Historian Jon Latimer states the “The battle of the Thames (in Moraviantown) was a great victory for the United States, and the death of Tecumseh shattered the Indian Confederacy.”

The history  of War of 1812 locally is being reconstructed from the First Nations’ perspective with the help of academics and archives because a lot of the oral history passed from one generation to the next was lost when generations of children were sent to residential schools. George E. Henry explains that “the chain of oral history was broken when children did not receive knowledge passed from one generation to the next”.

Local researchers are going back to original sources such as the Moravian Diaries and the war loss compensation records.  About 30 quilters, historians, and interested folk started meeting in June to research and design two fabric quilts featuring 60 blocks.

Tecumseh's Monument near Thamesville

There are already 16 barn quilts on Longwoods Road near Wardsville.   Sixty more barn quilt blocks will interpret women’s stories about their involvement in the War of 1812.  The two story quilts each have a narrative. One quilt features stories told by First Nations women and the other will feature the stories of settler women.

People tend to be puzzled by the barn art until they realize that each block tells a story.  The art on a barn or business is detailed with maps and descriptions found on-line.

Vivid Story of Real Scrap In The War of 1812 That Did Not Find Its Way Into The History Books.

This is the story of “Battle Hill” an episode of the war of 1812 and sequel to the Battle of Moraviantown, where the gallant Tecumseh laid down his life for the young colony of Canada, and Col Proctor met such ignominious. Why history has failed to chronicle this thrilling and desperate encounter has always been a mystery.  Today, few if any, realize the significance of the name, for with the passing of the pioneer, has gone all vivid recollection of the struggle and its gruesome aftermath.  Among the sleepy hollows echo the rattle of the farmers wagons.  And so may they rest in peace.
The Americans carried thousands of pails of water and dashed it down the slopes, where it froze, almost instantly, to glaring ice.  Hardly was their work finished when shots from the East proclaimed their scouts were being driven by the oncoming British.  Presently scarlet coats appeared on the opposite slopes, just as the sun was setting for the day and the last time for not a few among friend and foe.
On March 4, 1814, the sun rose clear and cold, throwing long, gaunt shadows into the valley as if enshrouding in funeral pall the British and their allies, while yonder in front, touching the ice-capped cascades in labyrinths of limpid light, the scintillating sunbeams turned tall, now gossamer now gold.
Like General Braddeck at For Du Qresene, the British commander would command his militia to return to the Niagara frontier.  On the following morning, some of the settlers from the Big Bend visited the scene of conflict.  A ghastly sight they beheld.  Strewn about in all the awful contortions of battle the dead, numbering 42, lay frozen.  Several had been partially devoured by prowling indian dogs and the famished timber wolves.  And, thus for a time they lay until the militia returning gathered together into a pitiful heap, friend and foe and as the frozen ground rendered burial inconvenient,they burned them there.  Another awful sacrifice to the god of war.
This is why no graves and few bones were ever found, for all that was mortal was whisked up by the whispering winds.
Later, many military buttons, some old coins and a few musket barrels were found.  Also, some bullets were found in firewood that then stood grim witnesses of this lonely struggle among the monarchs of the forests. This is ample evidence that “Battle Hill” is no misnomer.  Evidence that here on March 4, 1814, was fought a fight for freedom that should not be forgotten.  Why history failed here cannot be told.  Perhaps nothing more of this episode will ever be known.  Already, few living near this fatal spot realize the significance of the locality.

The 2011 show featured quilts from Netherlands.

Hip Hip Hooray for their 2011 sponsors:

Ontario Trillium Foundation

Ye Olde Towne Hall – Ailsa Craig

The Village of Ailsa Craig

Main Street Middlesex

Thanks for the wonderful hospitality, Barb and Jim!

Mary Simpson

Here is W.A. Edwards story:

Different Version Of How Peculiar Crooked Tree Became Known As “Devil’s Elbow” Near Settlement Of Tait’s Corners and a Legend Telling of Massacre Of Neutral Indians by Band Of Senecas

Written By:  W.A. Edwards  (Circa 1930′s)

Just a few rods off of Highway No. 2 and well in the “right-of-way” on a side road in the Township of Ekfrid has been standing for generations a crooked and deformed old elm tree, commonly called “The Devil’s Elbow” and supposedly so because the giant trunk, by some freak of nature during its sapling growth, was injured or bent in this grotesque form.

Crooked Elm on Tait's Road

But why was it called “The Devil’s Elbow?”  I have asked a good many that question and no two answers have been the same.  In fact few, if any, of the pioneers still living in the township have the slightest idea how the old tree got its striking name.

