by Tamara Gill
An idea dawned. He might be a composite of the non-commissioned officers who participated in the invasion. After all, a re-enactment couldn’t depict each and every one of the men who had invaded Canada West on June 1, 1866. Reports varied from eight hundred to fifteen hundred Fenian soldiers. Re-enactments might attract a couple of hundred people who then had to represent both sides.
As the company under Corporal McArthur marched off, the sergeant turned his attention to Jaclyn. “What’s your name, boy?”
That was a pretty good question. Even if this was a bunch of history buffs re-enacting the Fenian invasion, there were still way too many men hanging about and no women in sight. Caution definitely made sense. So what should she call herself? If she picked a male name she liked, but wasn’t used to, she’d probably forget to respond to it if they should happen to call her. On the other hand—
“I asked you a question, boyo!”
The sergeant’s shout made Jacqui jump. It also annoyed her. She lifted her chin and glared at him. “What’s yours?”
“I told you he was a spunky one,” Private Quinn said with pride, as if her response somehow had something to do with him.
The sergeant studied her thoughtfully. “My name’s McCabe. Sergeant Seamus McCabe of the Seventeenth Kentucky, commanded by Colonel Owen Starr.”
Jaclyn looked at the sergeant. His clothes were right, like uniforms she’d seen in a hundred civil war movies. Moreover, the cloth had been artistically faded, so that it seemed to have been worn through all weather. Her nose twitched. Even better, it had the ripe aroma of a garment that hadn’t been cleaned in a long, long time. Jaclyn swallowed.
“Well?” the sergeant barked. “I’m waiting.”
She had to hand it to him, this guy really got into the spirit of the event. Okay, if he wanted to play Fenian invader, she’d go along with him and be an outraged local. When daybreak came and she could find her car she’d wave these too earnest re-enactors good-bye and take off.
That still left the issue of a male name. She’d like to be Aaron—she’d always admired that name—but it didn’t sound very Protestant Establishment in the mid-nineteenth century. Richard was a nice name, but she was sure to get Dick and all the inevitable sexual jokes that went along with it. Keeping this bunch’s minds as far away from sex as possible seemed to be a good idea. Then there was—
“Give him a cuff, Quinn. Maybe that’ll loosen his tongue.”
Indignation made her spit out, “You’ve got some bloody nerve!” Quinn raised his free hand. She glared at him. “Jack,” she muttered, choosing the short nickname her family sometimes used.
“He speaks!” McCabe said amiably. “Well lad, where does your da live?”
Jacqui decided she didn’t like McCabe’s attitude and contemplated another lengthy silence. Still there was Quinn with his fist poised to strike. She had better say something or she risked being hit. That was taking re-enactment a little far. “Hereabouts.”
A muscle twitched in McCabe’s cheek. Jaclyn couldn’t be sure if it signified amusement or temper. She decided to prepare for the worst and braced herself for the promised cuff.
McCabe eyed her impassively as she planted her feet more firmly, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in raw defiance. The muscle jumped again. Jaclyn glared at him.
He turned to the private. “Quinn, form up with the rest of the company and take the prisoner with you. I’ll send a message to Colonel O’Neill and ask for instructions on what to do with him.”
Quinn saluted. “Yes, sir!”
McCabe headed off in another direction, apparently looking for more members of his company. With a shock Jaclyn realized that there were shadowy forms all around her and that the night was alive with the sounds of men’s voices, hushed, but still clear in the pre-dawn quiet. Some were giving orders, others were grunting, still others swearing or laughing. There must be hundreds of people involved in this re-enactment and it seemed that they’d actually gone to the trouble of going over to the US side of the river so they could cross back in small boats as the Fenians had done so many years before. These were obviously dedicated people.
She felt a tug on her arm. “Come along then, my lad, and no lollin’ about!”
Quinn shifted his hold to her wrist and set off at a determined pace. With no other option, Jaclyn reluctantly tagged along behind.
