[h1]Michigan[/h1]
[h2]Fort Detroit[/h2]

Feet crunched through snow as the band wound up the wooden palisades of Detroit. Their arms wrapped tight around themselves, they held blankets over their heads and bodies as if to protect themselves from the cold. Each man walking the procession kept his head bowed low as if in a tired depression. They shuffled, their moccasins kicking up the snow that was gathering around them as they walked up the barren emptiness surrounding Detroit. At the head of the snaking trail walked Pontiac.

His head raised ahead, he shuffled through the snow. The coldness of the air biting his throat and nose. The air was dry, and as he breathed it in it burned the inside of his throat. His throat seemed to burn in the still cold afternoon. Drawing close to the gate, Pontiac's hands wrapped around the heavy weight concealed in his cloak. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. As his eyes met with that of the red coat's at the gate he could feel a chill of the soul.

The guardsman looked tired, and cold. He was growing a sprout of a beard on his chin and a long black cloak hung over his shoulders like a cape. As he approached the war chief he left his musket at the door.

“Now stop right there!” he called out in his strange foreign accent, “You go no further until you explain what is going on here.”

Pontiac stopped, finding the courage in his heart he turned back to his men, their heads bowed and faces concealed. There were hundreds in all, many had flocked to his call. And many more lay in wait in the trees out of the fort's view. He had laid out their divine path before them, and now it was time to take their path.

“My people are cold, and hungry.” Pontiac said, turning to address the guard, “The game is scarce from the forest. We would like to step inside, and speak to your commander. I am willing to offer what I may, provided my people are given food and warmth. After: we shall be on our way.”

It was the British officer's turn to look over Pontiac, and then upon the men he led. He gritted his teeth and curled his lips down. “You look like a sorry lot.” he said, but his voice did not sound nearly charitable but bitter, “What do you have to offer us?”

“Out hunters have killed many beaver.” Pontiac explained, this was true; but it was not for the British, “We are offering to exchange the furs for food. As was customary under when the French were here, and we hope you will offer the same generosity.”

“Oi, and what about us?” the soldier demanded, “We're cold, hungry. We haven't had no good company in a long while.”

Pontiac paused, considering. “What is you want?” he asked considering, hauntingly.

“I hear you have some right good bitches. Say we get to warm our beds with some of your whores.” the guard said. There was no lack of pride in his tone, nor did he suggest he was willing to negotiate on it. “We and the lads haven't had a good fuck in ages. You barbarians share everything, share with us those wives of yours.”

The demands gave Pontiac reason to pause. The cold tension that had snared his heart began to melt to rage. But he couldn't act now, it wasn't time. He had to keep some control. “Then I guess... you give us no choice.” he said, he voice wavering, “But only after we step inside, and we eat.”

“Good as any.”  snorted the guard, turning and waving to the gate. With a groan the great wooden doors opened. There was a strain yawn from the hinges holding them on. As they opened, Pontiac stepped forward.

“I expect a good fuck for this!” the guard shouted, following them leisurely inside with them.

The fort of Detroit was a mournful stage of activity. Men warming their hands by bonfires looked up at the unwelcome Indian guests. Craftsmen and work smiths toiled over the routine operations of maintaining the fort, sharpening swords and bayonets, fitting horse-shoes. In a corner men drilled in formation, the low laconic tap-tap-tap of marching drums giving rhythm and time to the men.

To the natives, all of this was foreign and unnatural. They marched ahead towards the central command compound and began to gather in the yard, bunching into a tight group. “Right, I'll get the commander.” the guard from the gate said, spitting as he headed to the door of the command post.

As the gate closed shut behind, Pontiac's grip on the weight he had concealed tightened. The guard stepped up the stoop of the wooden cabin and the gate slammed shut. Pontiac's hand wrapped around the handle, and his finger found the trigger. As the gate latch swung closed with a resounding clang they were locked in.

