by Tamara Gill
The fragrant scent of cooking mingled with the stench of the sweaty males she passed. It was a pungent combination that was oddly satisfying. That surprised Jaclyn. Somehow, she’d never put sounds or smells to the presence of the Fenians when she’d done her research.
The vibrancy in the camp settled over her. These were men who were keyed up, tense with expectation, excited by possibilities. They had invaded another country and anything could happen. They were ready and prepared.
And plenty would soon happen, Jaclyn thought as she made her way through the camp looking for Sean.
With the outside world alerted to the Fenian presence and no transportation to take them from their beachhead to the interior of the province quickly and easily, the Fenians would have to face an Anglo-Canadian force here, in the Niagara region.
Right now Canadian militia units were being called up. Men were scrambling to detach themselves from their daily activities, say good-bye to their families and meet their fellow volunteers at their muster point.
Jacqui remembered the laughter and excitement she’d felt when she handled Hugh MacLeod’s photograph. She couldn’t help wondering if the volunteers were still buoyed up by that pre-war elation or if the mood had soured into grimness and the jitters.
She would never know. For some reason history had dumped her on the Fenian side after it had sucked her into itself. She would stay here, at Frenchman’s Creek, and watch the Fenians settle in on Newbigging’s farm. By tomorrow they would be gone and the second act in this very Canadian comedy of errors would begin.
Jaclyn found Sean near one of the cook fires. He was standing holding a tin plate and talking to a soldier. He had just polished off the last of the food on his plate when Jaclyn approached. He handed her the now empty dish along with his fork. “There’s flap jacks and cheese. Go help yourself.”
She looked at the plate. “Using this?”
He nodded, rather impatiently, she thought.
“Aren’t there any clean ones?”
He shook his head. “We each brought our own kit.”
And Sean was responsible for her so he was giving her his plate and cutlery to use. Jaclyn found that rather sweet, in a very nineteenth century sort of way. “Where do I wash it?”
“You don’t.”
“Gross!”
He shot her one of his curious, assessing looks and Jaclyn blushed. She had to remember to keep control of her tongue or sooner or later he was going to figure out that she wasn’t what she claimed to be.
“Okay, so I have to use your, er, kit. I’ll just go and get some pancakes. Is there any maple syrup?”
He raised one black brow.
“Right. No syrup. Just pancakes and cheese. Nice combination.”
“It will satisfy the ache in your belly.” He turned away, all business again.
Sean was right, the food was good and she was amazingly hungry. She’d snitched a second chunk of cheese and was wondering what to do with Sean’s ‘kit’ when a group of riders came galloping through the camp. The leading rider was dressed in Union blue, but most of the others wore a combination of civilian and military clothes, while many sported green sashes or jackets. All were mounted on sweating horses that were breathing hard, as if they were on the last leg of a hotly contested race.
The mood in the camp tightened as they passed. Anxious men bellowed questions, trying to find out the reason for this abrupt arrival, but none of the scouts bothered to reply. Behind the mounted troop streamed a crowd of Fenians all on foot, running to keep up and so miss nothing. Hanging about the edges of the crowd were Canadian civilians, dressed for the most part in somber grays and blacks, a stark contrast to the dark blue and bright green of the Fenian uniforms.
Jaclyn’s hand tightened on Sean’s tin plate as the swift buildup of tension caught her by the throat. Something was going on. What?
She wracked her memory, seeking the answer. An idea began to form and she squinted up at the sky, wishing once again that her watch worked. The sun appeared to be in much the same place as it had before she ate. Staring at it didn’t do much for her beyond giving her a headache.
A running Fenian rushed by her, pushing her back and making her stumble. A Canadian nearby caught her arm and kept her upright. She thanked him and he nodded, but kept moving. The little incident had dragged Jaclyn onto the stream of Fenians and Canadians. Like it or not, she would follow the crowd to find out if the racing horsemen were messengers of doom or bringers of good fortune.
