Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  The private who had come running up to the command group, saluted. “Excuse me, Colonel, sir, but Sergeant McCabe sends his compliments and says he’s captured a prisoner. He’d like to know what to do with him, sir.”

  “A prisoner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One of the local people?”

  “Don’t know, sir. The boyo’s not saying much.” The private grinned. “He sure did put on a good fight when he was captured though. Fought Quinn like a wildcat, he did!”

  O’Neill regarded the soldier thoughtfully. “Is this a young man?”

  The private nodded. “Just a lad, he is. Calls himself Jack, but that’s as much as we’ve got out of him so far.”

  “Is that a fact, now.” O’Neill looked at his officers. In the dawning light his eyes burned with excitement. “This may be the opportunity we need.”

  Starr frowned. “A boy? What good’s a boy to us?”

  “A boy has parents who may be worried about him. How old would you say he was, private?”

  Enjoying his importance, the soldier scratched his chin. “He’s not got a beard yet and his voice is still a mite high. Could be ten and four or maybe five.”

  O’Neill began to smile. “Old enough to be adventuring on his own but still young enough to be missed. Major O’Dell, go with this soldier and take charge of the lad. See what you can find out from him. He may have the information we need, or he may be able to lead us to it.” A small smile curled one side of O’Neill’s mouth. “You’ve the devil’s own gift in your tongue, O’Dell. Use it.”

  ***

  “So how’d you get involved in this crazy stunt?” Jaclyn asked Quinn. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground underneath a bunch of large trees. She wasn’t sure exactly where she was, for the houses she knew were across the road were nowhere to be seen. Somehow Quinn had managed to avoid private property on his way to this place, which was probably a park that she had missed in her travels yesterday.

  Quinn looked at her with considerable disfavor. “What are you blathering about? We’re here to liberate you from the yoke of British domination.”

  He really was quite good at getting into the mood of this piece, Jacqui thought with approval, determined to stick with her assumption that this was a re-enactment. She couldn’t quite squelch a nagging concern, though. What if he wasn’t ‘getting into the act’? What if this was real?

  There had, after all, been a lot of strange happenings since she’d begun her research on the Fenian invasion. Take, for instance the day she’d gone to visit her Aunt Martha. Martha was her grandmother’s younger sister and the family historian. She’d been a research librarian for years and when she retired she turned her attention to the family tree. Being an academic, she published her findings on the web and in print. Jaclyn had come across her name when she was researching those involved in the Canadian Volunteer regiments. She’d been shocked to discover that one of her own ancestors had defended Canada against the Fenian invaders.

  Intrigued, she’d arranged to visit her great aunt intending to pick her brain for more details. Instead she discovered something far more important.

  Aunt Martha had photographs and memorabilia.

  Aunt Martha’s house was a modest brick and stucco split-level set on a large corner lot in the Don Mills area of Toronto. Two tall pine trees grew where the edge of her lawn met the sidewalk, while a huge sugar maple shaded the building with spreading branches that hadn’t been pruned in decades. A dense row of yew trees lined the border of the property, separating it from the next house. As Jaclyn walked up the straight, no-nonsense path to the front door, she detected the fragrant scent of roses coming from the broad flower border that hid the gray concrete foundation.

  The door opened before she could even ring the bell. Aunt Martha had been waiting for her. She was dressed in a flowered summer frock and her white hair was curled in a fluffy, grandmotherly way, but Jacqui knew that little got past her.

  “You look well, Jaclyn,” she said by way of greeting.

  Jaclyn gave her a big hug. “Hi, Aunt Martha.” She was taller than her aunt, which wasn’t hard, for Aunt Martha was a tiny woman. She couldn’t have topped much more than five foot two.

  She hugged Jacqui back. “So you’re interested in 1866, are you?”

  “I’m researching the Fenian invasion for one of my profs.” Jacqui grinned. “And he’s paying me to do it. This is a totally awesome summer job.”

