by Tamara Gill
She was no nearer to getting close to Colonel O’Neill, however, and she was really starting to worry about Captain King. As far as she could see, there was no search going on and, in fact, none of the Fenians seemed to be paying any attention to what was happening at the edge of the dock or on the river itself.
Across the water, the bystanders on the Buffalo shore were cheerfully commenting on the capabilities of the Canadians to defend their side of the river and calling out congratulations to the Fenian invaders. Their taunts and cheers were affecting the emotions of everyone on the dock. The Fenians were jubilant; their shoulders thrust back and prideful grins on their lips, while the despondent volunteers stood stooped, their expressions gloomy. She wanted to tell them all that the Battle of Fort Erie wasn’t over yet and that all was not what it seemed, but she knew she couldn’t.
Her thoughts elsewhere, Jacqui hadn’t been paying much attention to where she was going until she stumbled into a coiled hemp rope that had to be somewhere around the thickness of her wrist and almost fell on her face. She cursed and managed not to tumble off the dock, landing instead on top of the rope. Muttering, she sorted herself out and took stock.
Around her were piles of what she designated as boat junk. Ropes, blocks of wood, wooden cases, large and small things she couldn’t identify, and even an anchor. Ahead of her a Fenian unit was lined up. Short of going back the way she’d come, she was stuck until the Fenian company moved out. She glared at their backs impatiently, but there was nothing she could do except sit and wait.
Even though it must now be nearly five o’clock, the sun shone down from a cloudless blue sky, reflecting off the river, baking the dock and the hundreds of men there in its heat. Jacqui rubbed the sweat from her forehead with her now grimy shirtsleeve and felt her nose twitch. Hundreds of men who hadn’t washed in quite some time, she decided. In noticing the smell now she realized that she’d grown accustomed to the general odor of unwashed bodies over the past two days, probably because hers hadn’t been washed either and it too must be pretty ripe. She thought about Richard King, lost somewhere over the side of the dock and it occurred to her that King could be doing better than the rest of them. His ankle might be shattered, but at least he was cool.
She glanced at the Fenian company that was blocking her way. Although the men were lined up in their ranks, the officer was chatting with another man nearby and didn’t look like he planned to go anywhere soon. The boat junk around her was equally immobile. She, on the other hand, didn’t have the time to sit around waiting. She had to do something.
She clambered over the rope, then slid past a couple of sturdy wooden packing cases and stepped over the anchor on her way to the edge of the dock so she could check underneath again. She didn’t know where King had gone in, or where he might have drifted to. If she could just pinpoint...
Oof! The breath was knocked out of her as she hit the dock face first from the impact of a dozen Fenian bodies. “Jesus Christ! What the hell are you guys doing?”
One of them hooked his hand around Jacqui’s collar to pull her up, choking her in the process. She twisted around and swung her fists, managing to connect with her captor’s belly. She’d put the weight of her body into her punch and that had provided force her arm muscles lacked.
The Fenian grunted, then swore furiously. One of the others grabbed her arm as the first man raised his fist to reply. Jaclyn kicked, hard, and hit leather where she’d hoped to find vulnerable skin. The man’s eyes widened then narrowed. She had a feeling that she was about to be well and soundly roughed up, so she stomped her heel down on the instep of the guy holding her arm at the same time as she shoved her elbow into his gut with as much force as she could. There was another satisfying grunt and the grip on her arm loosened. She pulled it free and settled into a classic fighting stance, arms raised, hands balled into fists, one leg forward so she could pivot in any direction. She hadn’t a clue what to do if the Fenians decided to rush her, but the stance looked impressive and a bluff had gotten her through more than one tight situation since she’d arrived in 1866. She just hoped it would work one more time.
“What is going on here?”
The officer had apparently finished his conversation and come to see what his soldiers were up to. Panting and scared witless, Jaclyn glared at him.
“We caught another one!” said the Fenian who had been holding her arms.
“He’s just a boy.”
