by Tamara Gill
Owen Starr and his detachment of Fenians. “Grandpa! Hurry! Starr is almost here!”
Grandpa clucked at the team. One of the big animals flicked its ears. Their speed increased.
The wagon was on River Road now, nearing the international dock. Dennis and Kempson were still arguing. Dennis had his hands on his hips while Kempson’s shoulders were bowed. The prisoners had moved closer to the edge of the dock and the men of the Welland Battery were huddled together, waiting.
Jaclyn began to breathe more easily. They were almost at the dock and would soon be past. Grandpa and Sara would get out before the battle began.
Suddenly, old Jim Bailey tugged on the reins. Sara and Jaclyn looked at him.
“I have to talk to Kempson and this Volunteer Colonel. I have to tell them that the Fenians are almost here.”
“Yes, you do, Grandpa,” Sara said.
Jacqui closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Kempson!” The reeve looked over, a frown on his face. Bailey said, “Look sharp, man! The Fenians are on their way here.”
Colonel John Stoughton Dennis, resplendent in his red uniform, raked the wagon with a contemptuous gaze. “And who, sir, are you?”
It was Kempson who answered. “This is Jim Bailey. He has a place on the Ridge Road outside of Ridgeway. How do you know about the Fenians, Jim?”
“I’ve just come from Ridgeway. They won a huge victory over the Volunteers from Port Colborne and now they’re heading back here to regroup. Are those fellows with their hands tied Fenian prisoners?”
Kempson nodded. “I don’t want them in our jail, but Colonel Dennis disagrees.”
“Well, stand by your guns, Doc! The Fenians will be here within minutes, mark my words.”
“Nonsense!” Dennis said. His bushy sideburns and sweeping mustache fairly bristled with annoyance. “It is not possible that this rabble could have defeated a contingent of our excellent Volunteers. You do not know what you are talking about, Mr. Bailey.”
“I do, but you’ll not believe that, Colonel. Kempson, good luck. I must get Sara home.”
Kempson shot a poisonous look at Dennis, then he nodded to Grandpa. Bailey shook the reins again, urging the team into motion. A cheer rose up from the crowd across the river.
Jaclyn looked back and groaned. “Grandpa, can you make the horses run? Colonel Starr has reached the River Road and he’s forming his men up into a line. The shooting will begin in minutes. Hurry!”
***
The last of the Fenian Expeditionary Force had marched out of Ridgeway about fifteen minutes before. With it had gone the Fenian wounded able to walk without assistance. Sean lingered in the town, helping Dr. Brewster move the last of the Canadian injured from the field.
“You’d best be on your way, O’Dell. If you’re caught on your own hereabouts it will go hard for you.”
Sean shrugged. “I finish what I begin, Doctor.” With his foot he shoved open the door to an empty farmhouse just outside of Ridgeway. He and Brewster half-carried a stumbling Canadian into the coolness of the building.
“An admirable trait, I’m sure, but not one that will help save your hide if the British column shows up. Let’s put this fellow upstairs. I know the owner of this farm. His daughter just got married and moved out and his son’s wife hasn’t had any babies yet, so there’s a spare bedroom.”
They lugged the groaning volunteer up the stairs, one on either side. It was a slow process with the injured man only semi-conscious and little able to help. As they laid the man down on the feather mattress, Brewster said, “What is young Jack’s real name?”
Sean straightened slowly, his mind rushing through possible reasons for Brewster’s question as he formulated an inconsequential answer. “Jack is the name he gave me. Why would I know him by any other?”
Brewster checked the injured man’s pulse then stepped back and observed him. “He’ll do for now. I’ll send my wife over to watch him until I can make other arrangements.” He dusted his hands together and turned away from the bed, then he smiled in an ironic way at Sean. “Because he’s a she and I’m guessing you know it, O’Dell.”
Sean didn’t reply until they were out of the house, back in the bright, unforgiving sunlight. Brewster’s head was bare, his eyes curious. Sean was glad that the brim of his hat shaded his features and hid his expression from the too perceptive doctor. “What makes you think Jack is not a lad?”
“Major O’Dell, I watched you today. Either you’re mighty fond of boys or that young fellow is a girl.”
