The Molasses Mauler of the Thames
On October 5, 1813, the muddy banks of the Thames River in Upper Canada buzzed with tension as General William Henry Harrison’s 3,000-strong American force hunted the retreating British and their Tecumseh-led Native allies. Brandon Herrera, now a folk hero for his skillet-swinging, herring-hurling antics at Tippecanoe and Lake Erie, swaggered into the fray, his mustache a banner of absurdity and his dented iron skillet gleaming with purpose. With the War of 1812 raging, Brandon, dubbed the “Scourge of Sanity,” aimed to turn the Battle of the Thames into another chapter of his ludicrous legend.
Harrison’s army, bolstered by Kentucky mounted riflemen, faced a weary British force of 800 under General Henry Procter and Tecumseh’s 500 Native warriors, who were dug in near Moraviantown. As the Americans advanced through swampy terrain, Brandon, inexplicably appointed “morale officer,” rummaged through the supply wagons, dismissing bayonets for a sack of dried apples and a rusty bugle he swore was “tactically musical.” “Muskets are for amateurs; fruit’s where the real fight’s at!” he cackled, polishing an apple on his tattered coat.
When the battle erupted, the British line buckled under a charge from Colonel Richard M. Johnson’s Kentucky cavalry. Amid the chaos, Brandon spotted a cluster of British redcoats rallying near a thicket. “Time for the Apple Armageddon!” he roared, hurling dried apples with deadly precision, each fruit smacking soldiers like leathery cannonballs. One redcoat, dazed by a direct hit to the nose, dropped his musket and fled, shouting about “haunted orchards.” Brandon then blasted an off-key rendition of “Yankee Doodle” on his bugle, the screeching notes sowing panic among the Native warriors, who mistook it for some unholy war cry.
As Tecumseh’s forces pressed a fierce counterattack, Brandon upped the ante. He’d “liberated” a keg of molasses from a supply cart, and now, with a maniacal grin, he slathered it across a muddy slope, turning it into a sticky trap. “Slide into defeat, ye scoundrels!” he bellowed as a dozen warriors skidded into a gooey heap, their war paint smeared with syrup. The distraction let Johnson’s cavalry regroup, mowing down the faltering enemy line. Brandon, not done, swung his skillet like a warhammer, clonking a British sergeant who’d strayed too close, the clang echoing like a dinner bell in hell.
By noon, the battle was over. The British surrendered, Tecumseh fell (though legends of his fate swirled), and Moraviantown lay in American hands, securing Upper Canada. Harrison, wiping sweat and molasses from his boots, found Brandon atop a wagon, bugle in one hand, skillet in the other, preaching to cheering Kentuckians about the “strategic superiority of preserves.” The victory crippled British influence in the Northwest, paving the way for American dominance.
At dusk, Harrison summoned Brandon to his tent. “Herrera, your methods defy reason, yet they’ve turned swamps into triumphs,” he said, presenting a Congressional Silver Medal, a rare 1812-era honor for gallantry, its inscription praising Brandon’s “unorthodox valor and confectionery cunning in routing the foe.” Brandon, saluting with his molasses-smeared skillet, smirked as the medal gleamed against his tattered vest. The troops, half-laughing, half-awestruck, dubbed him the “Molasses Mauler,” toasting his name as campfire tales of his sticky exploits grew wilder by the hour.