  Aunt Martha laughed. “Come in then,” she said. “No sense standing in the doorway, even if it is a beautiful day.” She led the way up a half-flight of stairs into a spacious living room. “I pulled out the family album. Well, it’s not an album precisely. It’s a box of pictures and some old letters, but everything is labeled.”

  Another set of stairs led up to the top level where one of the bedrooms had been converted into a study. Martha headed up them, leaning a little on the railing. Though she walked like a person with things to do and places to go, Jaclyn couldn’t forget that she was eighty years old.

  Like the rest of Aunt Martha’s house, the den was immaculate. Everything was neatly stored in its proper place except for the large box that had been removed from the bottom of a built-in wall shelf and placed on the big desk by the window.

  At the desk Martha opened the box and drew out the photographs in an almost reverent way. “Let’s see. This was your great-grandmother, Jaclyn, my mother. You were only toddler when she died. Do you remember her at all?”

  Jaclyn shook her head.

  Martha sighed. “She was a fine woman, tough as nails, though.” She put the photograph down and searched for another.

  Photographs of various great-great and great-great-great aunts, uncles, parents and cousins littered the desk before they reached the picture Martha sought. She touched the old photograph almost reverently. “Great-great-great-great Uncle Hugh MacLeod, the first of our family to be born in Canada. His parents were both born in Scotland and came at the end of the 1830s. They met here and married in 1843. Hugh was born in 1846. He was just twenty years old when the Fenians invaded in 1866. About your age now, Jaclyn.” She fell silent, gently stroking the photograph, lost in thought.

  Jaclyn frowned as she stared at the picture. The young man was dressed formally in a regimental uniform. The photograph was black and white, of course, so the tunic and trousers were as black as the peaked cap, called a shako, that he wore over his dark hair, but Jaclyn knew the Queen’s Own uniform was the dark forest green that rifle regiments had worn since their inception during the Napoleonic Wars.

  Hugh MacLeod stood at attention, holding his rifle by his side. His expression was somber, as befitted a Volunteer ready to defend his country. “Cool picture,” Jacqui said, “But great-great-great-great Uncle Hugh looks like a stiff sort of guy.”

  Martha said dryly, “This photo was a daguerreotype, not a snapshot. People had to stand still for several minutes before the photo took. That’s why they all look so stern. Having your picture taken in those days was serious business.”

  “Still...”

  Martha put down the regimental portrait. “I have another photo of him somewhere. A head and shoulders shot. Now where is it? Just a minute.”

  While Martha searched through her treasure trove, Jaclyn picked up the photograph to take a closer look. Though it had been quiet just moments before, now she could hear male voices laughing and calling out to each other with rough humor. She dragged her eyes away from the photo to look out the window for the source of the sound. The street was empty. Frowning, she looked back down at the picture in her hands.

  “Stand still, Hugh!” a voice was shouting. “You want to give your Mama something to remember you by, don’t you?”

  Jaclyn dropped the picture. The voices stopped.

  Cautiously, she picked up the daguerreotype again. The sound of voices echoing around a big bare room resumed. “Stand proud, gentlemen! Sooner or later our services will be needed. The Fenians hav
e been threatening us for months now, but I feel sure they will put their threats into action soon. Then watch them run when they see the Queen’s Own!” The words were followed by a mighty cheer from hundreds of deep voices.

  Jacqui’s hand shook as she carefully placed the photograph on the desktop. “Do you know when this picture was taken, Aunt Martha?”

  “Hmmm, let me see. I believe it was in 1866. The Fenians invaded at the beginning of June, so it must have been in the spring sometime. Why?”

  Jacqui shrugged. She didn’t want to say anything about the voices she’d heard. Her aunt would think she was crazy.

  “Here’s the other photo. Look, Jaclyn. I think Hugh MacLeod bears a striking resemblance to your brother.”

  Jaclyn took the picture to examine it more closely. She was immediately overwhelmed by a great aching sadness. The sounds of a woman sobbing filled her ears. Shaken, she dropped the photograph on top of the other.

