Swept Through Time - Time Travel Romance Box Set

by Tamara Gill

  “Being a student at university you’d know,” Grandpa said. “I thought you said you were studying ancient Rome?”

  “You’d be surprised what you pick up, Grandpa.”

  Bailey grunted and drew the team to a stop. “We’ll just wait here until they’ve passed my farm gate. Shouldn’t be long now. Our boys are doing a fine job pushing these Fenian marauders back. They’ll have them on the run any time.”

  “Shouldn’t we go back to the crossroads? Even if the Volunteers defeat the Fenians there’s bound to be lots of bad types hanging around. It may take a while for the Volunteers to round up all the Fenians. In the meantime, would your farm be the safest place for Sara to be?”

  “I’ll be fine with Grandpa,” Sara said.

  Something of the urgency in Jaclyn’s voice, or perhaps the unladylike excitement in Sara’s, must have decided Jim Bailey. “He’s right, Sara. We’d best go back to Ridgeway and wait there. Jump down, Jack. Take the team’s harness and help to turn them.”

  Jaclyn shot an uneasy look at the still advancing Canadian columns. There was just enough time for Grandpa and Sara to escape, she thought, before disaster occurred.

  A man on a sweating horse was trotting toward them as old Jim finished maneuvering the wagon so that it was now pointed away from the battle and back toward the crossroads and the little town of Ridgeway beyond.

  “Who are you?” Bailey demanded, when the man was close enough to hear.

  “I’m from Port Colborne. I have telegram from Colonel Peacocke to Colonel Booker.”

  “Good news, I hope!”

  The man’s eyes didn’t meet Bailey’s. “I’d get off the road, if I was you.”

  “Why?”

  “This telegram says Colonel Peacocke isn’t coming until later. Wouldn’t matter if Colonel Booker was only marching, but he’s not, is he?”

  Jim Bailey shook his head. “No. Our Volunteers are fighting the Fenians, and winning too! Strikes me that we don’t need any British troops to help us out. We’re doing fine on our own.”

  “Maybe,” the messenger said. “I’ve still got to deliver my telegram though.” He dug his heels into the tired horse and cantered off.

  Jaclyn jumped into the back of the wagon where she had a better view of the battlefield. It was only a matter of time now. The telegram was the one Peacocke had sent hours ago, telling Booker not to depart Port Colborne until an hour later than the time given in his original instructions—actually two hours later than the time the Canadians had left Port Colborne.

  The messenger slowed his horse to a walk so he could pick his way through the massed green troops to the place where Booker was watching the battle from the back of a big brown horse. There was a man dressed in green beside him. Major Gilmor, commanding the Queen’s Own in Dennis’ absence. Jaclyn knew that Booker would read the telegram and then let Gilmor see it.

  Both men would later admit to being shocked by the contents of the telegram. Jaclyn guessed that both were also scared silly at being suddenly on their own against an enemy schooled in the horrors of the American Civil War. It didn’t matter how well their troops were doing, or how far they had pushed the Fenians. In the back of their minds each man must have been comforted by the assumption that Colonel Peacocke and his British regulars would soon be on the scene. The telegram stripped away this reassuring expectation. Peacocke was late and he wasn’t going to appear on the Ridge Road any time soon. The Canadians were on their own.

  And still doing pretty well. The forward movement continued. Jaclyn knew that on the other side the Fenians were dropping back to the defensive breastworks O’Neill had created at the Bertie Road crossroads. These positions flanked the road and when the Canadian forces reached this point they would be under fire from both sides.

  But that was not the worst the Canadians would have to face. In the woodlands behind the Bertie Road, O’Neill and his officers, all mounted on their stolen horses, were watching the battle. As the Canadians faced increasing fire, with no hope of reinforcement from Colonel Peacocke, someone would see those mounted officers and raise the cry of cavalry.

