Scott was too good a general not to know that Driscol was right, but he kept scowling for hours. Driscol made it a point to remain by his side throughout the rest of the day. Just in case the brigadier needed to be gently restrained again.
Driscol’s prediction proved accurate almost to the minute. At five o’clock in the afternoon, the British defenders surrendered Fort Erie.
As he watched his men escorting the captured British soldiers to the rear—a friendly enough affair, on both sides, since calm reason had prevailed over silly belligerence—Scott finally stopped scowling.
“Well, you were right, Sergeant,” he commented gruffly to Driscol.
“You’re quite welcome, sir,” Driscol replied easily.
Moments later, though, Scott was starting to scowl again. Driscol decided it would be best to cheer him up with the prospect of looming difficulties and desperate circumstances.
“By now, of course, the main British army at Fort George will have learned that we’ve landed on their shores. The pickets would have brought Riall the news. He’ll already have his troops marching south to meet us.”
“Will he, then?” Scott clapped his hands together. “How soon, do you think?”
“Sometime on the morrow.”
“That quickly? Fort George is well over twenty miles away.”
Driscol gave him a level gaze. “That’s a professional British army we’re about to smash into, sir. Sometime on the morrow. Be sure of it.”
General Brown didn’t propose to wait for them, however. He arrived at Fort Erie soon after it was taken, and ordered Scott to move his First Brigade north the next morning.
“We should be able to seize the bridge over the Chippewa before the enemy arrives,” said Brown.
Scott nodded. “We need that bridge, or we’ll lose days. So far as I know, there aren’t any fords across the Chippewa unless you go pretty far upstream, off to the west.”
Driscol kept his mouth shut, as protocol demanded. In point of fact, he thought the American generals were indulging themselves in a fantasy. The Chippewa River was a bit closer to Fort Erie than it was to Fort George, true. But an officer like Riall would send out an advance force, to delay the American approach until Riall himself could arrive with the main body of his army. Driscol was fairly certain the British would get to the bridge first.
In this, as in so many ways, the level of professionalism of the British army was simply superior to that of the American one. Scott had done wonders with the Army of the Niagara in the months he’d had to train it. But months of training couldn’t possibly match the decades of experience the British army had amassed in pitched battles and maneuvers on the European continent. Driscol thought that Scott had shaped the army well enough to match the British on the open field of battle, if not in the maneuvers that led up to it. And that was as much as the sergeant could ask for.
He’d have a chance, finally, to face the Sassenach on something close to even terms.
Somewhere on the plain south of the Chippewa, he thought to himself. That’s where it’ll happen.
It was as good a place as any for the man from County Antrim to get his revenge, or meet his death. Most likely both, he guessed.
JULY 4, 1814
Street’s Creek
“Goddamn them!” Scott snarled, blatantly disregarding his firm and clear regulations prohibiting blasphemy.
Of course, other men took the Lord’s name in vain when they did so. The brigadier didn’t, since—surely—the Almighty was in agreement with his viewpoint.
Patrick Driscol wasn’t going to argue the matter. First, because he was a sergeant. Secondly, because given his deist views, he didn’t care much about blasphemy anyway. Finally, because he shared the brigadier’s attitude toward the object of the curse—the Sassenach; who better deserved damnation? However, he didn’t share the brigadier’s surprise and disgruntlement.
Just as Driscol had foreseen the night before, within an hour after marching north that morning, Scott’s brigade had begun encountering British detachments. The detachments hadn’t sought any decisive engagement, where they would have been overwhelmed by Scott’s numbers. They had simply been sent to delay the American advance long enough to enable Riall and his main force to seize the bridge over the Chippewa, and establish a firm foothold.
With the Chippewa bridge in their possession, the British would enjoy a very strong defensive position from which to resist any further American encroachment into Canada.
It was the best move for the British commander to have made. Brown’s forces numbered almost four thousand men, of whom three-fourths were regulars. To oppose it, Riall had no more than two thousand men at his immediate disposal in Fort George, according to the intelligence Scott had collected. Granted, Riall probably didn’t realize what a high percentage of Brown’s army was made up of regular soldiers. Because of supply shortages, most of the American regulars were wearing undyed gray uniforms, barely distinguishable from the standard militia issue. Only a few actually had the regulation blue coats and white trousers.
Still, outnumbered two to one, Riall would probably wait behind his defensive lines until Lieutenant General Drummond could bring up reinforcements from other British units in Canada.
So, the entire day of July 4 was spent in a frustrating series of minor engagements with British skirmishers. Just to make things worse, the day had turned out hot and dry. For an army tramping up a road, that translated into “very dusty.”
Again, Driscol was impressed with Scott’s ability to keep driving the brigade forward. The sergeant hadn’t expected to reach the Chippewa until sometime on the fifth, but Scott managed to get his brigade there by late afternoon of Independence Day. In the process, he left the rest of Brown’s army lagging far behind.
Nevertheless, the brigadier’s energy and determination turned out to be futile. By the time the First Brigade was in sight of the Chippewa, Riall and his army were thoroughly entrenched.
