Shingas

THE WAR WAS over. The bitter struggle which had seen the two great European nations of France and England locked in a bloody conflict for six years was ended. Now Canada together with all her dependencies had a new ruler; King George the third of England.

All that now remained was to take possession of those western outposts which still remained in French hands and this is where our story begins.

Fort Detroit November 1760.

From the quadrangle of firmed earth surrounded on each side by weathered palisades, Captain Beletre, the garrison commander, a stoutly built middle aged man, immaculately dressed in a three quarter length grey jacket, fixed his doleful gaze on the flag fluttering high above the ramparts. His aristocratic features, marred somewhat by a large aquiline nose, were fixed in a grim expression.

He had resolved to defend his post but when handed a copy of the capitulation by the English officer, together with a letter from the Marquis de Vaundreuil directing that the post should be given up without resistance, he had no choice but to surrender.

As his eyes settled on the billowing emblem of France, a shaft of sunlight pierced the cloud-filled November sky and for a brief moment, as though guided by some divine hand, its rays struck the eastern bastion of the fort, bathing it in a warm mellow light.

At that very moment a Grenadier, his scarlet coat embellished with the insignia of a corporal at arms, appeared on the timber battlement. Squinting in the unexpected brightness, he stepped forward, untied the rope at the foot of the flagstaff and began slowly lowering the Fleur De Lis.

Minutes later, and the corporal at arms took up the rope once more and accompanied by a rousing cheer from the detachment of English soldiers watching from outside the walls, he raised the blood red cross of St George aloft in its place.

Beletre lowered his gaze. As a soldier he felt the bitterness of defeat and as a Frenchman he felt the sadness of a lost land. But as a husband and a father, he was glad it was over; glad he was done with war.

For him, the moment of certainty had come two years earlier at Ticonderoga, when even as they perished in their hundreds on the French breastworks in a tempest of musket-balls, the heroism and determined valour displayed that day by the English soldiers showed a desire to wrest this land from whoever laid claim to it that was unstoppable. Pushing the bitter memory from his mind, Beletre turned to the warrior standing beside him, a Seneca war-chief and ally of the French and offered him a benign smile.

Shingas stared back at him with ink-black eyes. He was tall for his race, his body lean and muscular, his savage features emblazoned with war-paint. A single white heron’s feather hung from his scalp-lock and suspended around his neck was a bear claw necklace. Every inch the warrior, his only clothing was a breech-cloth and thigh length leather leggings tied at the knee and deer-skin moccasins embellished with beads and porcupine quills. A knife and tomahawk hung from the belt around his waist. When he spoke, his French was imbued with the eloquence of his native tongue and although the language was foreign to him, learned over many hours from black robed Jesuits, his mastery of it was commendable.

‘Why do you lay down your arms when we are many and they are few?’

‘You think I don’t want to fight?’ Beletre replied, his face flushed with anger, his words imbued with bitterness.

Shingas, his face devoid of expression remained silent.

Beletre shrugged his shoulders. ‘But I am forbidden. In France our Great Father has fallen asleep and while he slumbers he desires that we make peace with the English.’

‘And what is to become of us? your brothers. Must we also make peace with these English dogs?’

‘I must obey the wishes of my King and you must obey them also.’

‘He is not my King.’

‘That may be so but Shingas must know he cannot fight the English alone.’

‘Shingas fought the Yenge before his French brothers took up arms against them. Shingas took many scalps and soon he will take many more.’

Overcome by a sense of sadness at Shingas’ words and aware of the fate he knew awaited him and his people, Beletre paused for a moment, struggling inwardly to think of a way of conveying to this savage warrior the complex politics and intrigue of European statesmanship that had led to this moment. But he knew it was hopeless, it would be easier to make a length of rope out of sand and so instead, adopting a more conciliatory tone, he lied.

‘Shingas is a great warrior but he must be patient, soon the Great Father will awaken and then he will send his armies to drive the English from the lands of his children.’

‘The English King does not sleep and if Shingas does not fight, these dogs dressed in red will devour my people.’