“He’s goddamned dangerous,” said the first Fenian, then added after a pause, “Sir.”
“These bozos of yours are going to beat me up!”
The officer ignored Jaclyn’s comment. “Where’s his gun?”
“He threw it into the river just before we captured him.”
That was so false. “I never did!”
The officer jerked his head indicating direction. “Take him over to Colonel O’Neill. He can be dealt with along with the rest.”
This was good news. Jaclyn lowered her guard and did her best not to show her delight. A third Fenian, different from the two she’d battled, prodded her with the barrel of his rifle. A cold shiver passed over her, washing away satisfaction. Even though she knew he didn’t plan to shoot her, the touch of that weapon on her spine held a promise she didn’t want to contemplate.
O’Neill had finished his inspection of the volunteer prisoners when Jaclyn was brought to him. He was surrounded by his staff—Starr, Haggerty and the spy, Canty. Sean was nowhere in sight.
“Sir,” the Fenian began, “I have another...”
“Jack,” O’Neill said.
Jaclyn flashed him a grin. “Hi, Colonel. Nice to see you again.”
“You know this boy?”
It was Canty who replied, his precise tones expressing his distaste. “He has a way of involving himself in our affairs.”
His eyes were cold and disapproving, Jaclyn noted. He was probably jealous of her knowledge of the area. She grinned at him and winked.
O’Neill shook his head. “You can leave him with me, soldier. He’s not one of the militia we’ve been fighting, but he shouldn’t be allowed to wander around on his own.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his dark, thinning hair, before putting the hat back on again. There was a flush on his cheekbones and a light in his eyes that could have been amusement or the lingering euphoria of victory. “What are we going to do with you, Jack?”
“Send him to the old fort with the rest of the prisoners.”
That was Canty’s suggestion and Jaclyn didn’t like it. “I’ll just join the rest of the folks in town,” she said. “No harm done, Colonel. But first, listen, there’s this guy—”
“A guy?”
Canty was really out to get her. He sounded testy and strung out, like her dad did when his job wasn’t going right. He barked at everything and lacked a vital sense of humor about life. Canty must be taking the failure of the Fenian invasion of Canada West pretty hard. “Yeah, one of the volunteers you guys fought a few minutes ago.”
“And what about this ‘guy’?”
“He got shot and he fell into the river. He needs to be rescued.”
Canty’s eyes narrowed and he poked his face so close to Jaclyn’s that she could see the openings of his pores and smell onions on his breath. Her space was definitely being invaded. She retreated. Canty followed. “How the hell do you know that, boy? Where were you? How could you see something like that?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth and his proximity was scrambling her brain so she couldn’t come up with a quick, believable explanation. She raised her hands to push him away.
Haggerty said, “One of the prisoners has been saying something similar. It was one of their officers, a Captain King.”
Relieved, still aware that Canty was way too close for comfort, Jaclyn looked over at O’Neill. “He’s under the dock, hanging on to one of the pilings. I caught a glimpse of him before I was brought over here. He needs help, Colonel.”
“That�
�s enough, Major Canty. All right, Jack. We’ll look for this Captain King. Haggerty, talk to that prisoner. See if you can find out where King went in, then send some men to fish him out.”
Haggerty saluted and went off. O’Neill said, “Colonel Starr, march the prisoners over to the old fort and post a guard. Where is the town reeve—what’s his name? Kempson. He’s a doctor, is he not, Major Canty?”
Canty was still muscling in on Jaclyn’s space and she was glaring at him without much effect.
He smiled rather nastily at her before looking over at O’Neill. “He is, Colonel.”
O’Neill nodded. “We’ll have Dr. Kempson see to our wounded and theirs, then. When we fish this Captain King out, have Kempson take a look at him. If the wound is very bad, send him over to Buffalo.”
Then and now. For emergencies send the patient down to the States for immediate medical attention. Some things never change.
“I’d have him look at O’Dell’s arm next,” Starr said. “He’s the worst of our wounded.”
O’Neill nodded.
