The young man was a skilled and brave warrior who had fought the Americans. He was named Little Turtle and the boy was his nephew, Tecumseh. The old man knew he was going to die soon, which was the reason he’d been chosen to make the important and terrible decision regarding their destiny. The fate of the tribes in the area depended upon his judgment. If he chose correctly, then his name would be remembered in song as a hero. If he was wrong, well, he’d still be dead. His bones ached and his leathery skin was cracked. He would not see another spring. Some days he thought death would be a welcome friend and in the cold and lonely dark of night he was certain of it.
The old man spoke. “And what is happening to our future enemies?”
“They are killing each other, grandfather,” Little Turtle said. “And they are doing so with ferocity and skill I never thought the white man possessed.”
The old man nodded. The loose alliance of tribes had first been shocked when the Americans came to their area, and their shock had turned to horror when they saw how many Americans there were and how well armed and disciplined they were. When they’d heard that another force of white men was gathering to drive the Americans away, they’d rejoiced at the thought that they would be rid of the white invaders. As they waited for this miraculous event to occur, they’d decided to remain peaceful with the Americans, trading with them and observing them until the British arrived. Then they would pounce and earn the gratitude of the British.
The British had come in astonishing numbers, but had brought the hated Iroquois as their allies. All the tribes in the area felt betrayed. If the English were allied with their enemy, then they too were the enemy.
“You are my eyes, Little Turtle, did you see the armies prepare?”
In the distance they could hear rumble of war. “I did, grandfather, and I watched them begin to fight. They are not like real warriors the way they march and move. In some ways it is almost funny, but in others it is frightening. They have discipline and guns, while we have neither. They also have numbers far larger than we can gather even if all the tribes united as one. And, despite the foolish way they fight, they are very brave. They would be formidable enemies.” He shook his head sadly. “Others of our people remain to observe them while I speak with you.”
Although Little Turtle had fought the Americans, it had been in the form of raids, not battles like the one beginning to take place.
The old man was concerned. “You and Tecumseh have not been detected have you?”
Tecumseh answered. “No, grandfather, we have not. But I wonder if it would matter if we were? Both sides know we are out here because these are our lands. Indeed, grandfather, I would be surprised if they did not expect us to be out here, watching and waiting. I’m sure they wonder what we are going to do as do we.”
The old man smiled inwardly. The boy was so smart. Little Turtle was a war leader, but Tecumseh possessed the wisdom of a far older man. Tecumseh, if he lived, was the future. If there was a future for the red man, he thought sadly.
The old man smiled. “Tecumseh, tell me what you did when you heard the first cannon?”
Tecumseh grinned. “I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
Owl grinned and Little Turtle laughed, “And the second time?”
“Then I merely flinched, grandfather, as I realized they weren’t aiming their flying stones at me. Then they became like the thunder in a rainstorm.”
The old man nodded. “Little Turtle, could we fight them?”
Little Turtle shrugged then remembered with mild chagrin that the old man couldn’t see the gesture. “Of course we could fight them, but we wouldn’t win, not even against their smallest army. They all have muskets or rifles, which we do not, and, as has been said, they have many more warriors then we have. You are right, father, we must not have the white men as enemies.”
“Yet at least one of the two groups must be,” the old man said softly.
But which one, he wondered? The Americans who said they only wished to return to their homes in the east, or the British who wished to drag the Americans away? Both groups had said they wished to depart, which would be good for the tribes. But who could believe either of them? The white men always came, but they never left and it didn’t matter who they fought for. The British, if they won, would doubtless leave a fort, like Mackinac, and traders would come who would corrupt the tribes with liquor and cheap goods in return for furs. The Americans would return to their homes in the east if they won, but would all of them depart? Certainly not. Where the white men went, they always stayed. They had contempt for the red man who they thought of as ignorant, drunken savages. Sadly, the white men were often correct. Alcohol and smallpox had ruined so many tribes.
So which of the two armies would be the enemy? Or would it be both? The several hundred warriors gathered in the woods behind him wondered the same thing.
* * *
Danforth was in the middle of the British Army with Grant, and it was rapidly becoming a mob. Even General Grant grudgingly admitted that he was losing control. Grant professed to be unconcerned. “Everything breaks down when the fighting begins. Just keep marching towards the enemy and all will be well.”
Danforth agreed except for one thing-the fighting hadn’t really begun. American and British cannon had been firing at each other for some minutes and to little effect. American riflemen were firing slowly and carefully at the ponderously moving British horde, but were of no concern to any but the men in the first few ranks. Those men in front would be terribly bloodied before this day was over, but that was their fate. The ones who fell would be replaced by those behind and the inexorable advance would continue.
Danforth was concerned that the structure of the British force was proving even more unwieldy than thought. Even Grant had been a little surprised by that fact. Still, the British Army moved forward. The Americans would be crushed.
A soldier near them screamed and fell to his knees. “What the devil?” Danforth exclaimed. The man had been wounded by a falling rock.
* * *
Benedict Arnold looked at Ensign Spencer with some sympathy. The boy’s left arm dangled uselessly and there was a large and growing welt on the boy’s forehead. He was in intense pain and was having difficulty standing.
“General, we went into the swamp as you ordered and we were ambushed. There must have been hundreds of them and they had us surrounded. Only a handful of men managed to get away.”
“Where’s Braxton?” Girty snapped.
“I don’t know,” Spencer said and began to blubber.
Arnold was sympathetic to the boy. “Go have your wounds tended to. Your first battle is over. And for God’s sake wipe your nose.”
Arnold thought quickly. He doubted that “hundreds” of rebels had infiltrated through the swamp, but there had obviously been more than enough to overwhelm Braxton’s and Spencer’s command. Whatever numbers out there could play hell in the British rear unless he did something to stop it.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, puffs of smoke appeared on the hill blocking his view of the swamp. Arnold stood and swore. The insolent bastards were firing on them. He made up his mind.
“Girty, I will take your command and all but two companies of regulars and attack those rebels coming at us from the swamp. That should be more than enough to send any American force packing.”
That and it would show him acting decisively in the face of an unexpected enemy. Perhaps the day would turn out well for him after all.
* * *
Burgoyne also saw the firing from the hill and was dismayed by the obvious fact that an unknown number of rebels had worked their way behind him. The impassible swamp was obviously not as impassible as he’d been led to believe. Had a large force gotten in his rear, or was it just a minor thing?