Resigned to the hopelessness of further reasoning, Beletre touched a hand to his black gold trimmed tricorn hat, turned and walked away, contenting himself with thoughts of a return to the house he loved on the Rue St Antoine in Paris and a reunion with a family he had not seen for over five years. With both of his daughters now married, there was also the possibility of grandchildren to enjoy in his old age. But first there was the formality of surrender to attend to.

Ahead of him, flanked by two lines of redcoats the garrison of French soldier’s, disarmed and dejected, filed out through the gates and marched along the dirt road leading down to the rive

and the waiting whale boats which would transport them across the stormy waters of Lake Eire and into captivity.

Off to one side, a large crowd of Pottawattamies and Wyandot warriors dressed in painted shirts and fluttering headdresses, looked on. Each of them amazed at this obsequious behaviour, and at a loss to understand why with so many men, the French troops should humble themselves before so few of their enemies.

With a gesture, Shingas gathered his war-party of twenty warriors around him and disarmed of their muskets and bullet sacks, they followed behind the grey-coated Troupes De La Marine as they left the sanctuary of the fort and trudged along the road towards the river.

Between the road and the forest the ground rose up forming a low hill and from this vantage point a young English officer observed proceedings with an indifferent air. Moments later his gaze fell upon Shingas and his warriors and immediately his persona changed. Turning away, he gestured urgently to a company of Redcoats taking their ease a short distance away. Obediently, with their muskets carried at the port, the soldiers jogged towards him.

Shingas caught the flurry of activity and watched as the company of soldiers gathered in a circle around the young Lieutenant like a pack of hunting hounds eager for the kill.

The young officer uttered an order and then striding out purposefully he set off down the slope towards the dirt road. A step behind him the grim faced soldiers formed up into two ranks and followed after him.

Shingas, his senses heightened, watched as they approached and what he saw filled him with dread; for unlike the rest of their comrades, the two soldiers bringing up the rear had their muskets slung over their shoulders and were carrying manacles and leg-irons.

With a guttural cry Shingas called out a warning and breaking into a run, he raced away across the cleared ground in front of the fort, a killing field for any attackers foolhardy enough to venture upon it. Heeding Shingas’ cry, to a man the war-party chased after him, leaping over the stumps of the decapitated trees with the grace and agility of deer. With their hearts pounding they dashed towards the forest and safety.

Reaching the road, the company of Redcoats quickly formed up into two ranks, the front rank dropping down onto one knee while the second rank formed up a step behind them. Pausing for a moment to give each man time to raise his musket and select his target, the young officer then shouted out the order to fire.

The volley from the exploding muskets shattered the silence and droning like angry bees the musket balls flew among the fleeing war-party and six warriors fell to the ground with bloody holes in their backs. Spurred on, Shingas and the survivors raced headlong for the sanctuary of the trees.

Behind them, with practised precision, the soldiers reloaded their muskets, ramming wadding and ball home with their rods and then priming the musket pan with powder. When all were ready, the lieutenant called out his orders.

‘Present! Fire!’

And once more the deafening crash of musket fire shattered the silence.

The fleeing Indians were almost at the tree-line when three warriors, lagging behind the others, were struck by the hail of lead balls and tumbled to the ground like skittles struck by a well thrown cheese.

The officer, his youthful cheeks flushed with colour, gave the order for his men to fix bayonets, then drawing his sword from its scabbard, he strode forward as though he was crossing a parade ground. Behind him with the naked steel of their bayonets glinting in the late morning sun, the soldiers formed a single line and advanced across the cleared ground, their heavy boots sinking into the soft mould.

Reaching the fallen Indians the soldiers moved from body to body and giving little thought as to whether they might be alive or dead, they stuck them with their bayonets, stabbing them again and again as though they were just lumps of meat. With the murderous work done and their once gleaming bayonets dripping with blood, they turned about and made their way back to the road.

Concealed by the dense foliage Shingas watched their butchery, his face devoid of expression. Taught from childhood to conceal all emotions, the lesson would not leave him but in his heart he swore a terrible revenge.