Jaclyn burst out, “What’s this?” Her voice rose. “Sean is injured?”
Canty’s eyes widened and he stepped back to take a better look at her. O’Neill frowned and eyed her speculatively, but Jaclyn didn’t notice. She turned on Starr. “Where is he?”
He was clearly taken aback at her fierceness. “I sent him over to the old fort. He’s with the rest of the wounded, I suppose.”
She glared at Canty. “Get out of my way.”
“Let him go, Major. He’ll not cause any harm.”
Jaclyn pushed her way past Canty, expressing her dislike with a rough shove, then she was off, threading her way through the mass of Fenians, pushing when she couldn’t find a hole, anxious to return to the old fort she’d left a scant hour before.
***
The ground around the ruins of the old fortifications was covered with wild grasses, sprinkled here and there with spring and early summer flowers, but in the shade of the tall standing wall where the sun rarely reached, bare earth showed through and moss climbed the old stones. When Sullivan had brought Sean into this makeshift shelter the cool gloom was a welcome relief to the heat of the day. He’d settled Sean on the earthen bed with cheery comments about Sean’s good fortune in being out of the sun, comments that Sean didn’t bother to respond to. Good fortune was not something he felt he had in any supply right then.
Though his injuries had wrapped him in a blanket of fiery sensation, he’d been coherent enough to ask Sullivan to secure the horse, Sunny Girl before he went back to his company. Sullivan had grumbled a little at that, but he’d removed the bridle and made a rudimentary hobble, leaving Sunny Girl to graze a short distance away. Despite the head wound that brought nausea and a fierce throbbing pain with every movement, Sean had pushed himself to a sitting position.
His back against the cold stone, his head resting there too, he watched the filly. For a time it gave him a purpose and kept his mind from lingering on his injuries and the potential results. The gunfire that had frightened Sunny Girl had drifted farther away, become sporadic, and the horse was calm now. She munched the grass with evident enjoyment, didn’t seem to mind the hobble that kept her from bolting, and altogether presented such a peaceful picture that Sean’s attention strayed back to his own problems.
Though his arm was on fire, his back was cold from the stone and beneath his butt the ground was damp as well as cold. He began to shiver. If he’d had the energy he would have stood up and stumbled his way into the sunshine, beside Sunny Girl, but he didn’t. So he sat and let his mind drift into incoherent eddies filled with nightmare images.
A woman’s voice penetrated his vision of a cold dank stone prison, a woman he thought he knew but couldn’t quite identify. He opened his eyes, realized he was in Canada West, not Ireland, and turned his head just a fraction because movement made it throb and his stomach churn.
The voice came again, calling his name, then muttering in irritation. “Sean! Come on, Major, where are you?”
His lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. “Jack,” he said as loudly as he could.
He didn’t think she’d heard, and was sure of it when he heard her say, “Hey, you!” There was a grunt of pain followed by a howl of indignation from one someone on the other side of the wall. “Sorry, but I need your help. I brought you down from Ridgeway. Remember?” There was another grunt, something muttered. Jaclyn’s voice again, impatient now. “Well! Oh, sorry. Damn it, you’re not any help, are you? Sean?”
Sean wanted to laugh. Jaclyn at full tilt, intent on finding him and willing to allow no one and nothing to stand in her way. Her arrival warmed him and blew something very close to hope into his heart. “Jack,” he said, a little louder this time.
She heard him. “Sean?”
He tried again, risking the pain and nausea that were sure to come if he shouted. “Jack, I’m on the other side of the wall. Over here.”
She came round one end, saw Sunny Girl peacefully grazing in the sunlight and headed that way. “Sean, I can’t see you. Am I close?”
“I’m leaning against the taller wall.” Ignoring the pain, he shifted position to help her pinpoint him. It worked. The movement caught her eye and her step quickened, but his reward was feeling the throbbing in his head intensify and the constant fierce ache in his arm blaze into a searing, white-hot flame. He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to cry out. This was bloody awful, but he knew it would only get worse. All he had now was his pride and he would cling to that with all the strength he had left.
