Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  Shoving her hands in her pockets, Jacqui kept walking. After a few minutes she reached what she guessed must be Garrison Road. The surface was dirt, like the rest of the roads at this time, rutted by wagon wheels, with grass growing wherever traffic didn’t wear it down. It didn’t look like a main road, but it was. At least, Jaclyn hoped it was. She turned her back on Fort Erie and started walking.

  The town was behind her when she heard the clink of metal harness and the rumble of iron wheels. She stopped and turned. Her heart leapt. There was a wagon coming up behind her. Better yet, she knew the team of big placid horses that was drawing it and the two people seated on the box—old Jim Bailey and his granddaughter, Sara. Jaclyn waved and Grandpa Bailey pulled the wagon to a stop beside her.

  “Well, young fella, where are those Fenian friends of yours?”

  “They’ve gone. How’d you get your team and wagon back?”

  “That nice Major O’Dell returned the team and wagon after our provisions had been delivered to the Fenian camp,” Sara said.

  Her grandfather said severely, “O’Dell might be a well-mannered young buck, but he’s still the enemy. You’d do well to remember that, Sara.”

  She smiled mischievously as she said meekly, “Yes, Grandpa.”

  Rather grudgingly Bailey added, “They gave me back the old gray as well, though it wasn’t the animal I most wanted. When Tom Newbigging got his cows returned to him I pestered that Fenian soldier guarding the horses something fierce. Told him he’d do well to give my three back to me. He wouldn’t budge on Sunny Girl and the black, but I guess he figured the old gray wouldn’t be much use to them.”

  Ignoring this, Sara said, “It’s so exciting! We went into Fort Erie to see if we could buy some supplies. We expected to see Fenian sentries about, but there were none. Do you know what’s happened?”

  Sara’s features were set in an innocent expression, but deep in her wide eyes was a calculating curiosity that warned Jaclyn she had to be careful what she said. “They were celebrating when I fell asleep last night. When I woke this morning they were gone. Newbigging’s orchard is deserted.”

  Grandpa frowned. “You don’t know where they are?”

  “I figured they went west toward the Canal.” The Welland Canal between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario was a key transportation route in 1866. Its Lake Erie terminus was Port Colborne, which was why the Canadian volunteers had been sent to the town. “That’s where I’m headed now.”

  “It’s a long way to the Canal, boy. You’d better hop in. I’ll take you as far as Ridge Road. That’s where I turn off to get to my farm.”

  Briefly, Jaclyn thought about warning him that Colonel Booker had brought his red-coated Thirteenth and the green-jacketed Queen’s Own by train to Ridgeway and was marching them along Ridge Road believing he was on his way to join up with Colonel Peacocke and his British troops. Perhaps she should have mentioned that Booker and his volunteers bumped into the Fenians instead and were probably, even now, in the middle of a fierce battle. Instead she decided Bailey would soon find out for himself. She jumped into the back of the wagon. “Great! I appreciate this, Grandpa.”

  Bailey snorted. “I’m not your grandpa.”

  ***

  Sunny Girl was not the best mount for a cavalry officer. Young, restless and high-couraged, she tended to fight the bit, dance at the least provocation and toss her head. She was sidling nervously now, while Sean talked to Colonel Owen Starr at the point where the Ridge Road met the Bertie Road.

  Colonel O’Neill had identified the Bertie-Ridge crossroads as an excellent defensive position and he’d ordered breastworks raised. They’d dismantled nearby fences to create protective barriers behind which the troops could shelter. Starr had just finished directing the junior offices on where to position their men, when Sean rode up with the news that a train had arrived in the small town at the far end of the ridge and troops were disembarking from it.

  “Not a bad site for a battle,” Starr said. There was an edge to his voice that told Sean he was excited by the prospect. Sean regretted the necessity of doing battle at all.

  Sean looked about him while Sunny Girl danced irritably. He tightened his left rein and loosened the right, forcing her to circle until she calmed. The area was familiar, though he couldn’t place why. Had he been here before, or was he just dreaming it?