  The traditional method of resisting cavalry was to bunch the long, straight line of men into a square. The troops would be positioned so that the men who made up each side of the square would face enemy cavalry holding their bayonets at the ready. The cavalry could not penetrate the square and their effectiveness would disappear. This was a tactic that Wellington perfected in Spain during the Napoleonic Wars, but it was a difficult maneuver to pull off and on this day in Canada West it would spell disaster for the Canadian Volunteers.

  A bugle sounded above the regular pop of gunfire. The advancing column slowed, then hesitated. Voices were raised, shouting orders. The column wavered and the steady gunfire became irregular.

  Grandpa turned in his seat. “What’s happening?”

  “They’ve just been ordered to form square against cavalry.”

  Grandpa snorted. “What cavalry? The Fenians have horses, sure, but farm horses. They don’t have any cavalry-trained horses.”

  “I know,” Jaclyn said. She felt like crying. “It’s the worst thing the Volunteers could do.”

  ***

  There was delight on Colonel John O’Neill’s face as he watched the green coats of the Canadian rifle regiment shift from a line into a square. “By all that’s Holy! They’re preparing to meet cavalry. Is their commander mad?”

  Gathered at the edge of the wooded area on a small rise O’Neill and his officers watched the battle. He and Starr had binoculars around their necks as did the spy, Major Canty, but Captain Haggerty and Sean O’Dell had none. They watched the battle through narrowed, experienced eyes.

  Major Canty put the binoculars to his eyes and swept the field. His gaze lingered longest at the Bertie Road where the advance of the British red coats had been halted. He lowered the glasses. “Mad or not, Colonel, this is our opportunity to push the enemy back.”

  O’Neill allowed himself a small smile. The square formation was perfect for resisting mounted men, but disastrous if no cavalry appeared, because the massed men were an easy target for steady gunfire. “Your point is well taken, Major Canty.”

  “Send in the reserves,” Starr said. He moved his horse so he was a little closer to O’Neill.

  “It’s too early. As long as we have the reserve we have surprise on our side. We’ll use our advance troops to press those redcoats. Push them a bit. Get them used to moving back instead of forward. Then I’ll send in the reserves.”

  “O’Neill!”

  “Colonel Starr, our position at the Bertie crossroad is a strong, defensible one. We have men on either side of the Ridge Road and the redcoats are being fired on from both flanks. We have coaxed the British into a trap. Now let’s spring it. Captain Haggerty! Instruct the men to advance—noisily.”

  “Noisily, sir?”

  O’Neill smiled. “Tell them to cheer, shout, something of that sort, but to do it loudly on my command.”

  “The rebel yell,” Sean said. “Remember how unnerving it could be when all those gray Confederate uniforms spilled out from behind their breastworks with their bayonets fixed? As they ran they would raise their weapons high and shake them. All the while they would shout that damned bloodcurdling yell. I saw men run from nothing more than the sight and sound of them.”

  “When I served in the West, I found the Indians liked to use a similar tactic. On unseasoned troops it can be very effective.” O’Neill raised the binoculars. “Off you go, Haggerty, and be quick.”

  Sean saluted. “With permission sir, I will assist Captain Haggerty.”

  O’Neill didn’t lower the glasses. “As you wish, Major.”

  Sean dug his heels into Sunny Girl’s sides. Unnerved by the loud noises, she had been dancing and shifting uneasily since the battle began. Now she leapt into motion, fluid and swift, a pleasure to ride. While Haggerty alerted the officers closest to O’Neill’s command post, Sean circled round behind
the lines to notify those more distant reserve units. It took no more than a few minutes for the word to spread. When Sean was certain all the men on his side of the Bertie Road knew, he moved into view of the command post and raised his hat. Then he watched for a sign from O’Neill.

  It was not long in coming. With a shout, the Fenian soldiers rose to their feet, whooping, cheering and generally making as much noise as they could. At the unexpected action the redcoats hesitated. The Fenians fired a volley and began to move forward. A trumpet call sounded from the British lines as the Fenian advance continued. The redcoats wavered, uncertain how to react to the new command contained within the trumpet call and the unexpected actions of their enemy. The cheering Fenians pushed harder and this time the British broke. They turned and fled, away from the mad Fenian frenzy, back toward the safety of their own lines.