“Sean,” Jaclyn said. “What happened? How bad is it?” She didn’t wait for a reply as she crouched down beside him. Peering at the bloody rag tied around his arm and the bone above it sticking out at an odd angle, she made no attempt to touch either. He saw her swallow hard. “You need morphine. I wonder if Kempson has any?”
Her voice was thin, as if she was struggling to control powerful emotions. “Jaclyn—”
Very gently she brushed the hair from his forehead, away from the bloody lesion caused when he hit his head. Involuntarily he drew a quick breath and she jerked her hand away.
“I’m sorry. I’m hurting you. I didn’t mean to.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes, fighting the pain, letting his thoughts drift. He was back in the cold dank prison again. He’d had a dream that he’d escaped, but in the end they’d caught him and now they were going to hang him for the murder of—
“Sean, it’s okay. You’re in Canada, not Ireland, and this isn’t a prison. It’s the ruins of old Fort Erie. Remember? Sean, come back to me, please!”
He opened his eyes with reluctance. As horrific as the nightmare of hanging was, at least he’d been whole in the dream. He shivered, sending pain lancing through him.
“Damn,” she said softly. “Sean, I don’t know what I can do. Dr. Kempson is coming to look at you soon, but until then...” Her voice dwindled off.
He managed to smile. “Stay with me. That’s enough.” It wasn’t enough, but her tentative smile went a long way to easing some of the fear that gnawed at him. He knew what was going to happen when Kempson took a look at his arm. He’d say it had to come off. Sean wasn’t looking forward to the operation or to being one-handed—left handed at that!—afterwards.
“Your guys won again,” she said, settling beside him on the damp, lumpy earth.
He smiled to encourage her to continue. Not that he cared about the outcome of the battle. He just wanted to keep his thoughts away from that awful prison.
“When I came looking for you they were sorting out the prisoners. Most of the men from the Robb had been caught, even the guys who bolted. There was a firefight—”
Unwillingly amused at her choice of words, his smile widened. “Firefight? Do you mean a skirmish?”
She grinned at him and crossed her legs in front of her. “That too,” she said, taking his good hand in hers
and stroking the back of it in a soothing way. “So, anyway, there was a skirmish at the post office. Our guys held your guys off for a time, but eventually they ran out of ammunition and had to surrender. They’ll be here eventually, as soon as O’Neill processes them.”
Sean laughed. He couldn’t help it, even though it hurt. She made it sound as if the Fenians were a proper army, from a properly constituted state, involved in a proper war, when in fact they were a band of patriots who’d invaded a the territory of a sovereign nation for no particular reason other than to provoke rebellion. If they were caught they would be hanged for their efforts. None of that seemed to matter to Jaclyn, though.
The sounds of other voices interrupted their conversation. Jaclyn let go of his hand and stood up. She waited a moment then headed over to the opening that pierced the long curtain wall. Sean’s eyes followed her and he heard her shout, “Dr. Kempson, he’s over here.”
A man walked through the ruined gate. His stride was brisk, as if he had much to do and not enough time to get it done. In his hand he carried a small bag. He was followed by a Fenian soldier wearing a green coat and carrying a bucket. Sean’s stomach turned over and he closed his eyes as he said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t humiliate himself in the coming operation.
“Is this O’Dell?” Sean heard a male voice say.
Reluctantly he opened his eyes. Jaclyn was standing with her feet wide apart, a frown on her face. Her hands were on her hips. She looked as if she was prepared to take Kempson on in a sparing match, verbal or otherwise.
“Of course it is!” she said at the same time as Sean said, “At your service, Doctor.”
The Fenian set the bucket down, shot a worried look at Sean’s mangled arm and fled.
“No ‘of course’ about it, boy,” Kempson said, establishing superiority over Jaclyn. He frowned at the back of the retreating Fenian. “O’Dell could be any of the ruffians scattered about the ruins.”