  After leaving Newbigging’s orchard the previous night O’Neill had taken the Fenian force to a place labeled Black Creek on the map. It was far enough away to lead anyone to believe the Fenian army had completely disappeared, but close enough that O’Neill’s still half-drunk soldiers would reach it without too much difficulty. There he had rested, sobered up his men and did his own planning for the next day.

  “The enemy think we are at Frenchman’s Creek—here,” O’Neill had said to his assembled officers. His finger tapped the spot on the map. “The British are in Chippewa.” He drew his finger along the Niagara River. “Not far from the great waterfalls. The Canadian militia has assembled in Port Colborne, which is west of our position and is located on Lake Erie. We can safely assume that both the British and Canadians believe we are still at Frenchman’s Creek. If you were the British commander what would your strategy be, Colonel Starr?”

  Starr had studied the map for a moment then he’d laughed. “I’d crush the enemy in a pincer movement. First I would order the Canadians south to Fort Erie, take that town, then push onward to meet me at the enemy position on Frenchman’s Creek. Together we would vastly outnumber the enemy. Victory would be assured.”

  O’Neill studied the map for a moment. “A plausible reading of the facts, Colonel. Major Canty, can you see any flaws in what Colonel Starr has suggested?”

  Canty too had studied the map, then he placed his finger on the site of Fort Erie. “The town, Colonel. A pincer movement is a good strategy, but the town is in the way. The enemy believes we are in the positions we held yesterday. They do not know we have moved out of Newbigging’s orchard, or the town. Capturing a settlement is not an easy task. They could expect hand-to-hand fighting in the streets and they do not know if we fortified any of the buildings.”

  O’Neill nodded.

  Sean added, “There is also the railroad bridge between Port Colborne and Fort Erie. Colonel Starr burned it yesterday. They would have to detrain a considerable distance from the town and march in. That would slow their advance and perhaps mean that the force from Chippewa would arrive at Frenchman’s Creek in advance of the militia. I’d be thinking that would spoil the pincer movement and the British advantage lost.”

  O’Neill tapped the map thoughtfully. “Good points, gentlemen. So where does that leave us?”

  “In Black Creek sobering up,” Starr said.

  “Yes.” O’Neill was smiling. “We have the advantage, gentlemen, because we are not where we are expected to be. Major O’Dell made an excellent point. If the British and the Canadian militia do not join they lose the advantage of superior numbers. What I must do is ensure that they do not have the opportunity to meet. Major Canty, with the railroad bridge inoperable, where would the militia disembark from the train?”

  “Here, Colonel.” Canty pointed to a little town called Ridgeway. “There’s a road here which leads to a village called Stevensville. What if the militia were ordered not to Fort Erie, but to meet the Englishman, Peacocke, at Stevensville? It’s located on a crossroads and is easily reached from both Ridgeway and Chippewa. From Stevensville there is a road that leads to the River Road.”

  “So Peacocke joins forces with the militia from Port Colborne, then they sweep down to Frenchman’s Creek en masse and round us up? Another plausible strategy. Gentlemen, you opinions please.”

  They had discussed the various possibilities for another half-hour and in the end O’Neill had been firm. He wanted to fight the two enemy forces separately, starting with the militia. The Fenian army would march west to the Ridge Road, keeping the river at their backs. Once there they would march
south, toward the town of Ridgeway. If they missed the militia, or the militia did the unexpected and continued past Ridgeway to Fort Erie, then the road to Port Colborne would be open to O’Neill and his troops. They would have Peacocke and his British regulars well behind them and the militia confused and disoriented at Fort Erie. Perhaps as they marched away from the border they would find more support for their cause.

  So that was why Sean was at the Bertie crossroads with Colonel Owen Starr while the advance guard of the Fenian army marched along the Ridge Road toward a village called Ridgeway that was little more than a railroad stop.

  “I pity these militia fellows,” Starr said. “Without the support of regulars they will never stand. They’ll run for sure.”

  He was probably right, but Sean couldn’t help asking himself what good defeating a Canadian force would do for their cause. They had come to this land to fight the British, not the people who languished under British rule. That there was an eager Canadian militia contingent who were ready to defend their country rather than join the Fenians in overcoming the British oppressor, was a disturbing notion.

