson said, “I predict a hot day, Mr. Lee.” The colonel was not talking about the weather.

“I expect you are right,” Jonah replied.

Riding double behind him, Moses grunted, “Not too hot, I hope.”

Because of the thick undergrowth which gave limited access, the brigade doubled the amount of men it could bring into action by each horse carrying two men. Also, due to the tangled thickets, swords were left at camp. Each man carried, beside his rifle, a hatchet and a knife. Moses had sharpened Jonah’s and his edged weapons the night before. In fact, men had watched and emulated the man from Washington and his friend. Each carried two knives and two tomahawks. It was the second tomahawk that was poking into Moses’ back, creating a bad humor.

The sound of bugles blaring, charging horses, and musket fire was heard on the road, but everything was quiet in the swamp; too quiet.

“I feel like we’re being watched,” Moses whispered.

“So do I,” Jonah replied, waiting for shots to ring out.

Deeper they rode, the horses hooves now sinking into the soft wet ground. Men were fighting the vines and tangled thickets to keep from being knocked off their mounts. Tecumseh chose his line of defense well. He waited patiently, and when Johnson’s men were preoccupied with the undergrowth, he let out a blood-curdling war cry and guns blazed away as warriors fired from their hiding places.

It was not unlike stumbling into a hornet’s nest as balls buzzed through the air. Some hit trees, showering bark into the faces of men and horses. Others found their mark, as the unmistakable sound of lead balls thudded into human flesh. At the front of the line, Richard Johnson was hit twice, in the hip and the thigh. Though unable to dismount himself, he shouted out the order.

“Dismount… dismount!”

The men didn’t need to be told. Most had already slid off their mounts seeking cover. One horse stung by flying bark became wild-eyed. With nostrils flaring, it reared up and toppled its rider into a pool of muck. A ball then struck the frightened animal, grazing its hind quarters and causing it to run wildly into the swamp, knocking over a warrior who tried to catch the animal as a prize.

Seeing Johnson was wounded, Jonah and Moses darted from tree to tree to get to the brigade’s leader. The fire from the Indians continued with deadly accuracy and effect. Few of the Indians were showing themselves, and to make matters worse, Redcoats were now running into the swamp. Was it a planned attack or were the Redcoats retreating from the battle on the road? Regardless of the reason, the red uniforms made better targets than the brown-skinned warriors and the Americans took advantage of the targets.

Like their comrades on the road, the Kentuckians began to cry out, “Remember the Raisin, Remember the Raisin.” This cry seemed to rally the Kentuckians, who were now finding targets other than the red uniforms. Firing their long rifles, men used them as clubs or laid them aside in favor of the tomahawk and knife. Remembering their fellow Kaintucks, who these savages had so ruthlessly slaughtered, the men fought with reckless abandon. Steel clanged on steel as knives flashed and tomahawks thudded into flesh and bone.

Unlike their British counterparts, the Shawnee braves were putting up a fierce battle. Jonah was on top of a warrior when another jumped him from behind. Unfortunately, for the brave, Moses was close, having just dispatched his foe. Making a half-turn, he grabbed the Indian’s wrist as he raised his knife to stab Jonah. Feeling the grip on his wrist, the Indian spun. As he did so, Moses struck with all his might driving the tomahawk deep into the enemy’s face and skull. Eyes glazing over, the Indian fell dead.

Tecumseh’s shouts egging his warriors on could be heard above the melee. Taking a second to peer about him, Jonah was shocked to see Colonel Johnson still mounted and wounded in several places. “Follow me,” he yelled to Moses as he made his way to the colonel.

He’d never survive if he stayed mounted. He was too much of a target. Then, before his very eyes, Jonah saw a puff of blood and dust jump from Johnson’s body as another ball had found its mark. Jonah’s stomach felt sickened. He could not let such a brave man die. Rushing to the aid of the colonel, Jonah and Moses found themselves attacked by a swarm of braves.

Shots rang out and three Indians fell; each had been hit several times. Blood splattered across Moses’ buckskin shirt. Wiping it away, he was glad it wasn’t his. The two remaining braves, seeing their companions down, fled into the swamp. Another shot was heard and a ball ricocheted into the ground beside Moses. Damned if the colonel hadn’t been right. It had gotten hot…hot as Hades.

Taking time to reload his long rifle, Jonah saw that more Americans were making their way into the swamp. It was their fire that downed the three Indians. Now the battle was turning for the Americans. Jonah couldn’t help but admire the gallant defense put up by the Indians. Hopping over logs and ducking underbrush, he and Moses made their way to the colonel.

Above the din of battle, a lone war cry went up above all else. Tecumseh, wounded but still fighting, had spotted Colonel Johnson and was taking aim at him. Wounded as he was, Johnson had little strength left, but he was trying to raise his own rifle. Jonah and Moses, seeing the proud Indian chief raise his weapon to fire, quickly aimed and fired their long rifles. Another shot was heard as Colonel Johnson’s weapon went off. Unable to bring the long rifle to bear, the shot went off into the ground, harmlessly.

Seeing the great chief’s body jerk as two balls plowed into the warrior’s chest, Johnson looked toward Jonah and Moses. As smoke drifted from the barrels of the men’s guns, a look of gratitude passed between the men.

The fever of battle was still burning, and one of the Kentuckians yelled out, “The colonel has just killed Tecumseh.” He’d heard the shot, he’d seen the colonel’s weapon lower and he’d seen the Indian chief fall. He’d not seen Jonah and Moses as the colonel’s horse blocked them from his view.

Hearing the man shout out caused two things to happen: the Indians either threw down their weapon and surrendered or ran off into the swamp. The second thing caused by the shout was men rushed to the spot where Tecumseh fell, and remembering their fallen comrades, began to hack and cut away pieces of the chief, mutilating his body beyond recognition. To try to stop the savagery was a useless effort. Jonah and Moses looked on with disgust.

The chief had fought a brave fight and didn’t deserve such an ending.
Had the British forces been led by General Brock along with Tecumseh and the Shawnee warriors, things might have turned out much differently,
Jonah thought. Men were now gathering around Colonel Johnson. Clay Gesslin was there, as was his man, Hicks. Both were dirty with powder-stained faces. Blood and grime covered their hands, but neither seemed wounded.

Jonah and Moses helped Gesslin and Hicks pull the pain stricken Johnson from his horse. The white horse was now streaked with blood from the colonel’s wounds. Grim faced, Johnson looked to Jonah, “You are unhurt, Mr. Lee… Moses?”

“We are fine,” Jonah replied for both of them.

As Major Barry, Johnson’s secretary, wrapped a blanket about the colonel, Johnson gritted his teeth and managed, “I fear I have been cut to pieces, but I think my vitals have escaped.”

Indeed, the colonel had been ‘cut to pieces,’ as he said. He had five wounds. As the surgeon arrived, Johnson looked at Jonah and said, “Sir, I will forever be in your debt.” The pain was so obvious; it took a great effort for Johnson to speak.

Knowing what the colonel meant but was not spoken, Jonah only nodded. As they moved the colonel, Johnson spoke to his secretary again, “Have a heart, Barry, I will not die.”

The surgeon, A.J. Mitchell, felt his body shiver realizing he would be blamed if the colonel didn’t pull through. In the distance, an episodic shot could be heard as Major David Thompson chased the retreating Indians.

“Chase they might,” Moses said, “but they’d not likely catch the retreating Shawnee.”