  Every lesson Sean had learned in four years of bloody war, every instinct he possessed, told him that this was the end of the British advance. These troops were not moving back to a better position from which they would push forward again, they were running and running hard. It would take their officers hours to sort them out before they could fight again. Elation swept him. The battle was theirs. All they had to do now was push the enemy as far as they could before the heat of the day forced them all to rest.

  He turned Sunny Girl’s head and rode back the way he had come. O’Neill was still watching the battle unfold. His eyes glittered with elation and there was an exultant smile on his lips. The retreating British had swept the closest companies of the green-coated Canadians along with them as they raced down the road. Other units, away from the chaos on the road were still trying to reform from square into line and were being badly hit by Fenian fire. Soon they too dissolved into an undisciplined mob. Only here and there were pockets of men keeping formation and retreating in an orderly way.

  “I think our strategy has been a success, gentlemen.” There was satisfaction in John O’Neill’s voice. “Colonel Starr, bring up the reserves if you will. Let’s make sure these British know who has won this battle. Major O’Dell, our wounded will need assistance. I’m not prepared to leave them to the mercies of our Canadian hosts when we move out. Organize medical help and burial parties.” He paused to consult his map. “There is a small town not far from where the Garrison and Ridge Roads meet. It’s called Ridgeway. Do you know anything about it, Major Canty?”

  “There’s a train station, a tavern, some houses.”

  “As they retreat the British can either move west to Port Colborne or east to Fort Erie. My guess is that they will head west to Port Colborne. I am not prepared to follow them toward a heavily defended position until I have rested my men. Therefore, gentlemen, we will secure the crossroads where the Garrison and Ridge Roads meet and form up again at Ridgeway.”

  ***

  The wild shriek that could be heard above the sound of gunfire sent shivers down Jaclyn’s spine. It must have affected old Jim Bailey too, for he said, “What the devil was that?”

  Sara put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of fear. Her eyes were wide. “Grandpa?”

  Jaclyn looked at the massed ranks of Canadian troops but she couldn’t see exactly what was happening. “It’s the Fenians. They’re attacking.” She knew that the advance companies of the Thirteenth broke under the Fenian attack. Their undisciplined retreat would frighten the men behind them, until the Queen’s Own Rifle units that were attempting to return to a line formation from their doomed square would be overwhelmed and would also run. As yet none of this had begun, or wasn’t visible from their position, but soon the men would be running hard and fast, flowing down the road with the force of a wild spring flood. “Grandpa, you’d best get Sara and the cart to Ridgeway. If the Volunteers have to retreat they won’t want civilians in the way.”

  “They won’t retreat. Those Fenians might be attacking, but our boys will push them back again.”

  No they won’t. “And if they don’t? Are you prepared to put Sara in the midst of a thousand men bent on escape?”

  Grandpa’s shoulders stiffened and he looked back at her through narrowed, considering eyes. Like Newbigging the day before he said, “Who are you, boy?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Trust me, Grandpa! Get Sara to Ridgeway and hide in someone’s backyard or inside their barn. Or turn down the Garrison Road and head for Fort Erie. Or better yet, follow the Volunteers and head for Port Colborne. Whatever you do, just get off this road as soon as possible.” She jumped down from the back of the cart.

  “What are you doing?” Sara asked in a frightened voice. “Shouldn’t you stay with us?”

  And miss all the action? Not a hope. “I can’t. I have a friend in the Queen’s Own Rifles. I need to find him.”

  “You’re mad! Get back in here, boy!”

  “Grandpa, look after Sara!” Jaclyn had begun to run as soon as she landed on the dusty dirt. She wanted to be well away from the road before the rout began. She climbed a split rail fence and landed on the edge of a field. The earth was softer, making it harder to run, so she slowed to an ungainly half walk, half trot. Angling away from the road she travelled across country toward a farmhouse.

