One Sloop and Slow Match Read online

  One Sloop

  and Slow Match

  Book Two Great Lakes, Great Guns Historical Series

  James Spurr

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  A

  Selection

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  Double Edge Press

  Ebook edition ISBN 9781938002366

  One Sloop and Slow Match

  Copyright © 2008 James Spurr

  Cover Artwork: Flight of Little Belt by artist Peter Rindlisbacher, all rights, title and interest owned by Michigan Maritime Museum. Used with permission.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  For Erica

  whose life gave mine purpose,

  and for Christopher

  who keeps me young while I grow old.

  Other Titles by James Spurr:

  Great Lakes, Great Guns Historical Series:

  Sworn for Mackinaw - Book 1

  Reflections in the Wake - Book 3

  Acknowledgements

  Information appearing throughout was initially found within:

  Robert Malcomson’s Warships of the Great Lakes, 1754 – 1834

  David Skaggs and Gerard Altoff’s Signal Victory

  Emily Cane’s Ghost Ships

  and

  Walter Borneman’s 1812

  The Michigan Maritime Museum’s

  Generous use of Peter Rindlisbacher’s 2005 Painting

  Flight of Little Belt

  Is also greatly appreciated

  For the cover design

  The good work, faith and patience of

  Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Press

  is also much appreciated.

  Sail the Winds of History

  For those who come to this book with an appreciation for

  History and of the Inland Seas

  Or for those who in reading this book are inspired to learn

  first hand

  of what has so captivated mankind since the beginning of

  recorded motivation

  Friends Good Will

  Sails Today

  With Volunteer Crew and Participating Passengers

  Owned and Operated by the Michigan Maritime Museum

  South Haven, Michigan

  www.michiganmaritimemuseum.org

  Leave Ashore all but your Sense of Adventure

  One Sloop

  and Slow Match

  Book Two Great Lakes, Great Guns Historical Series

  James Spurr

  Chapter One

  Edward Morris turned and swung his musket behind him. The butt of the discharged weapon caught the Wyandot Indian warrior in the neck and dropped him instantly. The warrior’s only sound was an attempt at a cry which came out as a bark. Edward frantically climbed to the crest of the small rise, his feet slipping in the sand. He flung the musket barrel forward and caught the stock in mid-air, wishing the blow he had just landed had been eight inches higher. A cracked skull was better than a bruised windpipe and would have assured one less pursuer.

  Sarah was descending the far side of the same rise, running toward the water’s edge. Edward had no plan other than to put as much distance as was possible between themselves and the hell of chaos and violence unfolding behind them. The native shrieks were now rising both in intensity and frequency above the sporadic shots being offered in reply. He must at least see Sarah to some degree of safety before he returned to the fight.

  Edward called, “Run, Sarah! To the water, don’t stop!” He sensed she needed no urging and called more to assure her of his presence still behind her. He thought she nodded, then realized she was indicating a new danger rushing toward them from their left, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Sarah ran faster yet. Edward, now just over the crest of the dune, felt the sand give way beneath him, breaking his stride, nonetheless his speed increased but as more of a lunge than a sprint. He struggled to stay in control, his feet sinking in the sand. A loss of footing would in these next few moments surely prove fatal.

  A Potawatomi warrior was almost upon Sarah. Edward noted that instead of running faster, she contrarily slowed, her erratic strides showing fear… or confusion. The native focused his attention on Edward, and Edward recognized him, and the cause of Sarah’s hesitation. It was Black Partridge, a young warrior of some status within his nation. Edward realized Sarah was in that instant weighing her trust for an individual childhood friend against her instinct to run. He imagined her thinking, Surely, would this be my end; at the hand of a former playmate?

  Edward reached for a pistol tucked in his sash. Black Partridge veered straight toward him, leaving him no time to cock the hammer. Edward aimed the pistol with his left hand, dropped his musket from his right in preparation to fanning the hammer back. Black Partridge caught the pistol barrel with the shaft of his tomahawk and knocked the gun from Edward’s hand. The heavier, larger framed native slammed into his chest and Edward went sprawling into the sand. He heard Sarah scream and felt shame for losing her to a savage even as he landed hard on his back.

  He raised his head and saw that he was too late. Black Partridge had hold of Sarah. She was flailing about in panic, but Edward saw instantly that there was no aggression in his enemy’s eyes or his handling of her. If Black Partridge had wanted to do her harm, she would have by now been in far worse shape. Edward called, “Sarah, no! Do not resist! Trust him, he is trying to help!” She grasped the situation and was quickly half led, half-dragged by Black Partridge toward a stand of young cottonwood trees.

  Edward realized he was now on his own and Black Partridge had no such obligation or inclination to assist anyone else in the column. He quickly gathered his pistol and musket and raised his head to assess the mayhem behind him to the west. The warrior whom he had dropped less than a minute before crested the low dune and quite literally ran over him. Even in his surprise, the warrior was upon him instantly, knife drawn and slashing. Although now more distant, Edward heard Sarah screaming for his sake, among other more horrid shrieks.

