by Tamara Gill
It was not until Jaclyn heard the boom of the Michigan’s gun firing on the scow that she left the dock area. It was the small hours of the morning now and the coolest hours of the night. She went looking for a place to curl up and catch a few hours sleep before George Denison and his Governor General’s Body Guard galloped hell-for-leather into town.
She ended up in front of the house where she’d seen John Stoughton Dennis hide. A faint smile curled her lips as she looked at the building. Dennis was long gone, of course. After almost being discovered, he’d shaved off his theatrically bushy mustache and sideburns—of which he was inordinately proud—and flitted out of the grasp on the Fenian invaders. According to George Denison’s memoirs, Dennis had turned up in the British encampment in the middle of the night of June second, dressed in a woman’s clothes. Though Dennis himself admitted that he’d dumped his uniform and donned a disguise to get out of town, he claimed he’d merely dressed as a civilian.
Whether Dennis had indeed disguised himself as a woman, Jaclyn would never know. The part of her that was still into the excitement of the adventure wished she’d had the chance to visit Peacocke’s camp, and possibly see the arrival of Dennis, but the other part, the part that was exhausted, convinced her that visiting Peacocke would be foolhardy. So instead she turned into the grounds of the house and quietly slipped around to the back where she knew there was a barn.
It was pleasantly warm inside and darker than she’d ever thought possible. Cautiously she crept to the back of the building. There she found the hayrick where Dennis had hidden. She poked at the hay. It was stiff and rather hard, but she thought it might be a reasonable place to shack out for a few hours. She climbed up, made herself a nest and, with a little sigh, fell asleep.
***
Tired as she was, her sleep was more of a restless doze than a real slumber. She woke shivering, her body aching from the uncomfortable bed and her muscles stiff from all the unexpected activities of the past two days. She stretched, then stumbled out of the barn fantasizing about brushing her teeth and indulging in a hot shower. Outside the morning retained the midnight cool, but the sky was cloudless, promising another hot day. Jaclyn thought about O’Neill and his men stuck on the old scow, going nowhere. Once the sun rose the metal hull would draw the light and it would soon heat up, turning the vessel into an oven, adding physical discomfort to whatever mental agonies the Fenians were going through.
Right now, though, the temperature was moderate and the little town of Fort Erie basked in an early morning peace and stillness. Since there was no chance of breakfast this early, Jaclyn wandered down to the dock to see if the Michigan and the scow were within viewing distance. She found the ships in the middle of the channel, some distance away. Neither the warship nor the scow was going anywhere, but a small boat was rowing out from the Canadian shore toward the Michigan. Jaclyn put her hand over her eyes to try to get a better look. She thought she saw a person in a dark uniform, being rowed by another individual wearing dark clothes. This pair could be a couple of locals. More likely, it was the scrappy young cavalry commander, Major George Denison of the Governor General’s Body Guard, and one of his men.
According to Denison’s memoirs, Colonel Peacocke had sent him out to reconnoiter the countryside early on the morning of June third. He had seen the scow tied to the Michigan and had been informed by some early-rising locals that the Fenians were still at large. The scow, he was told, contained reinforcements for the Fenian army, reinforcements that had been captured by the Michigan. Denison decided that the best way to find out if this was true or not was to go out to the Michigan and ask.
Jaclyn squinted, trying to capture the details of the scene. The little boat progressed steadily toward the Michigan. The figure in blue stood up, wavering rather violently and almost tipping the skiff. Jaclyn hooted. If that was indeed George Denison, he’d left out a detail or two when he described his actions during the invasion.
Denison put up his hands to shout something to the occupants of the Michigan. Jacqui grinned and stretched, deciding she wanted to get a closer view of the action. Observing Denison suited her mood perfectly. He was intriguing and entertaining, and as she watched her mind could drift along with the ships on the river. She jogged off the dock onto River Road and headed toward the edge of town, putting no more energy into it than that required.