***
In the past month Jaclyn had become an expert on all things Fenian. She’d spent seven hour days, five days a week at the provincial archives digging through letters, court documents, newspapers and memoirs. She’d even discovered that one of her ancestors had been a member of one of the Canadian Volunteer militia units. As she tromped behind the re-enactor playing Private Quinn, she figured she was as knowledgeable as he was.
A third year university student, she was researching the Fenian invasion of 1866 for one of her history profs. As summer employment went, this was about as prime a job as she could get. As an added bonus, the job offer had been completely unexpected.
The professor, Anthony Perlaine, was not what Jacqui thought of as a dynamic teacher. He was a stocky man well into middle age and carrying too much weight around his middle. His black hair was still thick, but shot through with silver. It curled over the collar of the checked shirts he usually wore.
Though Perlaine might look scruffy with his worn jeans, casual shirts and unstyled hair, he had a reputation that glowed in the history field.
There was no e-learning in his course, no computer visuals to emphasize his points. He stood behind a lectern at the front of the classroom and spoke for the full two-hour class. His voice was clear, but quiet, forcing his students to listen with full attention if they wanted to catch what he said.
And they did, because what Perlaine talked about in class wasn’t in a textbook, or even in any of published works on the topic. It all came from the primary research he’d done on the subject and conclusions he’d drawn from that research.
Jaclyn worked hard in his class. Well, she worked hard in all of her classes, but there was something in the way Perlaine taught that had her brain jumping with possibilities. Even though she took copious notes in every one of his lectures, she always felt energized when she walked out the door.
On a Friday morning, two weeks before exams, Perlaine stopped her before she left the lecture hall. “Miss Sinclair, do you have any classes this afternoon? Can you come to my office at four o’clock?”
Jaclyn blinked. “Sure. Not a problem. Um, can you tell me what this is about?”
Perlaine smiled. “Four p.m. Miss Sinclair. Please don’t be late.”
Jaclyn wasn’t late. In fact, she was early. Which meant she had to wait, but that was okay.
She stood in the hallway not far from Perlaine’s open door and listened to the murmur of his voice on the phone. He must have realized she was there, because shortly after the talking ended he appeared in his doorway. “Miss Sinclair, thank you for waiting.”
Jaclyn straightened and pulled away from the concrete block wall she’d been leaning on. The building that housed the history department had been new in the 1960s. There were no elegant granite staircases or hallways with beautifully wrought plaster cornices in the history building. In its time it had been the most modern of modern buildings. Jaclyn had always thought that a wonderful irony. Like history itself, the building was simply yesterday’s news pushed aside by today’s crisis.
She followed Perlaine into his office. It was a square cubbyhole crammed full of bookcases, so that the desk and visitor’s chair barely fit into the limited space that remained. Jaclyn noticed that not all the books were on Canadian history. That surprised her, although why she couldn’t be sure. She supposed the books on the British Empire and nineteenth century America were logical extensions of his subject, but ancient Rome?
Turning, she gingerly lifted a couple of books off the visitor’s chair so she could sit down. It was a good thing she had no hips to speak of, or she would
never have made it in the small space.
Not sure where in this crowded office she ought to put the books she’d evicted from the chair, she ended up holding them on her lap. They were vintage copies of two of Donald Creighton’s seminal works on Canadian history. That too surprised her. She wouldn’t have expected Perlaine to abandon Creighton’s works to a pile on a chair.
The desk was set up so that Perlaine sat with his back to the window. Not surprising, perhaps, when his view was of a vast expanse of parking lot. A little nervous about the prof’s demand for a meeting, Jaclyn took refuge in wondering if the same cars parked in the same places every day while she waited to Perlaine to open the conversation.
“You must have wondered why I wanted to see you today.”
Jaclyn jumped. “I assumed it had something to do with our tutorial next week,” she said cautiously, thought she’d already dismissed the idea. If he’d wanted to talk about the tutorial, he’d have done so after the class. That he hadn’t told her this afternoon’s meeting was about something else all together.