“Damn them!” Scott repeated. He sat back in his saddle and glared at the enemy force across the river. Then, sighing softly, he turned his head and scanned the terrain his brigade had just passed through.
Driscol waited patiently for the command, even though he knew perfectly well what it would be. Not even a commanding officer as impetuous as Winfield Scott would be rash enough to order a brigade of thirteen hundred men to attack a force of almost two thousand men who had a river to provide them with a defensive position.
A commander unsure of himself might have kept his brigade muddling around in the open field south of the Chippewa, but Scott was no indecisive muddler. Since he couldn’t attack, the only intelligent thing to do was retreat half a mile and have his brigade take up defensive positions of their own.
“We’ll move back across Street’s Creek,” Scott announced to his aides. “See to it, if you would.”
The junior officers trotted off to attend to the matter. Driscol, as he usually did unless Scott gave him a specific order, remained behind.
Scott often asked his advice, though rarely when other officers were around to overhear. He was notorious for being self-confident to the point of rashness, but at least half of that was for public show. In private, Driscol had found that Scott was quite willing to solicit the opinion of his master sergeant. Whatever else, the brigadier was no fool.
“What do you think, Sergeant? Not much chance, I suppose, that we could get Riall to come at us directly.”
From the vantage point of his own saddle, Driscol examined the terrain. Off to the right, the Niagara River formed the boundary to the east, and the Chippewa to the north. Without boats, there was no way to cross the Niagara at all, and no way to cross the Chippewa except at the bridge. To the south, where the American units were already starting to move back, lay Street’s Creek, nestled a short distance back into the trees. The creek wasn’t the barrier that the Chippewa was, but it would still provide the Americans with a reasonably strong defensive position of their own.
Between Street’s Creek and the Chippewa lay an open plain one mile deep and about the same distance wide. There was a dense woodland to their left, on the western side of the plain, which completed the enclosure.
In short, it was a classic battlefield terrain. There was a clearly defined open area for the clash of arms, and no easy way for either side to maneuver around it. The trick, of course, would be to get the British to come out onto the field at all. Why should they? They were the defending force, and they were outnumbered to boot, with a very strong position from which to break any further American advance.
“Probably not, sir,” the sergeant replied. “Although . . .”
A bit surprised, Scott lifted his eyebrow. “Although . . . what?”
Driscol paused for a few more seconds, studying the American troops moving to the rear.
“Well, it’s the uniforms, sir. From a distance, they look just like militia uniforms.” He turned his head and scanned the British forces across the Chippewa. “Riall’s an aggressive sort of general, by all accounts. We’re so far ahead of the rest of the army that he has us outnumbered, for the moment. And if he thinks we’re just a militia force . . .”
“Interesting point,” Scott murmured. “Yes, he does have us outnumbered at the moment. About seventeen hundred men, as best as I can determine, to face our thirteen hundred in the brigade.”
Scott thought about it himself, and then shook his head regretfully. “It’s still not likely he’ll come out. Certainly not today, as late as it is in the afternoon. And by tomorrow, General Brown will have arrived with the rest of our army.”
Driscol was amused. Most American officers would have been relieved to avoid an open battle with British regulars. Scott was disgruntled that the enemy wouldn’t come out for it.
Driscol nodded. “You’re most likely right, sir. Still, if he thinks we’re militiamen, Riall might just think he could rout us easily.”
“I fear it’s not likely to happen, Sergeant. If I were in Riall’s position, I certainly wouldn’t take the chance.”
With some difficulty, Driscol managed to keep a straight face. He knew perfectly well that if the positions had been reversed, Scott would already have been marching his army onto the field.
But he kept all that to himself.
“I’ll be seeing to the men’s encampment then, sir. It’s beginning to look like rain.”
Scott nodded. “Thank you, sergeant. There’s nothing else to do at the moment. Damn them.”
CHAPTER 13
JULY 5, 1814
The Battle of Chippewa
Brown and the rest of the army began arriving just before midnight, in the middle of a downpour. Ripley’s brigade made camp south of Scott’s brigade, eager to get their tents up.
By the morning of the fifth, the rain had stopped, and the sun had returned. The heat soon dried up the traces, leaving the ground as dusty as ever. Scott’s pickets started exchanging gunfire with British skirmishers who’d taken up positions in the woods to the west. The presence of the enemy there was a nuisance, but nothing worse than that. Still, after hours of it, Brown was annoyed enough to order Porter to take his Third Brigade of militiamen and their Indian allies, and clear the skirmishers out of the woods.
Porter and his men began moving into the woods late in the afternoon. While they did so, Scott decided that he would use the rest of day to march his brigade across Street’s Creek and engage in a full drill in front of the main British forces. The brigadier was frustrated by inaction.
“If nothing else,” he told Driscol, “we can thumb our noses at the enemy. Show them we’re not intimidated. Besides, I don’t want the men getting rusty.”
Driscol thought it was a lot of foolishness, but he went about the brigadier’s business, getting the men ready for the drill. As he did so, he noticed General Brown and several of his aides trotting toward the woods. Brown had apparently decided to see how Porter was getting along.