She passed the post office, which looked as if a riot had taken place around it. Windows were broken, there were scars on the walls where musket balls had dug out chunks of wood and holes where they penetrated the siding. While the glass would be repaired, the rest of the building would always bear the scars of the firefight—skirmish!—that had taken place here. Jaclyn stared at it a few minutes, thinking of the dangers the Welland and Dunnville men had faced, before she continued on her way. By now, she thought, the people of Fort Erie must be getting more than a little jaded about the process of invasion, even if no civilians had been harmed. The post office would be a constant reminder of the three days in June when their world, and their security, had tipped upside down.
She found a likely observation spot not far from the post office. The little boat was now tied up to the Michigan. The boatman remained in the skiff, while on the deck of the warship there were two men dressed in blue uniforms looking over the stern at the scow full of Fenians. One, clothed in the marine blue of the US navy, must be the captain of the Michigan, while the other was George Denison, whose uniform was the dark blue of a cavalry regiment. After a few minutes, still talking, the two men walked back to the ladder beside which Denison’s skiff lay. Denison raised his hand in a crisp, snappy salute, which Captain Bryson of the Michigan returned in a casual manner, then Denison clambered over the side.
Climbing up or down a ship’s ladder in knee-high riding boots must have been a bitch, Jaclyn thought, grinning. Denison didn’t create the most elegant picture as he disembarked, but he didn’t fall into the water either, so she supposed he’d done pretty well.
When the little skiff was returning to shore, Jaclyn headed back to the ferry dock. Her stomach was telling her she really needed to have breakfast, now. But no one was up and she couldn’t see any restaurants where she could get a cup of coffee and a muffin. Besides, she didn’t have any currency that would be any good in 1866. Though the Canadas had switched from British pounds to the decimal dollar system in the 1850s, there was no set Canadian currency yet. That would come after Confederation. Bank tokens were used, some American coins, even the pieces of eight from the Spanish Americas, but after the past couple of days she thought it unlikely the citizens of Fort Erie would take too kindly to a paper note designated in dollars, like the American currency. Even her coins would be suspect, adorned as they were with a picture of the wrong queen. The twenty-first century Elizabeth looked nothing like the mid-nineteenth century Victoria. The good people of Fort Erie would figure Jaclyn’s money for counterfeit and once again she’d be in trouble, only this time there would be no Sean to bail her out.
So how was she going to get breakfast?
She was ruminating on this subject when she noticed figures moving about in the vicinity of the ruined fortifications. These must be the Canadian prisoners only now realizing that their captors were nowhere about. They flowed out into the town, a slow, but steady stream of bewildered men.
It didn’t take long before a couple of them noticed Jacqui. One nudged his fellow and pointed in her direction. Jaclyn hoped that the fellow was not pointing her out as a friend of the Fenians, but just as someone to gain information from. The two men fell into a deep discussion, glancing at her from time to time before they advanced toward her. Jacqui stood her ground and waited for them.
“You, boy!”
A fine opening, guaranteed to ensure maximum cooperation from any teenager. “Yeah?”
“Are you from around here?”
“Sort of. Who are you?”
“I’m Able Wray of the Welland Canal Field Battery,” the Volunteer said.
“And this is my friend, Fergus. He’s also from the Welland Battery. Have you seen the Fenians?”
Jacqui resisted the urge to laugh. There was something delightfully absurd about a prisoner wandering around town enquiring politely after his captors. “They’ve left.”
Wray frowned. “How do you know?”
“They have?” said Fergus. He shouted with delight and slapped his thigh. He punched his pal on the shoulder. “Did you hear that, Able? We’re free men!”
“Where are they?” Able demanded. He was clearly not as trusting an individual as Fergus was.
The two men looked familiar, but Jaclyn couldn’t quite place them. She pointed to the river. “The Fenians are in a scow attached to the US warship out on the Niagara. They tried to get away last night, but the Michigan caught them.”
“How do you know this?”
Good question. “I stayed up late and watched them embark on the scow. I also heard the Michigan fire a gun and then saw the scow being tied up to her.” Jaclyn yawned. She didn’t do it on purpose, but it was effective just the same.
“So they’re truly gone,” Able said. He looked over at the Buffalo shore.
