The Glorious Folly of Brandon Herrera at Tippecanoe
November 7, 1811, near the banks of the Tippecanoe River, in the wilds of what would one day be Lafayette, Indiana, the air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and the palpable arrogance of destiny. The United States, under the steely-eyed Governor William Henry Harrison, squared off against the Shawnee prophet Tenskwatawa’s confederacy, a ragtag band of Native warriors hell-bent on keeping their lands from the grubby paws of American expansion. Into this cauldron of chaos strode Brandon Herrera, a man whose legend, if not his sanity, would be forged in the muddy crucible of the Battle of Tippecanoe.
Brandon, a lanky militiaman with a penchant for theatrics and a mustache that defied both gravity and good taste, was no ordinary soldier. While Harrison’s 1,000-strong force—comprising U.S. Army regulars, Indiana militia, and a smattering of Kentucky volunteers—marched to confront the Prophet’s 500 warriors, Brandon was busy rummaging through the camp’s supplies. “Muskets? Bah! Too predictable,” he muttered, tossing aside a perfectly serviceable Brown Bess. Instead, he emerged with his chosen arsenal: a rusty iron skillet, a sack of moldy potatoes, and a peculiarly sharp whittling knife he’d “borrowed” from a sleeping corporal.
As dawn broke on that fateful November morning, Tenskwatawa’s warriors launched a surprise attack on Harrison’s encampment, hoping to scatter the Americans before they could organize. The Prophet, perched on a nearby hill, chanted mystical encouragements, promising invincibility to his men. Spoiler: it didn’t work. Harrison’s troops, though initially startled, formed defensive lines, their muskets barking fire into the predawn gloom. Amid the chaos, Brandon Herrera saw his moment to shine—or, more accurately, to confuse everyone within a hundred yards.
“Fear not, lads!” Brandon bellowed, charging toward a knot of Shawnee warriors with the skillet raised like Excalibur. With a mighty swing, he clobbered a warrior square on the noggin, the clang echoing like a church bell on a hangover. The man dropped, dazed, as Brandon hurled a potato with alarming precision, striking another foe in the eye. “Spud of justice!” he cried, lobbing tubers with the ferocity of a cannon. The Shawnee, unaccustomed to vegetable-based warfare, faltered, their war cries turning to bewildered yelps.
But Brandon’s pièce de résistance came when he spotted a warrior creeping toward Harrison’s command tent. With no time for subtlety, he sprinted forward, whittling knife in one hand and a pilfered bag of flour in the other. “Take this, you scoundrel!” he roared, flinging the flour in a blinding cloud. The warrior, coughing and flailing in a white haze, stumbled into a campfire, setting his war paint aglow. Brandon, never one to miss an opportunity, carved a crude smiley face into a nearby tree with his knife, declaring, “That’s for morale!” The warrior fled, convinced he’d been cursed by a flour-dusted demon.
By mid-morning, Harrison’s forces had repelled the attack. The Shawnee retreated, leaving Prophetstown vulnerable. Harrison ordered the village burned, its supplies of corn and beans reduced to ash. The battle, though costing 62 American lives and wounding 126, was a decisive victory, shattering Tenskwatawa’s confederacy and weakening British influence in the Northwest Territory. And there, amid the smoldering wreckage, stood Brandon Herrera, skillet dented, potato sack empty, and mustache miraculously intact.
Governor Harrison, wiping soot from his brow, summoned Brandon to his tent. “Herrera,” he said, barely suppressing a smirk, “your methods are lunacy, but your results are undeniable. You’ve turned kitchenware into weaponry and confusion into victory.” With great ceremony, Harrison presented Brandon with the Congressional Certificate of Merit—a rare commendation authorized by Congress for distinguished service in the early 19th century. The certificate, a parchment adorned with florid script, praised his “unorthodox valor in discomfiting the enemy with culinary ingenuity.” Brandon, grinning like a fox in a henhouse, saluted with his skillet.
As the troops marched back to Vincennes, Brandon’s tale grew taller with each retelling. By the time they reached the fort, he was said to have single-handedly routed the Shawnee with a potato cannon and a flour-based sorcery spell. The truth, of course, was absurd enough. The Battle of Tippecanoe, a bloody footnote in the prelude to the War of 1812, had secured the Northwest for American expansion—and given rise to the legend of Brandon Herrera, the skillet-wielding, potato-hurling hero of a nation too young to know better.