As fast as a starling Pontiac tore the pistol out from under his cloak. Like a corsair in the south he revealed a bandoleer of numerable loaded pistols hidden under his cloak. The blanket fell away as the pistol came up and fired. The shot split the still winter air like a clap of thunder. The guard at the door flew forward from the impact of the shot, the door spattered with the spray of his blood and he fell aside gasping and gurgling as blood flooded his lungs.

Events evolved fast. Screams and cries of startled panic inflamed the fort as the native warriors sprang to life and produced the fire-arms they held hidden under their coats. Gun fire erupted throughout the fort, the defenders scattering to find cover or their guns. Many were shot down in the snow. The drilling squad, startled rushed to formation to fire on the Indians.

Pontiac turned, shouting: “Before they fire!”

His voice roared as he rose another fresh gun and fired. He was followed by a successive volley of shot unloaded on the British unit before they could fire.

By this time, the men on the palisades had well realized what was going on, and the first ringing shots were starting to be turned inward. The Indian unit scattered, muskets gleaming in the winter sun and returned fire. Pontiac turned on the command post, and forced his way inside, throwing aside the spent pistol.

A redcoat officer made to charge him with a saber the moment he stepped inside. A ball to the face sent him reeling back, half his face carved away. The sword jangled to the ground, the mortal British officer choking and coughing on blood from his busted face. He gleamed up at Pontiac through one remaining good eye as the Indian war chief moved ahead.

Pontiac turned a corner, catching a glint out of the corner of his eye. Pontiac stepped aside in time to be missed by the thrust bayonet of a British regular. The burly white man staggered forward as he recovered from the fast, long thrust of his bayonet tip, sneering bitterly as the Ojibwa. But the sneer disappeared as Pontiac leveled a pistol at him.

He moved aside the moment Pontiac pulled the trigger and the shot crashed harmlessly against the naked wall behind him. Pontiac's heart-skipped a beat, and he cursed under his breath. He threw aside the gun as the regular threw himself against the warleader with the tip of the bayonet out. The blade came swift, and it cut along the side of Pontiac's torso as it tore into the remains of the blanket tied around his neck and buried itself into the log wall.

The Brit grabbed for a knife at his belt side and lunged for Pontiac. The Indian chief grabbed the knife hand and threw it aside. The knife flashing alongside his face. He grabbed from his own sheathed in his buckskin and drew it out, and up into the man's arm pit. The skin broke and there was a sickening crunch as it sheered flesh and cut into bone. He screamed in pain as blood poured from the wound. Pontiac twisted, throwing the regular to the ground. The musket falling back from its own weight. Pontiac pulled the knife from the man's arm-pit and in a wide arc brought it down into his chest.

He fought weakly to force Pontiac off of him. But his strength left him as fast as his breath was sapped away. Pontiac pulled back, and left him to bleed to death on the floor.

Pontiac moved deeper through the command post. Coming on a door he threw it open, pulling out another pistol. “Oh bloody Hell.” a man started, jumping. He was a round, aging figure. A heavy British officer's uniform hanging from his shoulders. Quickly the commander rose his own pistol and fired a quick sudden shot.

It missed. Timbers sprayed against the side of Pontiac's face and the Indian chief returned the fire.

He hit, striking him in the shoulder. With a pained “oomph” the old man spun back and crashed against the wall, his hands reaching out to find support in the cloth-drapped tables under the windows, but only managed to pull a clattering mess of utensils and a tea set over him.

As the gunfire outside quieted, Pontiac stepped over to the commander. Still alive, the wide-eyed Brit starred up at him in disbelief and horror. “Y-you!” he said, his voice cracked, “You were at Monongahela. Why are you here?”

Henry Galdwin was shaking as he lay against the wall. Pontiac looked down on him, he wasn't looking well. Pale and sickly, as well as old. “We want our land back.” Pontiac demanded. He turned the pistol that he had shot in his hand, brandishing the grip like a war club. Galdwin's eyes went wide as Pontiac swung the pistol up like a club. With a dull thwack it crashed down on the commander's face. Pontiac raised the pistol again, and swung down harder on the general. After repeated blows, Pontiac had reduced his head to a bloodied pulp.