“So it wasn’t Jack’s manner or looks that made you think he was a girl?”
Brewster laughed. “That too. Although, I have to admit that male or female, Jack has a very strange manner.”
That was certainly true. Sean thought again about her casual remark about Bull Run. He shot a speculative look at Brewster. “Were you at Bull Run?”
Surprise made the doctor raise his brows. “I was.”
Sean sighed. He couldn’t help it. “Do you think Jim Bailey would have made a remark about the volunteers fleeing as the Union did at the First Bull Run?”
“Jim Bailey? Heaven’s no. Jim Bailey’s never been further south than Buffalo. Folks hereabouts read about the Civil War in the newspapers, but they didn’t take that much notice, until the last couple of years when it seemed clear that the North would win. When Sherman burned Atlanta there was a lot of talk. Folks began to wonder if he’d turn on the Canadas once he’d finished with the South.”
There was one more question Sean had to ask. He didn’t want to ask it, because he was pretty sure what the answer would be, but he couldn’t let the opportunity go by in silence. “Have you ever met Jack before today?”
“No. Look, O’Dell, where’s this leading?”
They passed the Smuggler’s Hole and headed to Brewster’s house where Sunny Girl was stabled. “Why would Jack know that you would describe the volunteers’ retreat as being like Bull Run?”
Brewster laughed. “Probably because I’ve described Bull Run to anyone who would listen since I returned to Canada West. I said for years that if Sherman and his army invaded, the British troops here would never be able to stand against them. They’d run sure as the Union did at Bull Run.”
They reached the grassy paddock where Sunny Girl grazed. Sean’s gloved hand closed over the wooden rail of the gate, rough from a horse’s dedicated gnawing. “Simple as that?”
“What else could it be?”
Sean opened the gate and slipped inside the paddock. He chirped to the horse, getting her attention as he walked over to her in an unhurried way. Catching her, he led her back to the rail and replaced the bridle, which he’d removed to let her graze. He tightened the cinch on the saddle and mounted. The familiar tasks reassured him, mocking the uneasiness that had nagged at him since Jaclyn had made her comment. “You are right, Doctor. Jack is Jaclyn.” He guided Sunny Girl out of the paddock. Brewster closed the gate behind him. Sean pulled off his glove and leaned down, offering his hand. “Thank you sir, for your assistance today.”
Brewster nodded. “My pleasure, Major. You mind those injured men we sent ahead, now. Ship them back to Buffalo as soon as you can. They need proper medical attention, not just my quick patch up.”
They shook hands.
“I will,” Sean said, then he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat in a casual salute, pulled on his glove and dug his heels into Sunny Girl’s sides. The filly eased into a fluid trot. Sean nudged her again. Her stride lengthened to a ground eating canter that created a breeze which blew away some of the stink of blood and death that was the aftermath of battle.
It was not long before he came upon the tail of the Fenian column. The men were marching at a good pace, but the filly’s stride was long, as well as effortless, and he’d made good time. He pulled her down to a trot and skirted the column looking for O’Neill.
The sound of cheering reached him before he found his commander. A chill shot through hi
m. Where the hell was the cheering coming from? Had the British taken Fort Erie back while his Fenians were wandering around the countryside of Canada West? Was their only way home blocked by another tough column of defenders?
By the time Sean found Colonel O’Neill the Fenian army was breaking out into its separate units and deploying in a line at the edge of the low bluff that rose above the town of Fort Erie. O’Neill was on Jim Bailey’s black horse in the midst of his troops, binoculars to his eyes, staring at the scene below. Across the water, on the Buffalo side of the Niagara River, the cheering Sean had heard earlier had risen to a roar. He frowned as he picked his way through the lines, not yet able to see what was causing the excitement.
As Sean neared him, O’Neill lowered the glasses and turned. “Major O’Dell. I’m glad you are here.” There was a roar of disapproval from the spectators on the American shore. O’Neill raised the binoculars again.
Sean frowned, then began to curse fluently and with considerable passion as he looked down at the town and the distant waterfront.