***
The riders had stopped at John O’Neill’s command post. Jaclyn burrowed her way through the crowd. Seeing the leader of the mounted men was easy, for he remained on his lathered, blowing horse when he made his report. Hearing was no harder. As soon as he saluted O’Neill with a casual carelessness, the crowd quieted until there was almost silence.
O’Neill said, “Your report, Captain Donohue.”
A light bulb went on in Jaclyn’s brain. Of course! Captain Donohue had been sent out to reconnoiter the land north of Frenchman’s Creek. He’d pushed deep into the Niagara Peninsula, almost to the town of Chippewa.
“During my sortie I encountered a body of troops. Sir!” Donohue announced. There was excitement in his voice, but not a trace of nervousness.
The gathering of Fenian soldiers shifted and a few murmured comments could be heard, but everyone knew there was more and they waited in a tense quiet.
Jaclyn squeezed past a sweaty Fenian soldier and a neatly dressed Canadian civilian so she could get a look at O’Neill. He was standing beside the small camp table, one hand resting on the maps that covered its surface, the other holding the hilt of his sword. The broad brim of his hat hid the expression in his eyes, but his jaw was set inflexibly.
“How large a body of troops, Captain Donohue?”
“A forward picket, sir, or a scouting party. They were mounted men, perhaps a dozen or so.”
“They have cavalry?” the Fenian beside Jaclyn said. The note of incredulous dismay in his voice struck a chord with the other onlookers. A buzz went up.
Jaclyn looked at the soldier beside her. She knew that the men Donohue had seen weren’t British regulars. The British commander, Colonel Peacocke, and his thousand or so troops wouldn’t reach the Niagara area for some time yet. In her research she hadn’t been able to discover the exact identities of the men Donohue saw that first morning, but they were thought to be Canadian civilians, members of the Chippewa town council, out looking for the invaders.
But the Fenian reaction to Donohue’s sighting was well documented. Suddenly the easy push to Toronto was out of the question and the reality of fighting the might of the British Empire became an unpleasant reality.
O’Neill’s gaze swept over his hastily assembled troops. He spoke loudly, his voice raising as he worked the crowd. “Captain Donohue has discovered that the enemy has mounted scouts, as we do. That does not mean that the units they send against us will all be mounted ones. We are a thousand strong! The finest troops to fight in the late war! We are armed with Springfield muskets, the same weapons you used when you served the Union. When they were issued to you many of those weapons still carried the packing grease placed on them in the factory. Let the British muster their forces. Let them send an army against us! We are well armed. We are seasoned troops. We are ready!”
The Fenians cheered. O’Neill held up his hand for silence. “Captain Donohue, thank you for your report. Colonel Starr has recently returned from Fort Erie. He will be giving me a full briefing in my tent in five minutes. I would like you to be there and to report in more detail. Dismissed.”
Donohue saluted and dismounted with the lazy ease of someone who had been riding all his life. The crowd began to dissipate. Jaclyn stayed where she was, undecided what to do. She wanted to be in on the upcoming meeting, but knew she would not be welcomed. She was nibbling on the cheese, wondering if there was some way she could hang around and eavesdrop without being noticed, when Sean sauntered up.
He took off his hat and examined the brim. “Was Donohue right? Did he see an advance unit of British troops?”
Startled, Jaclyn hoped her expression did not expose her secret knowledge. She gulped down the last of the cheese then held out his plate and fork. “Do you usually clean these before putting them away?”
His blue eyes were narrowed and intent as he scrutinized her face. “You don’t want to answer me.”
With his eyes boring into her, Jaclyn felt as if he was reading her soul. “Tell me where the rest of your ‘kit’ is and I’ll wash these before I put them back.”
“What does your refusal to answer mean, I wonder?”
They’re not British, they’re locals. They do nothing but get you guys to stop playing at invasion and start thinking like an army. When Colonel Peacocke reaches Chippewa they give him confused reports that make him proceed with undue caution. “It’s unsanitary to use dishes again without washing them.”
“You know, or you can guess, the identity of the men Donohue saw.”
Jaclyn lifted her chin. “I’m a prisoner of war. I’m only required to give you my name, rank and serial number.”