  Aunt Martha began to pack her collection away. “Would you care to take the pictures with you, Jaclyn? I’d like them back, but I don’t mind if you keep them while you finish your research and write your report.”

  “What a terrific idea, Aunt Martha,” Jacqui said, although she was afraid of holding the photos again.

  “Now, there’s one more thing,” Martha said. “Would you like to see Hugh’s Fenian Medal?”

  “He got a medal?”

  “They all did. Hugh’s was posthumous, of course. The Fenian Medal was given out many years after the invasion. Hugh’s sister, my great-great grandmother received it as Hugh’s own mother was dead by that time.” She rummaged around in a cupboard filled with another set of shelves then pulled out a shoebox. She grinned at the dubious expression on Jaclyn’s face. “People see what they expect to see,” she said, placing the box on the desk where the photos had been stacked. “This is a box full of old pens, pencils and paperclips. No one would look for a valuable in here.”

  She opened the lid without any particular care. She dug through the office debris until she reached a soft cloth pouch. Inside was the Fenian Medal, as well as a Victoria Cross.

  “Wow,” said Jaclyn, impressed. Until now, she’d had no idea someone in the family had received a medal for bravery. She lifted the Victoria Cross to look at it, mainly because she was afraid to touch the Fenian Medal. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did.

  Aunt Martha picked up the Fenian Medal as she explained its history. “This was the first service medal given out after Canada became a nation in 1867. It was made years after the invasion actually occurred.”

  Jaclyn looked over. “It’s got the maple leaf as its symbol.”

  Martha nodded enthusiastically. “This was the first official use of the maple leaf as Canada’s emblem. Look at the ribbon. It uses the red and white that became Canada’s official colors.”

  “It’s kind of like the flag,” Jaclyn said.

  “I thought so too! So I looked up the history of the development of the flag in the ’60s. I remember the fuss, of course, but I never understood why some people were so against us having our own flag. Anyway, I was delighted to learn that this little medal was one of the precedents cited for the use of both the maple leaf and the red and white in the flag.” She shook her head. “It’s rather sad, really, that so few people now know anything about the Fenian invasion. It meant so much to the people of the time.”

  She held the medal out with a smile. “Would you like to hold it, Jaclyn?”

  What could she say? No? Then she would have to explain why she was reluctant to touch something so intrinsic to her assignment. With some trepidation she nodded, then accepted the medal Aunt Martha handed her.

  It was surprisingly light. The metal was warm in her hand, the ribbon across the top still soft and flexible despite its age. There were no voices when she held the medal, no sobbing, only a deep abiding sense of loss. She held the medal silently, thinking about the men who had received it, imagining it pinned to the breast of a proud volunteer whose memories of the invasion were those of lost youth. Or handed to a mourning woman who was given it because a family member had been killed during the invasion. A simple scrap of cloth and cast metal that signified such great and weighty matters.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Martha said.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  Aunt Martha held out her hand. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have this to take away. The medal stays in the house. I’d hate for it to be lost.”

  Reluctantly, Jaclyn gave it back to her. “I understand, Aunt Martha. It must be quite valuable.”

  Martha dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “The money doesn’t matter. It’s the family heritage I care about.”

  “Would you mind if I took a picture of it?”

  Martha beamed at her. “Good idea!”

  After Jaclyn had snapped a couple of photos with her phone, Martha carefully replaced both the medals in the cloth bag, then reburied it deep beneath the junk that filled the box.

  After she had replaced the two boxes in the cupboard, she slipped the photographs into a file folder that she gave to Jaclyn.

  Jacqui took it gingerly, afraid the voices would assail her again, but there was nothing. Curious she opened the folder and touched the picture of Hugh in his regimentals. Once again she heard the echoing din of hundreds of voices raised in excitement. A shiver ran up her spine. She slapped the folder shut. The voices were cut off as abruptly as if she’d switched off a radio.

  Oh my.

  The next incident happened at the provincial archives a few days after Jaclyn’s visit to Aunt Martha. Though she’d pretty much completed her research, she had a short list of sources she still wanted to check over.