  This time, Edward was both more focused and more balanced. Sarah was no longer under his charge and he had no care for his own fate. He rose to his feet, turned and waited as the warrior rolled to his feet beyond him and spun around in the sand, crouching, knife held low, ready to lunge. Edward drew back the hammer, aimed carefully and watched the expression in his opponent’s eyes change from bloodlust to dread, although as Edward squeezed the trigger, he registered a sickening doubt as to whether enough powder remained in the pan.

  There was a mechanical click of the trigger, the scrape of flint against steel and the thud of the hammer coming to rest. The verdict of whose life was about to be lost, the Wyandot’s or Edward Morris’, seemed an eternity in that pregnant pause, the brief inaction, until at last the spark assured ignition. He held the pistol steady, the weapon discharged, and the Wyandot warrior fell back, a ball in his chest. Blood soaked into the sand as he rolled to his side in a fetal position.

  Edward thought, My God! I have never before killed a man. His father had killed an interloper who had stolen their winters’ furs a few years before and E
dward witnessed the body, after the fray, float slowly down the St. Clair River toward the delta and the marsh. His grandfather was said to have killed many in the Seven Year’s War, but never spoke of it. Edward was only certain of the fact by the look in his grandfather’s eyes when he ignored such questions put to him over a campfire. Even as a lad of seventeen, Edward had been able to tell the look of one who had nothing to prove and was no longer proud from the look of a braggart striving to shed his own insecurity. Edward knew now he would never boast again. He had nothing to prove and no desire to recall.

  A sudden crash brought his reflections back to the present. A wagon tipped on its side, its contents spilling forth amid the sound of clanging metal pots, broken furniture, panicked horses and cries for mercy. Two more musket shots amid far more war cries told the tale well before it was over. Resistance continued, as hope was eternal. Resistance was futile, as mercy was denied.

  Edward had fought well. He was no longer panicked, although he most certainly had been when the attack began no more than ten minutes before. He had saved Sarah, of sorts, the only person for whom he felt responsible, the only person amid the soldiers, settlers, trappers, ranchers, wives, sons and daughters who looked to him for protection. No, it was simply time to take stock. A glance, cast objectively, told him this fight was lost and there was now no dishonor in survival. The natives kneeling on one knee, knives slashing across handfuls of hair, spoke of their confidence as meaningful opposition melted amid the terror.

  The lines had collapsed. Only pockets of resistance, such as he offered, remained, uncoordinated and ineffective and each moment only highlighted the futility against those warriors still laden with bloodlust.

  Two sights caused him to flee: Sarah, still with Black Partridge in the stand of trees, calmed somewhat now and watching him, seemed to urge him to let go, to move on, to live; the other sight was of William Wells, wounded by gunshots, apprehended and being led off undoubtedly to a death more horrible than Edward could imagine. That sight portended his own fate if he did not now take full advantage of his distance from the main body of battle.

  Edward reacted as he always had. He relied upon what he knew best, an element in which he was calm and capable. He headed for the inland sea. He shed his persona as frontier fighter, territorial militiaman and defender of his young love. He ran down to and along the water’s edge amid the dune grasses and headed into and among the stands of young trees, even as warriors detected him and ran toward him, intent on yet one more kill.

  But Edward was swift and confident. His feet were wet again at the edge of the surf, the sand now packed and firm near the outlet of a small creek just ahead. As he ran, weapons in hand, he heard Sarah’s faint cry of encouragement, “Run, Edward!” As he ran, he considered how he, a merchant seaman and topman, had found himself trapped behind wooden walls of a different nature than a ship, walls incapable of buoyancy, transport or escape: Fort Dearborn on the banks of the Chekagou River at the edge of the inland seas upon the outbreak of war in the Old Northwest. He had arrived just six weeks before.

  Edward Morris came to Fort Dearborn in early July, 1812. He stepped carefully from the waist of a merchant sloop to a small boat, as his Captain had ordered. The Master, William Lee, dropped anchor just offshore. Captain Lee prepared to offload the cargo of arms, ammunition and soldiers from Fort Mackinaw to reinforce Fort Dearborn, the United States garrison at the mouth of the Chekagou River. Reinforcing the garrison was the very purpose of the charter for the well found merchant sloop.

  Edward could not row. He had injured his leg just three days before and the resulting fever sapped his strength and prevented him from putting pressure or strain upon his lower body. But he could read the bottom and direct the course of the sloop amid the twisting and turning sand bars of the river mouth. More than an hour later, with James, the Captain’s son, at the oars and those on board and on shore handling various lines, the sloop was secure just in front of the main gate of the fort. All aboard were anxious to step ashore after a voyage filled with anxiety and drama. They would require some patience.