A boat lay moored at the dock. Not a big boat, but a sturdy looking one. Men were frantically herding other men, some wearing the blue of the Union army or the green coats of Fenian patriots, up the gangway into the belly of the boat. Those being herded apparently didn’t want to go, for they resisted, pushing with hands bound at the wrists, trying to slip away in the confusion of the moment. Those doing the herding were shoving back, apparently determined to get their prisoners loaded into the boat before the outcome of the skirmish taking place at the land end of the dock was decided.
A group of men dressed in blue uniform coats were falling into a line formation. They appeared to be commanded by a man in the red uniform of the British army who stood to one side as the unit formed up. They were facing the railway tracks with the old fort and river beyond. There Sean could see Starr and his small division had also formed up into a line. At the sight of the Starr’s men, civilians headed for cover. Sean could hear the screams of the women and see the people running down the River Road as they tried to reach the safety of their homes.
The red-coated officer raised his sword.
“By all that is Holy!” O’Neill said, lowering the binoculars. “Is the man mad? I’ve a thousand troops here. He has a hundred. What is he thinking of? I know these people want to defend their homeland, but at what cost?”
“Perhaps he is a British officer anxious to redeem himself.”
“By sacrificing a hundred of the Canadian Volunteers?” O’Neill rubbed his chin. “Perhaps. With the British anything is possible.” He continued to watch the scene, then he shook his head. “More likely he sees this as his one opportunity to keep the prisoners he’s taken. Those are my men and I want them back. Major O’Dell, ride down to Colonel Starr, give him my regards and ask him to hold his position. In the meantime I will try to get this mad officer to parley.” He shifted in the saddle, reaching into a pocket to pull out a white handkerchief.
Sean saluted. O’Neill was tying the white cloth to his rifle barrel as Sean rode down the hill at a gallop. He didn’t see the redcoat lower his sword in the age-old gesture to fire a volley, but he heard the explosion of a hundred weapons and saw men fall in Starr’s line.
Skittish from a morning on the battlefield, Sunny Girl shied at the sudden boom of gunfire. Sean reined her in and kicked her hard, pushing her into the heart of the battle. She bucked and fought him, but he slapped her neck with the reins, ruthlessly forcing her onward. He hardly noticed that his hat had flown off as the filly sun fished in panic. He had a job to do and a moody, reluctant horse was not about to keep him from it.
Starr formed up his men and ordered a volley. The stink of gunpowder igniting, the explosion of a dozens of nearby muskets and the spit of fire from the barrels was enough to overset the highbred Sunny Girl. The horse shrieked and reared. Sean pulled hard on the reins, forcing her head down. At the same time he raked his spurs against her sides. She landed already on the move.
Sean had reached Starr’s line when the Canadians on the dock replied with another volley. This third explosion, although not as close as the last one, was too much for Sunny Girl. She reared again.
A Canadian bullet pierced the fleshy part of Sean’s arm at the same time as Sunny Girl unexpectedly twisted as she reared. The impact of the projectile, the horse’s violent movement and the sudden weakness in one hand combined to unseat Sean. He tumbled from the filly, automatically tightening his hold on the reins with his good hand as he fell.
He hit the ground on the same side as his wounded arm, landing hard on the steel rail of the train tracks. The bone in his upper arm snapped with the impact, above the place where the Canadian ball had penetrated. Pain was instantaneous. As it flowed through him he cursed mentally. He had no time for anything more, however, for his head also crashed against the rails, drawing him into the blackness where a man’s willpower had no place. He tried to fight that overwhelming darkness, but the pain was too intense and the promise of nothingness too sweet. He surrendered to an enemy too strong to defeat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Old Jim Bailey shouted to the team and shook the reins. The heavy horses drawing the wagon were not particularly swift, but they were powerful. The wagon lurched forward, gaining momentum as Bailey urged the horses into a headlong gallop. Empty except for the three people riding on the front seat, the vehicle bounced down River Road in a ride wilder than the rollercoaster at an amusement park. Sara screamed and Jacqui wondered if she was going to survive this mad adventure.
It didn’t take long to reach the edge of the densely populated area of town. Just long enough, in fact, for the first volley to be heard and for the crowd across the river to roar its disapproval.