Thirty years ago or more the writer well remembers two old grandmothers talking about this very old tree.  They had daily gone to school under its crooked form, and as one of them said,”often swung to and fro from the elbow,” but old as they were even they knew not why the tree was called “The Devil’s Elbow.”

An old Mr. McRae said one time that he believed the tree derived its name originally from a similar tree near his old home near Glasgow, Scotland.

This old tree in Scotland derived its name from the use the English invaders made of it during their many raids across the border; their capture of luckless prisoner, whom they ruthlessly hanged to the old elbow oak, thus originated the original name of “Devil’s elbow.”

And another story as equally plausible. 

Years and years ago, when the Township of Ekfrid was but newly surveyed and the country but sparsely settled, it seems there lived at those crossroads somewhere, an odd sort of genius, who “eeked” out a living amongst the few settlers far and near by teaching spelling and adding in the home of those folks who desired their children to grow up “educated.”

This man’s name, so the story goes was Israel Devlin.  Thus the tree once known as “Devlin’s Elbow” somehow got its name twisted into “The Devil’s Elbow.”  That explanation sounds most reasonable of all.

But there is another story, legend or lyric, which the writer in his inquiries has dug up and which I am going to try to tell you here.

The story runs back to the ferocious feud between the Hurons and their deadly enemies, the Iroquois, or the “Six Nations” who were made up of the tribes of Mohawks, Onedias, Onondagas, Cayugas, Senecas and Tuscaroras.  These six nations lived principally South of Lake Ontario in the North of New York State and were noted for their warlike inclinations.  They were cruel to the extreme.

The “Hurons” were a different type of Indian entirely.  They loved peace rather than war.  They lived mostly South of Georgian Bay in some 32 villages and instead of war and bloodshed and pillage they, in a fashion tilled the soil, grew “maize” and a sort of barley.  Thus they stored away in summer and fall food for the coming winter.  They made rude utensils out of baked clay, stone and wood, and altogether, were quite industrious and frugal.  It was probably these unique traits that finally spelled the Huron’s doom.  Hearing in great detail of the Huron life as lived in the Huron lodges, the Jesuit missions, nearly 300 years ago, or so to be exact, in 1634 A.D., sent three heroic missionaries from  Montreal to Christianize the Hurons.

We have no space to touch on the labours and sufferings, the privations and discouragements of these gallant soldiers of the cross, only to state that their work was so far a success as to arouse the ire and resentment of the bloodthirsty Iroquois.

Although numbering at their best only 3,000 warriors to the Hurons’ 12,000, yet they swooped down on the Huron homes time and again, killing and massacring, until they had all but wiped the great Huron nation away and only a few scattered bands eventually were left, consisting mostly of women and children and old men, who were fleeing hither and thither to join friendly tribes and escape the awful vengeance of the terrible Iroquois.

According to the story there  were some 40 in the band that camped one autumn evening in the bend, or elbow of the River Thames not

far from what is now known as Tait’s Corners, in the Township of Ekfrid.  These Indians (old men, women and children) were hurrying on their way Southward to join the friendly “Neutrals”, who lived along the Thames where it flows through the Southern counties of Western Ontario.

Although the long canoes had put many miles between their camp that autumn evening and the death and desolation of their humble homes, yet the little band did not dare to kindle a fire nor disclose in the minutest fashion their presence.

So, drawing the four canoes out on the grassy shore they divided amongst them the few mouthfuls of dried fish and parched corn that they still had left, and then tried and tired beyond further endurance they, one by one, forgot their troubles in the unconsciousness of fitful slumber, which was so soon to turn to a sleep that would know no awakening.

Not a hundred rods below these refugees, on the opposite side of the river, was “parked” a long war canoe, and on its keel was the war token of the dreadful Senecas.  It was a scouting party of these Indians, who were hoping to come upon some remnants of the hapless Hurons.  At present these Indians, nine in number, were all sleeping save a solitary sentinel, who once in awhile almost dozed off into a nocturnal nod, then roused himself mightily to toss a few twigs on the fading fire.

Suddenly the Indian was wide awake.  From upstream somewhere the petulant whimper of a sick “papoose” like the wail of the wind in the willows, disturbed the stillness.  The Indian listened intently until a second time the same sound disturbed the silence.  

Then with the swiftness of magic he flitted from one silent form to another.  In but a moment they were all on their feet, awake and alert and as shadows sometimes shape to shade, they had vanished into the forest on their mission of death.

It was a long while after, before a hunting party of “Neutrals” returning from the North happened upon all that was left of the fugitive Hurons and their few belongings.  The haughty Senecas had refused to take away anything belonging to the lowly despised Hurons.  These and a few bones and crushed skulls told plainly the dreadful hate and vengeance of the Iroquois.  But it was not until long after that a captive Seneca warrior, suffering torture, told the tale of the midnight massacre in all its horror and gruesomeness.