  The unmistakable crack of a gunshot, then another, echoed over the tromp of marching feet. Starr raised his binoculars to study the field, but Sean could see that the Fenian advance column had met the militia. The Canadians troops wore a dark colored uniform—green he thought—but Sean also thought he could also see a flash of British scarlet behind.

  “Damn!” Starr said.

  “What is it?”

  “These aren’t militia. These are regulars. Look.” He handed Sean the binoculars.

  The red Sean had glimpsed was very much in evidence as the binoculars pulled the scene closer. There were red coats in the militia column, all right. They were too late. The British had already joined up with the Canadian volunteers.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Sean said, handing back the binoculars. “What are we going to do, Colonel?”

  Starr looked through the glasses again. “We’re going to fight them. We have no choice.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Garrison Road was a typical military route, carved through the open countryside in a straight line that made no allowance for the rising terrain outside Fort Erie. When Jaclyn had driven along the modern roadway at a respectable eighty kilometers an hour the rise had been barely discernable. In a wagon pulled by horses travelling up a hill along a dirt road, speed just wasn’t going to happen. Jacqui could feel time passing with each jingle of the harness and the steady clomp of hooves.

  Crouched in the flatbed at the back of the wagon she tried to guess where Booker and his Canadian volunteers were now. The train from Port Colborne had left at five a.m. By seven-thirty the Canadians and the Fenians were fully joined in a battle. Jaclyn knew she’d been walking for at least an hour, so she guessed it must be seven-thirty or close to it by now. That meant Grandpa Bailey was headed into the most dangerous situation he’d ever encounter in his quiet community. He would never reach his farm and it wasn’t fair of her not to warn him what was ahead.

  On the other hand, she didn’t want to toy with history by telling people what they couldn’t expect to know. She clutched the side of the wagon as it lurched over a particularly large rock wedged into the surface of the road. Sara chatted cheerfully to her grandfather, occasionally including Jaclyn in her conversation. Neither Sara nor Grandpa Bailey seemed particularly worried about the dangers associated with a couple of thousand strangers running around their countryside. Jaclyn’s conscience nagged a bit harder.

  “Grandpa, should we continue on to Port Colborne to see about replenishing our stores instead of going back to the farm?” Sara asked. There was a chirpy note to her voice. Evidently she’d invested Port Colborne with the excitement of an outing and seemed to think the aching discomfort of travel in the springless wagon was worth the treat.

  “Great idea!” Jaclyn said, knowing that Port Colborne, having fed a thousand Canadian Volunteers the night before, had few enough stores for its own use. Still, a trip to Port Colborne would keep the Baileys away from the battlefield and if they hadn’t reached Port Colborne by the time the battle was over, their wagon might prove a useful aid for the retreating Canadian troops.

  “I don’t want to leave those two mares that are in foal.” Grandpa glanced over his shoulder at Jaclyn, then at his granddaughter. “After your Major O’Dell was good enough not to take them yesterday I brought them in from the pasture and stabled them in the barn. The old gray is with them. They’re safe enough there, but we need to get back to feed and water them.”

  “Maybe we can go to Port Colborne this afternoon, then.” Sara sounded crestfallen, as if she’d been denied a major treat.

  Jaclyn’s conscience prickled again. This afternoon wouldn’t work. The danger was now. “Ah, Grandpa, I’m sure the horses will be fine. Why not continue on to Port Colborne? You’re already on the right road.”

  Grandpa looked at her again, frowning this time. “What are you talking about, boy?”

  A battle, old man. A battle that takes place along the road you must follow to reach your farm. A battle in which five Canadian soldiers are killed. “Listen! I thought I heard something.”

  “What?”

  “I hear something too, Grandpa!”

  The road had crested the summit of the low rise and evened out. Jaclyn guessed they had reached the Lime Ridge and were close to Ridge Road. There was a popping sound in the distance. Jaclyn’s stomach knotted, then excitement chased away fear. “Is that gunfire?”

  Grandpa slowed the team from the jingling trot to a plodding walk. “Could be.”

