Chapter 1

Refuge in a Rain Barrel

As soon as she heard the first pop, pop, pop of the distant muskets, the young mother extinguished the morning fire and closed and barred the cabin’s shutters.

Maybe, with the cabin closed up, the attackers would think she had fled into the nearby village for safety. She scooped her four-year-old son out of his bed and sat with him in her rocker. By the light of a single lamp she softly sang,

   I see the moon, and the moon sees me.
    God bless the moon, and God bless me.
    There’s grace in the cabin and grace in the hall,
    And the grace of God is over us all.

"Mommy," interrupted little Gilbert sleepily, "where’s Papa?"

"He’s with the other men of the village and all those Kentucky soldiers who came to help us. They’re trying to fight off the British and Indians."

"Will he come home soon?"

"I hope so."

The sound of cannons boomed above the steady crackle of rifle fire as the fighting got closer. Audry Hamilton could now hear the yells and screams of men in battle. She rocked faster and sang her song again, her voice sounding thin and strained. Suddenly she stopped. "Wait here," she said, putting Gilbert in the chair and going to the door. She removed the bar and peeked out, then slammed it.

"Come here, son." Moving swiftly, she pulled the last blanket out of an old trunk and wrapped it around the boy who had obediently followed her. "I’m going to hide you where no one can find you."

The boy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. "But I don’t wanna be hidded away," he whined, sticking out his lower lip. "If you hide me, I’ll be lost like my spinning button. I can’t find it!"

"Hush, now . . . don’t worry. I won’t lose you," soothed his mother. "I just want to keep you safe."

With that she picked up the child, wrapped tight like a papoose, and headed for the door. On the way she grabbed a couple of hair-on deerskins off the bed, opened the door a crack, then hurried outside and around to the back of the cabin. Behind the cabin, not more than a hundred yards away, was the village of Frenchtown surrounded by its flimsy stockade.

She thought of making a run for it, but the closest gate was around to the north, and more fighting could be heard in that direction.

"Where are you going to hide me?" came the child’s muffled voice from inside the bundle.

"Shh. I . . . I . . ." She looked around. "I’m gonna put you in the rain barrel," she finally gasped. "But you mustn’t make a sound. No one will find you."

"But what if it rains? I don’t wanna get wet. I might drown!" The boy began wiggling.

"Stay still," Audry whispered loudly. "There’s no rain in the middle of January in Michigan." She put the bundle down on the snow and pulled the lid off the barrel.

Into the bottom she threw one of the deerskins. Then she lifted the boy in and wedged the other deerskin around him.

By this time the fighting was getting noticeably closer. Probably just across the meadow, thought the anxious woman.

"I can’t move," Gilbert complained.

"You don’t need to move," snapped his mother. "Just stay put and be quiet. I’m going to put the lid back on. Plenty of air will come through the hole for you to breath. Now hush!"

With that she plunked the lid back on the barrel and hurried back around to the cabin door.

The morning mists were rising over the snow-covered meadow in front of the cabin. On the other side the skeletons of leafless trees began to take shape. She stepped inside the cabin but continued to watch through the partially opened door. She could see shadowy figures moving from tree to tree, and occasionally the bright flash of musket fire.

Then, through the trees, she saw the red and white uniform of a British soldier. He was waving a sword as if motioning other men to follow him. How can this be? she worried. Those Kentucky soldiers chased off the British three days ago. Certainly the British reinforcements couldn’t have arrived from Detroit this soon. But why are our soldiers pulling back?

But the shadowy figures in their buckskins and tattered American uniforms were retreating toward her. Some had already backed out into the open meadow while the Redcoats advanced toward them through the woods.

Suddenly, up over the bank of the frozen river alongside the meadow rose a stampede of screaming Indians, waving their tomahawks and guns as they charged across the field toward the helpless Kentuckians and local settlers.

As she watched, Audry Hamilton suddenly recognized her husband retreating with the other settlers across the field . . . then, horrified, she saw him crumple to the snow under the withering blow of an Indian war club.

She slammed the door and collapsed to the floor.

G G G G

Sergeant Thompson of the Kentucky militia lay sprawled in the snow, knocked unconscious by a musket ball that had grazed his head. As the afternoon sun warmed his back, he gradually became aware of the icy snow in his face, the throbbing in his head, and the chilly dampness of his uniform.

Where was he? What had happened? He tried to think, but the throbbing in his head made it difficult.

The young sergeant tried to sit up. He was stiff, but except for a monstrous headache, he didn’t seem to be wounded anywhere. He looked around, wincing as he saw the bodies of fellow soldiers sprawled in snow stained red with their blood. A young man in buckskins—one of the settlers, obviously—lay dead nearby.

Now he remembered. His militia had come north from Kentucky with General Winchester to help the Michigan settlers fight off the British and their Indian allies. The fighting had gone back and forth most of 1812. The new year had already started as General Winchester and his Kentuckians had come to the aid of Frenchtown, a small village being used by the British to store supplies. But the communication had said there were only a few British soldiers and Indians—the village could be easily won back if the Americans got some help.

Thompson staggered to his feet. Something had gone terribly wrong. From out of nowhere, hundreds of Redcoats . . . hundreds of Indians . . .

The blood circulated in his cold limbs as he trudged slowly toward the village, and he began to feel stronger. But the village itself was in chaos. Much of the flimsy stockade had been burned or knocked down. Some of the cabins had been burned or damaged by cannon fire. Wounded men—both soldiers and settlers—were propped against the remaining buildings.