  A bugle sounded again. The Queen’s Own began their manoeuver to extend from square into a line. Jaclyn reached a vantage point and paused to look. A stream of red was pouring down the narrow road, heading toward the Garrison Road. Within minutes they reached the Queen’s Own square and engulfed it. The square disintegrated and became part of the mass of men flowing down the road.

  An utter and overwhelming sense of loss caught Jaclyn by surprise. Seeing the men fleeing the battlefield, knowing that they had been so very close to succeeding, was unexpectedly poignant. Blinking hard, she glanced to her left. The cart with Grandpa and Sara Bailey in it was moving rapidly down the road. Even at a run, the Volunteers would not catch up to them.

  Relieved on that score, Jaclyn returned to her observation of the battle. From where she stood she could see almost all of the action that was taking place. The most amazing thing about the battle was the chaos, making it hard to identify who was actually winning. She could see, though, that the blue coats were pressing both red and green ones now, as the Fenian advance pushed on.

  A huge wave of volunteers spilled down the road. Some officers, probably Booker and Gilmor, were trying to stem the flood with raised swords, but were unsuccessful. Eventually they were absorbed by the tide and swept along with the red and green stream of men. On either side of the road, and at the crossroads, however, the fighting continued as the Fenians faced pockets of Canadian resistance.

  One company in the green coats of the Queen’s Own was retreating in an orderly way from their forward position. Periodically they would stop and fire a round at the Fenians before continuing their retreat. To one side of the Ridge Road, units of the Queen’s Own still in square formation slowly began to extend into a line. The Fenians fired on them murderously. In the rear side of the square, where the Volunteers had their backs to the enemy, men fell under the Fenian shots.

  Jaclyn heard herself cry out. Somehow she guessed that one of the men she had watched fall was her ancestor, Hugh MacLeod. She scrambled down the rise, determined to get to him despite the chaos of the battle.

  On the surface, her desire to find Hugh made no sense. He wasn’t even a direct ancestor, since he died as a young, unmarried man. And yet she saw him as a link to her own reality, her own time period. Part of her feared that if he died here at Ridgeway as history said he did, that she would be trapped in this time forever with no way to return home.

  It was an absurd notion. It was pure emotion. It was impossible to resist. And so it drove her into the chaos and danger of the Battle of Ridgeway.

  She reached the road about the same time as the flood of retreating volunteers. The men were intent, staring ahead, taking no time to look from side-to-side. There was no way she would be able to cut across this mass of humanity, so Jaclyn stayed in the field and ran forwa
rd, toward the sounds of battle. No one paid any attention to her. They were too busy saving themselves to worry about a boy racing against the flow.

  Sooner or later she would have to cut across the mob if she wanted to reach the Queen’s Own position. Jaclyn saw her chance when a man dressed in a red uniform ran toward the unrelenting tide of men. He raised his sword, shouting for the men of the Thirteenth to stop and rally on him.

  Major Skinner, second in command of the Thirteenth Battalion, Jaclyn thought. At Skinner’s arrival there was some confusion and the tide slowed. A few men hesitated, listening to what he had to say. Jaclyn took the opportunity to duck past the small group and push her way across the road to the other side. There she paused to get her bearings before she set off to find her dying, or perhaps already dead, ancestor.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The acrid reek of gunpowder mixed with the pungent odor of male sweat as Jaclyn plunged into the retreating volunteer army. The black powder that was used by the weapons on both sides created a haze of smoke that covered the battlefield like a gossamer veil, softening the hard edge of violence and death. Around her men panted and pushed, some shouting, others silent, as they sought escape. The bark of gunfire and the screams of wounded men surrounded them all, a disturbing soundtrack to the flood of racing soldiers.

  In the middle of it all it was difficult to remember the details she’d discovered in her research. She knew she was looking for Queen’s Own Rifles company number four, which had been on the left flank of the Canadian column. By her reckoning that put them on the western side of the Ridge Road, in the open fields, but closer to the trees. She’d seen maps and read written descriptions of its location, but putting the documentary information together with the brutal momentum of the real thing was frighteningly difficult.