  The Ridge Road was now visible ahead of them. No troops were visible. Booker and his volunteer army were already beyond the intersection, pushing the Fenians back to their reserve position at Bertie Road.

  “What are we going to do?” Sara asked her grandfather.

  “Continue—cautiously,” Bailey said. They reached the crossroads and turned right onto Ridge Road.

  This is not a good idea, Jaclyn thought uneasily. The gunfire sounded steadier now, as if the two opposing armies had settled in for a long fight. While the battle was fully joined and the Canadians were still advancing she and the Baileys were relatively safe, but that could change at any time. “If that was gunfire shouldn’t we find a less exposed place? How far is your farm from here?”

  “It’s a mile or so down the road.”

  Probably right in the middle of the fighting. Jaclyn bit her lip. If only she knew exactly what time it was. “You don’t have a watch, do you, Grandpa?”

  “Not on me, and I’m not your grandpa.”

  Steady and calm, the big draft horses had perked their ears when they turned onto Ridge Road. They began to trot again, ignoring the growing noise of the gunfire as they headed for the comfort of their own barn. His profile set, old man Bailey let the horses have their way. It seemed he too was anxious to reach home and the security it promised.

  Ahead of them the open fields were lined by trees, making the battlefield difficult to visualize. Jaclyn thought she could see the splashy red of the Thirteenth Battalion’s uniform tunics, but the trees were in full leaf, obstructing her line of sight. As far as she could see there was no green mixed in with the Thirteenth’s red, telling her that the Hamilton regiment was still in reserve and the gunfire was from the weapons of the Queen’s Own Rifles, who were in the fore.

  “Those damn troops are blocking the drive into my farm.”

  “Grandpa!” Sara said half-heartedly.

  “Sorry for cussing, Sara, but it’s true. We’re stuck now. We can’t get home, where I’d like to be.”

  Where it’s safe. The red column shivered into life, shaking itself out into units and surging forward. The red and green uniforms mingled, both moving steadily forward without the hint of panic even though the gunfire continued in a steady pop-pop that culminated in sudden shrieks of pain.

  Then the Queen’s Own in the rifle green uniforms fell back,
leaving the red-coated Thirteenth in the front line. Though it was impossible to tell who was who in the massed formation, particularly since their backs were toward her, Jaclyn searched the Canadian ranks. Her ancestor was in this group of men. Her ancestor who died at the Battle of Ridgeway. Had he already been hit by a Fenian bullet? Was his one of the screams that rang out and was hastily cut off? Or was he still alive, waiting, unaware of what lay in store for him?

  The tricky movement where the Thirteenth relieved the Queen’s Own, which was running low on ammunition, had been completed successfully. At this point, Jaclyn thought, Colonel Booker was feeling pretty good. His men were performing well, advancing steadily and pushing the Fenians back to their defensive position at the Bertie Road. He still expected to be reinforced by Colonel Peacocke, who would come up on the Fenians’ rear at any time. Together he and Peacocke would surround the Fenian force, he believed, making victory certain. Yes, for this small moment in time, Booker was probably feeling very pleased with himself indeed.

  “What are they doing?” Grandpa demanded. He still sounded irritable, the way Jaclyn’s dad did when a truck parked across their driveway and he couldn’t get the car in or out.

  “The Thirteenth just relieved the Queen’s Own,” Jaclyn said, wishing she had binoculars as well as that watch.

  “And how would you know which regiments are involved in this skirmish?”

  Jaclyn looked sharply at Jim Bailey. She’d forgotten that she was just a university kid who didn’t know the area or any of the people in it. She would have to remember to watch her tongue. “The Fenians had scouts looking for information. They found out that the Canadian forces were massing in Port Colborne and that the main regiments were the Queen’s Own Rifles from Toronto and the Thirteenth Battalion of Infantry from Hamilton. I guessed which was which from the color of their uniforms.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sara said. “What has color to do with anything?”

  “Rifle regiments always wear green.” Jaclyn sifted in the wagon, peering round to get a better vision of the action. “They have since the Napoleonic Wars. The Queen’s Own is a rifle regiment so they would be the ones in the dark green uniforms. That means the redcoats must be the Thirteenth.”