Not well, it seemed. There was a sudden burst of gunfire from the direction of the trees, which turned into what sounded like a small running battle. Driscol assumed the British had decided to reinforce their skirmishers in the woods.
But he didn’t see anything further. Even if he hadn’t been preoccupied with his own affairs, the screen of trees and brush along the banks of the creek blocked his view of the plain to the north.
“We’ve got them pinned in the woods, sir,” Riall’s aide said to him, after he took the report from the courier.
Major General Riall nodded. Then, smiled rather ferociously. “Time to teach Cousin Jonathan what’s what, then, wouldn’t you say? Order the army across the bridge.”
When General Brown saw the first of Porter’s militiamen stumbling out of the woods, he scowled. His scowl deepened when he saw the cloud of dust starting to rise in the north.
He lifted himself up in the stirrups in order to get a better view. After a few seconds he started seeing British uniforms, flashing like gleams in the dust.
“Good God. They’re coming across the bridge.”
His eyes swept back and forth across the field. It was obvious that Riall had sent enough reinforcements into the woods to tie up Porter’s brigade. If he moved his main army onto the plain quickly enough, he had a fair chance of capturing Porter and his men before they could disengage.
Instead of simply waiting behind defensive lines, Riall had decided to lay a little trap.
“Ha!” Brown’s scowl changed into a grin. If Scott could get his brigade onto the plain quickly enough to forestall Riall’s advance, that would allow them time enough for Brown himself to race back and bring up Ripley’s brigade as a reinforcement . . .
He jabbed a finger in the direction of the woods. “Get in there—all of you—and stiffen up Porter. Tell him to hold.”
Without another word, he turned his horse and began galloping back toward the bridge across Street’s Creek.
Sergeant Driscol was in the leading ranks of the First Brigade as it began crossing over the Street’s Creek bridge. He was on foot now, not on horseback, since in the coming drill he’d be assuming his normal position in the battle formation. General Scott and two of his officers were the only mounted men in the vicinity. They were ahead of him, and they weren’t throwing up enough dust to obscure Driscol’s vision.
As soon as the sergeant saw the cloud of dust to the north, he figured out what was happening. He began to alert the brigadier, but saw that it wasn’t necessary. Scott was already perched high in his stirrups, staring at the sight.
Then, an oncoming horseman made the whole issue a moot one.
It was General Brown, galloping recklessly across the field, grinning like a lunatic.
He didn’t even slow down. He thundered past Scott and Driscol, pointing behind him with a finger. “You will have a battle!” he shouted gaily, and then he was gone.
By now, Scott was grinning himself. He began bellowing orders. By the time those orders got to the master sergeant, Driscol had already taken care of what needed doing. Seeing that, Scott’s grin widened even further.
“We shall whip them, Sergeant! Watch and see!”
Driscol shared the brigadier’s hopes, but not his anticipation. Brown’s entire army might outnumber Riall’s, but Scott’s First Brigade didn’t. Driscol doubted if Brown could get the Second Brigade moved up before nightfall. In the battle that was about to take place, Scott would face something like seventeen hundred British regulars with only thirteen hundred men of his own.
No American army since the war began had beaten an equal-size British force on an open battlefield. Not regulars matched against regulars. Now, Scott proposed to do it while outnumbered four to three.
So be it. It seemed a nice countryside. Not Ireland, true, but still a pleasant enough place to die.
Half an hour later, the two armies were taking positions facing each other on the plain by the Niagara, and Private McParland was scared out of his wits. Drill was one thing. B
ut finally seeing red-coated British troops maneuvering on a plain with all the precision of a machine—well, that was something else entirely. The enemy army reminded the teenage soldier of the brightly painted threshing machine he’d seen once at a county fair. With him and his mates as the grain about to be haplessly mangled.
Desperately, he tried to control his terror. And, like many of the men around him, he found his anchor in the sight of Sergeant Driscol.
He was there, of course. Where else would he? Stalking calmly back and forth in front of the troops, living up to the name his men had recently given him.
The troll.
Off in the distance, young McParland could see Brigadier Scott, shouting something to another group of soldiers. McParland couldn’t make out the words, but he was quite sure that Scott was exhorting the troops. The brigadier was a fine speechifier, as he’d demonstrated in the past any number of times.
Sergeant Driscol’s notion of “exhortation,” on the other hand, was . . .
About what you’d expect from a troll.
You will not flinch. You will not quaver. Forget those wretched Sassenach, boys. If a man so much as twitches, I will cut him up for my soup. You will face lead with serenity. You will face bayonets with a laugh. Because if you don’t, you will face my gaping gullet.
The beast went on in that vein for another minute or so. By the time he was done, McParland felt himself settling down. Not so much because he was scared of the troll’s wrath any longer—the youngster would surely be dead soon, anyway, so what difference did it make?—but because he knew for sure and certain that the enemy was doomed. The British might have precision and training and experience and all the rest. But did they have their own troll?