  The reading room of the public archives had been open for five minutes when Jaclyn showed her researcher’s pass card and signed in at the guard’s desk. After a sociable word or two with the pleasant security officer, she shoved open the door to the reading room with her shoulder and sauntered inside. Bill the archivist immediately hailed her.

  “Hi Bill,” Jacqui said, smiling at him. He was a nerdy sort of guy, but friendly. Over the past weeks he’d given her a lot of help with her research. She dumped her backpack on the floor and plunked herself down on the plastic chair in front of his desk. “What’s up?”

  “I found them,” Bill said. He was grinning broadly, his round face split by the smile, his dark eyes bright with pleasure behind the thick glasses he wore.

  It was the kind of expression that begged for accompaniment, but Jaclyn stared blankly at him. “You did?”

  “Yup,” Bill said, pride in his voice. “The Provincial Archivist thought they had all been destroyed and he didn’t want to hunt for them, but I told him how dedicated you were and how important this paper was to you and, well, he did it.”

  Had she told Bill all that stuff? She must have, because otherwise how would he know? He’d been friendly from the start and he liked to chat. They’d even gone out for a cappuccino once last week. Maybe she’d told him then. “So you found them?” she said cautiously, still unsure what he was talking about.

  Bill nodded. “Were there any particular issues you wanted to see first? Or do you want to look at them all at once?”

  Understanding dawned. “You mean I can actually see the old newspapers. Read them? Touch them? Honest?”

  Bill grinned. “It just sank in, didn’t it?”

  Jacqui nodded. “Yeah. I can’t believe it! When?”

  “This morning, right now.”

  “Okay, let me set up and I’ll check my records. Oh, this is so exciting,” she muttered as she all but danced off to one of the long oak tables researchers used.

  A half-an-hour later she was ready to begin. Beside her rested a cotton glove and a stack of folders made of acid free paper holding old yellowing newspapers. She selected the Hamilton Journal to start, then eased the one-size-fits-all glove onto her left hand and pulled a paper from the folder. Dated June 2, 1866, the front
page was all about the Fenian invasion of Fort Erie and the call up of Hamilton’s own militia unit, the Thirteenth Battalion of Infantry. Though she’d read this particular issue on microfilm, her eyes still scanned the coarse, yellowing newsprint, reading the words again, feeling their impact far more when the brittle paper was there in front of her.

  She touched the margin using her gloved finger and thumb, as if to turn the page. Nothing happened. There were no voices that only her ears could hear. Relief coursed through her and impulsively she reached out and laid the fingertips of her right hand on the headline of a laudatory article on the commanding officer of the Thirteenth, one Colonel Alfred Booker.

  Pride overwhelmed her. Pride at being chosen to go to the front, pride because he was the senior officer of the militia contingent, pride in his men and with it a sure knowledge that the Thirteenth was up to any task it was given, including besting a ragtag group of Irish-American ruffians.

  Jaclyn sat frozen as she absorbed the emotions of a man long dead, emotions that had never been described in the press and were certainly not contained in the newspaper article under her fingertips.

  Alfred Booker had worked hard to make his mark in the volunteer regiment. He’d struck friendships with the right people and attended the proper functions, but most of all he’d learned the job, spending long hours drilling and studying. He’d done the paperwork, written the proper reports and proved he was a useful man to have around. Now he was colonel of the Thirteenth, on his way to meet the enemy. Along with pride, excitement sizzled, and just below it fear lay, the dark underbelly of the brighter emotions.

  Pride, excitement, fear—there was something else there too, some other emotion that lightened this man’s heart. He was colonel of the Thirteenth, he’d been chosen as the overall commander of the militia force being sent to the Niagara...

  Delight, that was it. Delight that he hid under a careful reserve. Delight he couldn’t share with his brother officers, because his second-in-command, Major Skinner, was jealous, believing he, Skinner, should have been the one made colonel of the Thirteenth. So Booker hid his delight under a somber demeanor and pretended he was a sensible man, when all he really wanted to do was shout the news of his success to the world and dance a jig in the street.