The sergeant recognized one of his soldiers, a bloody bandage wrapped around his knee. "Where’s General Winchester?" he demanded.

"Captured," the man said dully.

Thompson swallowed. "Why are these wounded outside? They’ll freeze out here before morning."

"No room," muttered the man. "A few criticals inside . . . plus women and children."

Sergeant Thompson realized he had to do something to get these men inside. He went from cabin to cabin, trying to see if he could squeeze in a few more. He didn’t have much luck in the village, but some of the families had lived outside the stockade. He’d check those out, too.

About a hundred yards south of the village, he came across a silent cabin. In the winter evening’s twilight he could see that the door was torn off its leather hinges and one corner of the small dwelling was blackened. The Indians had apparently tried to set it on fire, but for some reason, the flames had gone out.

"Hello. Hello? Is anybody here?" he called as he ventured inside the house. In the shadows he could see that the furniture was broken and all the food stores had been raided. Pots, pans, blankets, and anything of value had been taken. No one was there.

"We can use this cabin for a hospital," he murmured to himself, turning back to the village to get some help to move the wounded men. But as he walked around to the back of the cabin, he was startled by a sound. At first he thought it was a kitten meowing, and he was ready to ignore it, but something made him investigate.

The whimpering sound seemed to come from a barrel sitting under the eaves of the cabin. He popped open the lid and jumped back. "Heaven help us! What have we here?" he said, looking down into the gloom of the barrel.

Staring up at him was the tear-stained face of a small boy.

"Lad? You okay? Whatcha doin’ in there?"

The boy didn’t answer . . . only clung to Thompson as the sergeant gently pulled him out and carried him back to the village.

Most of the settlers were too traumatized to even give the boy a glance as Thompson tried to discover who the boy was. Finally one harried woman recognized the child. "Why, that’s the Hamilton boy. They live just outside the stockade."

"They don’t no more," spoke up a wounded Frenchtown man. "I seen Black Hawk carrying off his mother this mornin’."

Thompson was shocked. "What do you mean, man?"

"I was lyin’ out there in the middle of the field with my legs shot out from under me when he came walking by with the boy’s mother under his arm like she was a sack of flour. But you can believe she was kickin’ and screamin’ plenty."

"Who’s this Black Hawk?" demanded Sergeant Thompson. "How do you know it was him?"

"It was him, all right. Him and some of his braves were fightin’ alongside the British. They were the ones that took over the town before you all came. Huh! He’s big and strong as Goliath. I’d recognize him anywhere."

"What about the boy’s pappy?" said Thompson.

"Well, now, he’s sure enough dead. His body’s right out there in the snow with the rest of ’em. God rest their souls," muttered the settler.

As the man’s words sank in, Thompson felt the boy’s small body still clinging to him. The boy was an orphan. Who was going to take care of him?

The young Kentuckian talked to several of the Frenchtown families, but it soon became apparent the survivors were too overwhelmed to take on anything more. Many of the original thirty-three families had been completely wiped out. None had escaped the loss of some family members. It was the middle of winter, and the British and Indians were still in the area threatening further attacks.

"We just can’t take him," said a woman who had lost her husband and whose cabin had been burned to the ground. She and her children had survived by tunneling into a haystack to hide. "I’m goin’ back to Boston before we starve," she said. "It’ll be hard enough with five young’uns. I couldn’t possibly handle another one."

"But . . . but someone has to take him!" Sergeant Thompson sputtered.

"You’re from Kentucky," noted the man who had seen the Indians carrying off Mrs. Hamilton. "His father has kinfolk there—Logan County, I think. Take the boy back with you. Let the Hamiltons raise him."

Sergeant Thompson didn’t know what to do. But right then he had more immediate concerns—like getting his wounded men under cover for the night. He began gathering up those who could walk and together they carried others until thirty exhausted Kentuckians and little Gilbert were crowded into the Hamiltons’ tiny cabin outside the town’s stockade. They propped the door in place and lit a fire, but they were too tired to bring in enough wood to keep it going until morning.

With first light, Sergeant Thompson was awakened by someone shaking him. He turned over to see that the door had been removed. A tall, stern-looking Indian stood over him with his finger to his lips for silence. Then he motioned Thompson to follow.

Outside, Thompson heard a terrible howling and screaming coming from the village. He staggered to the corner of the cabin and saw smoke and flames billowing above the broken-down fence around the town.

"White man’s firewater make Indians go crazy," explained the Indian. "You leave now or die!"

Thompson looked again. Indians were running everywhere looting the cabins, scalping the unarmed inhabitants, and burning the remaining buildings.

"We must stop them!"

"You could not stop them. You must leave!" To a military man like Thompson, it sounded like an order. Then the Indian turned to him and said, "I’m Black Hawk. They are not my braves, but I will try to stop them."

Black Hawk! Thompson was stunned. Why was he warning them? Just yesterday he was fighting on the side of the British. "Why—?" he blurted.

The big Indian’s eyes narrowed. "Killing the wounded is not honorable," he said.

Thompson turned back toward the cabin door, his first impulse to rally his men and race to the village. But Black Hawk was right; there really was nothing he could do. His men were all unarmed and seriously wounded. Maybe he should just try to get them to safety.

He stopped, remembering something. "Hey, did you take a white woman from this—?" But Black Hawk was gone.

Quietly Thompson woke up his men. With some hobbling on makeshift crutches and others supporting their comrades, the party made its way across the meadow and into the woods . . . with the little Hamilton boy riding on the sergeant’s shoulders.