Perlaine raised his eyebrows. Jaclyn had the feeling that he’d seen through her. “Have you thought about your future direction once you graduate?”
Jaclyn was a third year student, so the question wasn’t unreasonable. It was unexpected, however. “I haven’t quite decided yet.”
He nodded encouragingly.
She drew a deep breath. “I’d thought I would apply for law school. Or maybe take an MBA.”
Perlaine sat back in his chair. With the light behind him Jaclyn found it difficult to read his expression. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he sat there saying nothing. It made her nervous.
“And yet, you’re a history major.”
She leaned forward. The Creighton tomes slipped to a dangerous angle, almost escaping from the precarious safety of her lap. “That’s because I love history! A friend of my dad’s is a lawyer. He told me that if you want to go into law a general education is better than a specialized one, like a pre-law program. So I decided to do a major in history.”
“Have you ever thought of continuing in the field? Taking a graduate degree?”
Jaclyn frowned. “No.”
“Ah,” Perlaine said, leaving Jaclyn puzzled. He straightened in his chair and pulled it closer to his desk. “I asked you here today because I had an opportunity I thought you might be interested in.”
“An opportunity?”
He nodded. “Earlier this week, I was approached by the CEO of a Canadian manufacturing company which has commissioned a corporate history. They have hired a professional writer to compile the book, but they also need extensive research done. The work is to be completed by mid-August, so it would be a summer job for an interested student. I would like to recommend you for the post.”
Jaclyn stared at him. Now she understood why he’d asked about her career aspirations. This was a prime assignment for someone who planned to go on in the field. So why had he asked her? On the other hand, it could be an interesting job. And lawyers were always doing research for their cases, so the experience would be useful. “Sounds great. Can you tell me a bit more?”
“The company has an extensive archive in their Toronto headquarters. You’d be working in those files, making notes, compiling research reports under the direction of the author. Payment is project-based, rather than an hourly salary.”
The amount he named would pay her living expenses for the next school year. She grinned at Perlaine. “Who do I talk to and when do I start?”
He smiled back, clearly pleased. “I’ll send you an e-mail with the details.”
“Great.” She shifted the Creighton books, ready to relinquish sole occupancy of the chair back to them.
“There’s one more thing,” Perlaine said.
“Oh.” She sank back onto the hard seat. The tone of Perlaine’s voice had changed. It was cautious, wary. If she didn’t know better, she might have said, worried.
“I am working on a monograph on the motivators for Confederation.”
“Yes?”
“I have a funding for a student researcher. I know you live in Toronto. After the semester ends I’d like you to do some primary research at the provincial archives. The work shouldn’t take more than six weeks, so it wouldn’t interfere with the other project.”
“What would I be working on?”
“The Fenian invasion of Canada West in June 1866. I want you to research how the invasion affected the people of the region and the future of Canada.” He added a project fee that her recalculating her summer employment income and deciding she might actually have enough to pay all her expenses, including tuition, for the next year and still have something left over.
That thought cinched it. “I’d be very pleased to work with you on the project, Professor.”
“Good. I’ll send you the paperwork.”
The meeting was clearly over. She stood, carefully putting the Donald Creighton books back on the chair. It wasn’t until she was out of the building, hurrying toward the student pub where she was meeting friends, that a basic question occurred to her.
Who the hell were the Fenians, anyway?
CHAPTER THREE
Standing on the Canadian shore of the Niagara River, Major Sean O’Dell had not felt so alive in months. When he was demobilized in ’65 he’d been so numb that he didn’t even feel relief that his four years of bloody, gut-wrenching war were finally over. In the months that followed, however, he’d discovered that civilian life also had its drawbacks, particularly unemployment.