Sean stared at her for a moment, then he shook his head and laughed. “Boy, I don’t how you come by your ideas, but you sure do have some strange ones.”
Jaclyn shrugged. “It sounded good, though, didn’t it?”
His smile lingered, but his eyes studied her coolly again. “I’m guessing that Donohue didn’t see any British soldiers.”
Jaclyn thought about the dirty tin plate and fork. It was a good thing they didn’t have AIDS in the 1860s. Of course there were plenty of other life-threatening diseases in those days. A cholera epidemic had decimated the population of Quebec in the 1830s...
“You have a very expressive face, young Jack.”
Sean’s voice was quiet, but no less dangerous for that, Jaclyn thought. His assessing eyes seemed to strip away her defenses, making her vulnerable.
“But right now I can see no expression on your face. You stare at me with vacant eyes as you did when Major Canty asked you about Newbigging. If I were a betting man I’d bet I was right. Donohue didn’t see any troops, did he? But what if I’m wrong? What if you’re wrong? What if those were British advance scouts he saw? Can I tell my Colonel to do nothing, based on a hunch?”
He was almost musing now, talking more to himself than to Jaclyn. She swallowed and said nothing, afraid of the repercussions. The sun beat down, hot on her head. Despite that, she felt chilled.
“Major O’Dell, will you join us?”
Jaclyn looked over quickly, her heart pounding. She hadn’t heard O’Neill approach. Sean straightened.
Coming from O’Neill, the words were a command couched as a request. Sean turned, saluted and said, “Yes, sir.” He put his hat back on his head, the expression in his eyes hidden by the shadow of the brim. “My kit is with those of Colonel O’Neill and Colonel Starr over by the picket line.” He turned on his heel and marched smartly over to the tent.
Jaclyn was more shaken than she could remember being before. For a moment there she had feared that she was about to influence history and she had no idea what would happen if she did. She swallowed, took a deep breath and told herself to focus as she headed toward the creek.
She had finished a rudimentary wash of the plate and fork when a voice spoke from behind her.
“It’s Jack, isn’t it?”
Jaclyn knew that voice. Slowly she stood up. She wiped her wet hand on her trousers as she said cautiously, “Mr. Newbigging? Were you looking for Sean, er, Major O’Dell?”
“No.” Newbigging’s expression was grim. “I want to see O’Neill. His damn Fenians have stolen the rest of my horses.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
And you’ll have a hell of a time getting them back. If you do. “Colonel O’Neill is in a meeting right now.” She stopped, feeling rather silly. She sounded like the guy’s secretary putting off a pushy creditor.
Newbigging, who didn’t have a secretary, frowned impatiently as he looked in the direction of O’Neill’s command post.
“You can check it out yourself, if you don’t believe me,” Jacqui said, shaking the water off of the plate. She stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out how she was going to dry this thing. She could use her vest, but that would hardly be sanitary. Of course, she’d just washed the dish with her fingertips and a bit of gravel because there was no sponge or soap, then rinsed it in cold water, so sanitary wasn’t really an issue. She gave it a quick swipe with the bottom of her vest to get rid of the worst of the wet and figured the hot summer day would do the rest.
When she looked up from this little chore, she found Thomas Newbigging watching her with amusement in his eyes.
“My wife would shudder if she saw you do that.”
Jaclyn grinned. “There’s nothing like camping out with the guys.”
An answering smile flickered over Newbigging’s mouth and was gone. “Since you no longer have Major O’Dell watching you, does that mean you have ceased to be a prisoner?”
“Apparently. O’Neill figures he’s got the place covered, so he doesn’t have to worry about me raising the alarm. Sean cut me loose a few minutes ago when O’Neill decided to have his conference.”
“You talk very strangely, boy. Where are you from again?”
Jaclyn decided she’d stick with the story she’d invented at the Bailey farm. “Montreal. I’m visiting family in the area.”
Thomas Newbigging scrutinized her thoughtfully. “Who are your family?”