For many years “the elbow” as the Indians called the place on account of the sharp turn in the river there, either in daytime or darkness, was shunned by the people of every Indian tribe and nation.  Terrible tales were told about the campfires of the evil spirits that had their dwelling and abiding place at “the elbow” until the biggest evil spirit of all was thought to hover there and so the place at last became known among the Indians as “The Devil’s Elbow” and it was called thus when first the white man came and for many long years after.

Such is the old, old legend of “The Devil’s Elbow” as recounted in the diary of one, the late Anna Bell Brown and told to the writer by one of her distant descendants.

We don’t vouch for the story, but give it as we got it, believing possibly herein lies the sequel to our present “Devil’s Elbow.” 

My husband George was worried sick about us. It was early March 1814 and he knew the Americans were coming from the West. We were here at the inn at Ward’s Landing and he was fulfilling his militia duty with the British company in Delaware – to the east. Neither Colonel Stewart nor Captain Wilson would give George permission to return to Wardsville to look after us. When it turned cold he headed home without permission.  He spent an uncomfortably long time hanging from the Traitor Tree after he was overtaken by Lt. Gill of the Michigan Mounted Rangers near Strathburn. 

My George, a tough old soldier and British patriot, held his tongue. The Americans took him back to their abattis at Twenty Mile Creek and hanged him again for further questioning. On the morning of the Battle of the Longwoods, March 4, he was released and he walked to the Edwards farm at the Big Bend. Ward asked Mathews to take his horse and warn the British but Mathews refused.  The battle started at 5 p.m. and the Edwards could hear the battle from the Big Bend.

Alas, William Caldwell saw him leaving the American compound and assumed he was playing both sides.  The British accused George of being a traitor!  The accusation stuck. He lost his army pension and spent the rest of his life writing letters to the authorities requesting a fair trial.  At the age of 94, George died in 1837 with a cloud still over his head.”

Written by Mary Simpson

It’s become axiomatic among historians that Canadians know they won the War of 1812, Americans somehow think they won, and the Indians — who’d continue to cede land to American expansion — definitely know they lost, despite fighting alongside British regulars and Canadian militia.

The British, of course, have scant memory of the War of 1812, it being a distant, grubby affair that seemed at the time almost insignificant next to their titanic struggle against Napoleonic France.

But the war, about to be marked by all sorts of bicentennial commemorations, is arguably what gives both Canada and the United States their sense of identity…

JR, the super-talented buddha-like photographer from France, has been using photography and creating huge (often clandestine) outdoor spaces to display the photographs. He is the youngest person to be awarded the TED prize.

Check out the Women are Heroes project

Written by Michael Hollingsworth, The War of 1812 is one segment of a play cycle entitled The History of the Village of the Small Huts, a satirical retelling of the nation’s history, tracing the evolution of the “Canadian identity” as a comedy of manners. The original productions premièred to great acclaim from 1985 to 1999 and have since expanded to 20 plays, honoured by 24 Dora Mavor Moore Awards. The War of 1812 is being reinvented for the Stratford production based on newly available research and new inspiration.

“I have admired Michael Hollingsworth’s work since the 1970s,” says Artistic Director Des McAnuff. “Not only is VideoCabaret’s The History of the Village of the Small Huts a substantial Canadian theatrical achievement, it also represents the life’s work of this extraordinary playwright. We are tremendously proud to be presenting The War of 1812 as part of our 60th season.”

One of the Studio Theatre rehearsal halls will be converted to a performance space with a capacity of 72, designed to accommodate the special staging technique for which VideoCabaret is renowned.

“We are delighted to welcome VideoCabaret to Stratford and look forward to our collaboration on this brilliant satirical work,” says General Director Antoni Cimolino. “In 1812 Canada and the United States were enemies at war, and now we have perhaps the closest and most trustingrelationship of any two nations. Attracting visitors from throughout North America, the Stratford Shakespeare Festival can now offer a truly international audience the opportunity to explore the question: what could we have been fighting about?”

VideoCabaret’s unique staging style moves at a cinematic tempo as colourful scenes are conjured up in a black-box set. Using spectacular quick-change costumes and scene-setting props, seven actors portray about 40 characters, who appear and vanish as if by magic.

“Des McAnuff and his superb team have welcomed our company with open arms,” says Mr. Hollingsworth, who in addition to being the playwright shares the position of Artistic Co- Director of VideoCabaret with Deanne Taylor. “We are honoured to launch a new performance space and thrilled to bring our work to the greatest gathering of theatre-lovers on the continent.”

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Press release from Stratford Festival dated August 17, 2011