“Grandpa! Stop! Stop the wagon.” For the life of her, Jaclyn couldn’t figure out why she shouted the demand. The words popped out of her mouth of their own accord and once said they lingered in the air, mocking the sensible part of her that wanted to go with the Baileys back to their farm, far away from the fighting.
Jim Bailey took a quick look up the hill, making sure that the Fenians hadn’t begun to advance toward the river, before he drew back on the reins. The team slowed to a sensible walk. “What is it, Jack?”
“I have to get out.”
Bailey frowned. “Why?”
“I have to go back.”
‘No!” Sara put her hand on Jacqui’s arm. “You can’t, Jack. Those men are shooting at each other. You don’t know what will happen!”
But I do. “Sara, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Grandpa, pull up, will you?”
“Don’t, Grandpa!”
The team slowed to a stop. Jim Bailey held out his hand. “If you need help, Jack, you know where my farm is.”
Touched, Jaclyn reached around Sara to shake his offered hand. “I do, sir.” She gave Sara a hug and clambered down from the box. “And thank you for all your help. Bye!”
She began to run before old Jim Bailey shook the reins and clucked to the horses, before the wagon started to move again. The desire to climb back into the flatbed and go with Grandpa and Sara back to their farm was so strong Jaclyn had to push past it by turning her face away from the security it represented. Her little excursion into the past had already given her an eyeful of the dangers of warfare; she didn’t need any more background information.
But she was here. Events had conspired to put her in the middle of the action throughout the Fenian invasion. Somehow she didn’t think that she was supposed to be cowering at the Bailey farm while Colonel John Stoughton Dennis and his small contingent from the Robb skirmished with the Fenians. If she went back to the Bailey farm to hide she would miss an opportunity that would never come again. She hoped.
So she raced down River Road, not away from the fighting, but toward it. The bang of massed musket shots raised a cheer from the Buffalo side of the Niagara River. Then the cheering increased a notch to just under a roar of approval. Jacqui looked up over
her shoulder at the bluff above the town. It was dark with the blue and green-coated soldiers of Colonel O’Neill’s main force.
The roar of approval turned into a groan and then something that could have been boos. Jaclyn slowed her headlong pace to a walk and looked up. O’Neill was holding his rifle high. On it was a piece of white cloth. He was waving his makeshift flag back and forth, but there was no reaction from Colonel Dennis beyond the sound of another volley. Jaclyn swore and started to run again. In minutes Dennis would wake up and notice that he was being hemmed in by his Fenian enemies. He’d give the order to scatter and at that point running along the main drag would get dangerous. She had to make as much time as she could before she needed to find somewhere to hide.
There were catcalls from the opposite shore. Passing an open area between houses, she looked toward the Niagara River and saw what had annoyed the American spectators.
The tug Robb had pulled way from the dock during the fighting. Now it was drifting along in the middle of the channel, its load of Fenian prisoners safely tucked away in its hold, well out of reach of the clearly superior Fenian numbers. The Robb and her cargo would escape the Fenians, but the escape from the dock had been a near run thing, much less certain now, in 1866, than it had seemed to her when she did her research.
Jaclyn had reached the point of physical exertion when her legs were weighted and her heart was pounding so heavily she could hardly breathe. She slowed her pace as the crowd cheered wildly. She looked up. The Fenian army was on the move again, spilling down the hill like a cascade of dark blue-green water even as Starr and his men fired one last volley into the mass of volunteers on the dock.
This was it then. John Stoughton Dennis would be giving the order that each man was to fend for himself. Like an athlete anticipating the starting gun, he was the first to bolt down River Road, away from the dock, heading out of town. Others would quickly follow.
As the disciplined line of troops holding the dock disintegrated, Colonel Starr and his men would advance. The orderly battle of volley replying to volley would shatter into dozens of individual firefights in which anyone could get hurt, including a young woman masquerading as a boy. Jaclyn saw a freshly painted house and dove through the gate of the white picket fence that surrounded it. The house was a sizeable one, two-stories high, with orderly rows of windows piercing each floor. Shutters covered the windows now, barricading the people hiding inside, keeping them safe from the violence that had invaded the world outside.