His unit had been in Tennessee when the order to disband came from Washington. The whole regiment had been released on the spot. Each man was given enough money to allow him to travel back to the place where he’d joined up, and some of the lads did use it to go home. Others, like him, with no real home to go to, decided to stay where they were and use the transportation money as a stake for the future.
On the surface this was a good idea, but demobilization meant there were a hell of a lot of men looking for work all at once. Sean was one of many with no skills but marching, drilling and killing. From time to time he found work, but nothing he wanted to stick at, or that he was good at doing, so unemployment became a way of life.
For a man used to constant activity, accustomed to being in command, the frustration was intense. On one dark, drunken day he accepted an invitation to join a meeting of the Fenian Brotherhood in his area and among that group of Irish patriots he’d found structure and respect, the warmth of a community, and the promise of a future. That was why, when the call to mobilize came, he had taken the train from Knoxville, Tennessee, north to Buffalo, New York, then squeezed into a small boat with a dozen other men and crossed a river to land on the shore of Britain’s North American colony.
He looked around him. The darkness was slowly greying into sunrise so shapes were becoming distinct. The night air was perfumed with the delightful fragrance of flowers and he had a sense of trees set in orderly rows. He must be at the edge of an orchard, once carefully tended and certainly well-kept. Standing nearby was a small group of men. All were dressed as he was in Union blue, most wearing the low-crowned hat of cavalry officers. Sean knew this, for they were the core of the Fenian invasion force and he had been with them since before darkness had fallen the day before.
A voice tinged with more than a hint of desperation broke into his thoughts. Colonel John O’Neill, commander of the Fenian Expeditionary Force. “Colonel Starr, did O’Day deliver the maps to you?”
Owen Starr, a stocky man with blunt features in a square face, saluted smartly. “No sir! It was not my place to discuss plans with Mr. O’Day, sir! I was charged with seeing to the embarkation, Colonel.”
Sean wondered if Starr was playing games. O’Neill been given command of the Fenian forces at the last moment when a general from Fenian headquarters in New York City didn’t arrive. His elevation hadn’t set well with many of the senior staff, from organizers through off
icers. Starr was one of those who had protested the appointment and he had the look of a man hungry for power.
“Haggerty?” O’Neill was saying, “Did you receive a package containing maps from Mr. O’Day?”
“No sir,” Captain Haggerty said. Like Sean, he had been assigned as an aide to Colonel O’Neill. He appeared to be loyal to his commander.
“O’Dell?”
Sean shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir.”
O’Neill tapped the thick packet he was holding against his palm. He was a thin man, not above average height, with a narrow intelligent face and the gleam of a true believer in his dark eyes. The packet contained his orders from the Fenian executive council, but it didn’t include maps of Canada West. Without maps how were they to succeed in subduing the Niagara area or marching to Toronto, the major city in the province? The lack of maps was a devastating blow, especially now when the landing on British shores had been effected so smoothly.
After a moment O’Neill shrugged. “It seems Mr. O’Day was unable to deliver his information. That is unfortunate, but we are committed now and must find other ways of scouting the terrain.” He looked around the men. “We have all been in this sort of situation before. It is difficult, but not insurmountable.”
Sean wondered if O’Day’s omission had been deliberate. A Buffalo auctioneer, O’Day was one of the local organizers of the invasion and Sean, as a senior officer, had worked with him. He’d found that O’Day talked a good story filled with elaborate promises of what would be delivered and done, but in the end he’d provided what was necessary and little more. Of course, O’Day was well established in Buffalo with a lot to lose now that the local authorities were showing disapproval of the Fenian invasion plans.
“Colonel Starr, continue to arm the men as they disembark. As soon as the troops have completed the landing you are to take a detachment to secure the town of Fort Erie and with it the railroad and the telegraph. O’Dell, as soon as it is light organize foraging parties. We need food and now, more than ever, we need horses. Once we are mounted we can send out patrols to scout the area, but until then we are vulnerable. Haggerty, you are with me... Yes, what is it?”