Panic punched her solidly in the gut. Thomas Newbigging was one of the Fort Erie town councilors. He probably knew most people in area and it was likely he knew who had relatives where. She had just stepped into a minefield. “Well, I’m staying with the Baileys.”
For some reason, Newbigging accepted this. Perhaps because it explained her earlier care for Grandpa Bailey’s horses. “Jim Bailey didn’t tell the Fenians to leave you back at his place?”
Jaclyn swallowed and resisted the urge to tug at her collar. Instead she fanned herself with the tin plate. “We talked and since Sean—Major O’Dell, that is—has been pretty decent, we decided that I’d stick with the horses and come back to the camp.”
“Ahh,” said Newbigging.
“We didn’t tell Sean that I was staying with the Baileys. We figured he’d leave me behind if we did.”
“We or you?”
Jaclyn almost dropped the plate. She scuffed her shoe over the grassy ground and hunched her shoulders in what she hoped was a good imitation of a teenaged boy who’d rather be having fun at the Fenian camp than doing his chores on the farm. “Grandpa Bailey went along with it.”
Thomas Newbigging was making her feel guilty, just like her dad did when she’d done something outrageous. This was absurd. The whole adventure should not even be happening. She had probably hit her head at some point and was imagining the whole thing. Why should she feel guilty?
“Hmmmm.”
Jaclyn kicked at the ground beneath her foot, dislodging a tuft of grass, which went flying. She looked at Newbigging, once more pierced by stab of painful guilt. She had to remember this was his orchard, or what had once been his orchard, after all. The poor guy must be feeling pretty bad.
Thomas Newbigging looked at the hole, looked at Jacqui and sighed. “Jim Bailey’s lucky to have someone to keep an eye on his prime stock. Do you think I’m likely to get my horses back?”
Not a hope. She shrugged and fanned herself again. “I’m supposed to put this with Major O’Dell’s kit.” She started to walk. Newbigging walked with her.
“It will take years to put right the damage they have done today,” he said, looking around at the devastation of his once flourishing orchard.
Jaclyn didn’t know whether Newbigging had ever replanted his orchard after the Fenians had left, or whether he’d used the land for other purposes. She heard the sadness in his voice, but there
was no reassurance she could offer. The records she’d found had concentrated on those three hot days in June when the Fenians shook Canada West to its core.
“What’s happening in town?” she asked.
“Everyone is dismayed. Some people are taking the International Ferry across the river to the US side for safety. Others have locked themselves inside their houses. The Fenians are going door-to-door, looting.”
Jaclyn opened her eyes wide. There had been no claim of looting in any of the reports she’d read. “You mean they’re stealing valuables?”
Newbigging snorted. “Of course they are! They’ve taken every horse they can find, as well as all the food.”
“But not money and jewels.”
Newbigging looked down his nose at her. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Well, I’m just trying to define the terms we’re using, that’s all.”
Newbigging stopped. “I don’t believe you’re from Montreal. Even there boys your age don’t talk like scholars.”
“Well, uh, that’s because...” Jaclyn began to fan herself vigorously. Thomas Newbigging was doing his parental disapproval act again. “You see, I am a scholar, sort of.”
“You are a student at the university?”
Which university? Was Queen’s in existence then? Had U of T been formed? Where did people go to university in 1866? Jaclyn nodded.
“You seem very young to be at McGill University. What are you studying there?”
Jaclyn stopped her energetic fanning, took a deep breath and hoped Thomas Newbigging knew as much about McGill’s curriculum in 1866 as she did. “I’m studying the cultures of Greece and Rome. Their writings, their philosophy, their rhetoric.”
The parental disapproval disappeared from Newbigging’s face. He nodded briskly and began walking again.
Jaclyn sighed with relief.
“I am no nearer to figuring out a way to get my horses back.”
“Maybe when Colonel O’Neill has finished his meeting, you could talk to him about it.”
Newbigging pursed his lips. “That’s what I’ll have to do, but I don’t like it. It galls me to go begging to this riff-raff to get back what is my own!”