  Finally, Captain Lee gave the nod to his brother-in-law and good friend, also owner of the sloop, Oliver Williams, that all sail was properly furled, lines coiled and the ship was secure. It was time for the formal greeting and brief ceremony marking their arrival. Captain Lee and Oliver Williams boarded the ship’s boat, dressed in their best coats despite the heat and humidity. The ship’s boat now allowed for little remaining freeboard, in part due to Oliver’s considerable girth. James, somewhat clumsily for the lack of room, managed the oars. With Edward at the bow, manning the painter, the ship’s boat soon fetched up upon the south shore of the river.

  Captain Heald, commanding officer of the United States Army garrison, formally welcomed them and propriety dictated that he express his pleasure and enthusiasm during the introductions. It appeared as the entire white community of nearly one hundred souls, both soldiers and settlers, turned out to witness the event. In addition, natives watched from both banks, curious as to what news this sloop would bring and what goods she would off-load.

  Edward heard little of what he regarded as rather dull. He fixed his eyes upon a lass of about his age standing amid her family. He was encouraged by her glances and subtle smile and she was seemingly interested in his bandages, crutch and injured leg. She made to assist in finding him a seat upon a nearby log, which she then shared. He hoped her compassion was not entirely genuine and was rather, in part, an excuse to prompt introductions.

  He soon found that Sarah Kinzie was the niece of the settlement’s most established merchant, John Kinzie, and lived in his care. John Kinzie traded whatever goods presented themselves at this frontier outpost, but did his biggest volume in both furs and spirits. Indeed he traded the latter with the natives rather liberally, contrary to the practices and prohibitions governing other settlements along the Great Lakes. The owner of the sloop, Oliver Williams, quickly sought out Mr. Kinzie and the two began exchanging news of commerce and the testing of waters for opportunity between them. Their mutual distraction allowed Sarah and Edward some moments for polite conversation.

  Neither of the youths could be considered by the standards of any larger village or city well mannered or bred. Neither of them had any formal education, finishing, nor proper manners. Rather, any attempt at the latter was governed more by a loose concept gathered from their experience in the culturally diverse frontier; hardly the parlors and drawing rooms of back east. It was not long, however, and with no offense or scandal, before they became constant companions. Sarah took full advantage of the facts, justifying her attentions lavished upon Edward as the only Christian response given his apparent needs while his wound healed.

  Just one week later, Edward waved from the ramparts and called out to James, in the ship’s boat, as James and Oliver boarded the sloop. Her hold was full of furs and a couple of new passengers desiring to return to Michilmackinaw or points further east. The anchor was at short scope; her departure immanent. Edward, however, elected and informed Captain Lee the evening before of his intent to remain at Fort Dearborn and join the small community which seemed to welcome his youthful energy and talents acquired from living in the rough, on the very edge of society.

  Five weeks after the sailing of the ship with all his friends aboard, his leg regaining strength, he was again preparing to leave the settlement. Not by ship, but by wagon train. Many of the settlers, including the Kinzie family were heading for Detroit. The day before leaving, they were joined unexpectedly by the famous frontiersman, William Wells.

  He arrived at the gates of Fort Dearborn along with thirty Miami warriors, all, ironically, singing their death song. William Wells had been raised by natives, appointed Indian agent by President Jefferson and had far more understanding of the native peoples than anyone else within the walls.

  Wells met with the young army captain, Captain Heald, and urged him to cease all further negotiations with the natives for sa
fe passage. The Captain, having first indicated his assent with a native proposal to surrender all weapons and ammunition to them just four days before was now convinced of his error. He instead destroyed many of the weapons and much of the ammunition by dumping them down the parade ground well. The native chiefs were furious and no longer considered Captain Heald deserving of their trust or respect. Ironically, Wells confirmed that the Wyandot had no intention of living up to their word in any case and seemed most upset that their plan of treachery had been frustrated by Heald’s new found sense of realism.

  Wells opinion carried weight. His reputation exceeded the authority of any of those in uniform and even Captain Heald listened to his advice.

  “Arm fully with what arms remain,” advised Wells, “and depart at first light.” Heald did not press the civilians so hard as Wells had instructed, however, and instead the column of soldiers and civilians, indeed every European for some miles surrounding, cautiously made their way from the gates of Fort Dearborn well after noon. They set a course south, along the shore of Lake Michigan and slowly made their way between the dunes, before they would turn east for Detroit. Edward guessed they had logged less than two miles before he saw signs the natives were tracking their march and preparing an ambush.

  Edward rode on horseback alongside the wagons, his aim to warn Captain Heald of what he and Sarah had observed lurking along the crest of the parallel dune. He arrived at the head of the train just in time to see Mrs. Heald, niece to William Wells and the primary reason for his futile efforts to relieve the fort, be one of the first to be wounded.