CHALLENGE AT COOK’S MILLS

By Gerald D. Kirk

[Toronto Paper, Date Unknown]

Mr. Kirk was the 2^nd prize winner.

It wasn’t a village, much less a town, just a random collection of crude dwellings and outbuildings along two main trails that intersected at Calvin Cook’s mills. Lyon’s Creek, that gave power to the saw and grist mills, was swollen from the uncommonly heavy autumn rains that had made a morass of much of Crowland township. Now in mid-October wheat from surrounding farms was still in the process of being ground into flour and meal, some earmarked for the British forces camped at Chippawa.

Calvin had been hard-pressed to accommodate the multitude of farmers anxious to transform their grain into flour before the onset of winter. Two years of war had devastated much of the Niagara frontier, and most other mills south of the Welland River lay in ruins.

But as they worked, the millers cast anxious glances out of flour-dusted windows toward the road from Fort Erie, with that special anxiety civilians feel in the proximity of two frustrated and desperate armies. For days the settlement had lived in a constant state of alert, an alert sharpened by the sight of Brown Bess muskets issued to the farm boys guarding the mills.

It was less than an hour after daybreak. The grey smoke of cooking fires mixed with mist still rising from the Niagara and from the campground sprawled low and soggy on its west bank. Fewer men had turned out for reveille than the day before, and the grim shadow of dysentery now hung over the tent of commander, U.S. General George Izard. A large column of infantry and cavalry that had been formed up on the river road began crossing the log bridge over Black Creek, wheeling left onto the trail leading away from the river. Ahead lay the dismal tamarack swamp that Niagara folk did their best to avoid at the driest of seasons.

The horse soldiers led the way, and behind them the commandant of the expedition, Brigadier General Daniel Bissell. His orders were safely tucked into a pouch in his saddlebag, but the contents kept coming to mind: “proceed to Cook’s Mills…reconnoitre the area….destroy the grain and flour…await reinforcements.” Not mentioned on paper but an objective nonetheless was the capture of Misener’s Bridge and the bridge at Pelham/Thorold line, both strategic crossings over the Welland River. Both were in easy marching distance of Cook’s Mills. But what if something went wrong. The prospect of a retreat back across the tamarack swamp caused beads of perspiration to appear on Bissell’s forehead despite the coolness of the October morning.

The sun was already past its highest point in the sky when the American column finally reached the deeply rutted road to Cook’s Mills. Tired and hungry, the men squatted along the road on whatever dry object they had or could find, and munched the hard biscuits each carried in his knapsack. The pause was mercilessly brief, and soon the march was resumed. Less than two hours later the dragoons in the vanguard spotted smoke from the cabin chimneys of Yokum, Buchner and Cook.

Shots were fired by the militiamen guarding the causeway over Lyon’s Creek, but the small force of defenders scattered as the Yankee dragoons charged, sabres gleaming in the afternoon sun. The last to attempt to escape, militia Captain Henry Buchner was quickly surrounded by dragoons and forced to surrender. Women, children and the elderly peeked from their places of concealment to behold the astonishing sight of a seemingly infinite number of blue and grey uniforms flooding their settlement.

Orders were immediately issued to set up camp, and the soldiers began assembling the small tents that would shelter them for the next two nights. By dusk the fields opposite the mills were a sea of canvas, and the men were beginning to build fires to cook their evening meal of dried peas thickened with crumbled biscuits.

Suddenly, there was a commotion on the outskirts of the encampment as plucky farmwives belabored some soldiers for pulling down fence rails to use for fuel. To no avail; before long, most fences in the vicinity were only a memory.

Sleep would come hard for most of the American soldiers camped on the damp ground that chilly October night. Many were natives of southern States and not at all accustomed to the Niagara autumn. But their discomfort would be forgotten as the report of musket fire echoed form the direction of the outpost east of the mills.

The disturbance lasted on a few seconds, but it seemed like hours to the men crouching near the fires, gripping their muskets. Then the only sound was the whisper passing from group to group…”He was one of ours” Then an uneasy stillness returned.

Hardly had the stars and stripes been hoisted up the makeshift flagpole the next morning than green uniforms were spotted on the Chippawa road. Glengarries! Lightly equipped with short flintlocks designed for guerilla-style warfare, these hardy soldiers of Scottish descent formed a unit selected to spearhead the British response. As they approached the American outpost the Glengarries suddenly divided, some proceeding forward, the rest veering to the right into the bush screening the camp. The Yankee picket fired, reloaded and fired again-then scrambled to escape the bayonets of the foe who were by that time clambering up the side of the ravine protecting the position.

The encampment was in virtual turmoil Officers awaited orders-but Bissell seemed incapable of organizing a defence, and in no time the British were in full view, expecting a parade-ground battle. Bissell was, in fact, in no condition to command. His officers could hardly fail to notice something amiss in his behaviour, and the full extent of his nervous exhaustion would become quite apparent after the fray.

“They’ve got cannon…and rockets!” Now the American officers acted without orders-directing their men to take cover in the woods surrounding the camp on three sides. The cannon, a light six-pound fieldpiece, bellowed, and splinters flew as the grapeshot slammed into trees shielding the invaders. Then it was the turn of the rocketeers, who could no more than aim their terror weapon in the general direction of the enemy. Panic seized the soldiers cowering in the meaningless shelter of the woods as rocket snaked through the air toward them, for it was well-nigh impossible to predict where and when they would explode. When the blast finally occurred, lethal chunks of cast iron flew in every direction.

Take the cannon! The terse order would certainly mean casualties but there was simply no alternative for the Americans. Colonel Pinckney immediately directed his 5^th United States Regiment to begin moving through the forest to the right of the British, hoping to outflank the enemy before being detected. But someone noticed shadows moving through the trees and instantly the cannon began slamming round after round of grapeshot in Pinckney’s direction.

While the British were momentarily distracted, American soldiers and dragoons opposite the cannon began emerging from the woods, forming for a charge. One unit, the 14^th Infantry Regiment, had a particular score to settle from the humiliation of Beaverdams the year before. This would be a day of reckoning!

Now the tide of the battle had turned. Faced with imminent attack from the west and north, and with the high, steep bank of Lyon’s Creek on the south, the British had no choice. The bugle sounded retreat, and a quick but reasonably orderly withdrawal took place, back in the direction of the bivouac at the Lyon’s Creek Settlement. The Americans pursued to within a musket shot of the meeting house opposite Misener’s farmhouse before turning back.

Back at Cook’s Mills, details were ordered to bury the dead of both sides and to destroy the grain and flour mill-whatever could not be lugged to the camp at Black Creek. For days thereafter the mill pond displayed a thick crust of wheat, oats and corn. Confident the British had been thoroughly discouraged from further interference, General Bissell decided to stay put to await reinforcements and further orders.

Both arrived that night. The American force at Cook’s Mills now nearly equalled the effective fighting strength of General Drummond at Fort Chippawa-but on the afternoon of October 20^th, Bissell ordered his entire detachment to return to Black Creek. It was a fateful decision if ever there was one. Had he crossed the Welland River, he could possibly have liquidated Drummond’s force, and gone to conquer the entire Niagara peninsula. But he pulled back, and the opportunity was forever lost.

Cook’s Mills was the last gasp of a ridiculous war that brought two years turmoil to the Niagara frontier. Most of the settlers of Crowland township were born in the United States; some had fought for the cause of American independence. Loyalism had not figured prominently as a reason for settling in Upper Canada, not for most. But the war, and in particular, the events of October 18^th-20^th of 1814, changed a lot of Crowlanders. They were Canadians.