There were no spectators at this early hour, but Jaclyn thought he could probably hear in his mind the cheers and catcalls that had provided a macabre accompaniment to the battle the previous day.
“They’ve been captured by their own people, have they?” Able snorted with disgust. “If we’d been commanded by Captain King and not that jumped up Colonel from Toronto the Fenians would be our prisoners right now, looking forward to proper justice for their crimes. Instead we ran and they were the ones to capture us. It’s not right.”
Now she remembered. They were the two men who’d been captured in the washhouse. “Are you talking about John Stoughton Dennis?”
“I am.”
The sound of the galloping hoofbeats of many horses interrupted whatever else Wray was about to say and announced the arrival of Major George Denison and the Governor General’s Body Guard.
Denison was riding at the head of his men, mounted on a big black horse. His dark blue uniform had ornate gold braid across the front in rows and appeared to be very new. Jaclyn thought that it didn’t have half the sex appeal of Sean’s well-worn and somewhat faded Union tunic.
As the Governor General’s Body Guard bore down on them, Able Wray and his friend Fergus scrambled to the side of the road. Jaclyn followed. When he was nearly abreast of them Denison hauled hard on the reins, bringing his steed to an abrupt, spectacular stop. The black horse reared up on its hind legs and its forelegs pawed the air. Jacqui looked over at Able and Fergus. They were clearly impressed with this display of horsemanship. Jaclyn was not. She compared Denison’s theatrical handling of the animal with Sean’s empathetic horsemanship. Denison’s style was that of a young man who had never been tested, while Sean’s was that of one who had endured too much and wanted to harm no more.
“Who are you?” Able shouted even before the horse’s front legs had touched the ground again.
“Major George Denison of the Governor General’s Body Guard. And you?”
“Able Wray, of the Welland Canal Field Battery. This here’s my friend Fergus. He’s a member of the Battery too.”
Well, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way—
“And you, boy. Are you from Fort Erie?”
“Well—”
“He wouldn’t say for sure,” Able noted helpfully.
“Come to think of it, I saw him yesterday on the dock, talking to the Fenians after the battle,” Fergus added.
Oh great, just great. “Thanks, guys.”
Denison eased his horse toward Jaclyn and the others. It was still edgy from the sudden ending of its gallop and it pranced a little as it minced sideways toward her. Jaclyn noticed it was a big horse, bigger than Sunny Girl. It tossed its head and snorted. Able and Fergus jumped back. Jaclyn fought the impulse to do the same. Instead she looked up at George Denison with a cool expression.
George Denison did not sit relaxed on his mount’s back the way Sean did. He sat straight and ramrod stiff, making him seem taller. The illusion was helped by the high leather shako he wore. Sean’s hat was flat crowned with a wide brim, a practical head covering that kept the sun off and shaded the eyes. Denison’s shako was tall with a short peek in the front that would cut glare but provide little effective shade. It was also more likely to keep the head warm than to provide an effective barrier to a hot southern sun.
They represented different societies with different needs. That didn’t make Denison any the less interesting. Or dangerous.
“What is your name, boy?”
“Jack. Jack Sinclair.”
“And where do you live?”
Why does everyone have to ask that question? “I’m just visiting these parts. I’m staying with Grandpa Bailey up at his farm.”
“And what are you doing here at this hour then?”
There was no charming lilt to George Denison’s voice, no laughter in his eyes. He was all starch and protocol. Jaclyn shrugged. “I hung around last night to see the Fenians off. Then I slept in someone’s barn. Now I want breakfast. I’ll bet Able and Fergus are hungry too.” She turned to the two Welland men. “How about it, guys? Ready for a bite to eat?”
“I’m not eating with no Fenian,” Able said, rather rudely, Jaclyn thought.
She glanced at Denison. He looked decidedly suspicious now. “Come on, Able! What’s with you? I’m not a Fenian.”
Able looked at her in an expressionless way. “How do I know that?”
“Well isn’t that just great! You’re a total jerk, you know that? Yesterday you ran off with Colonel Dennis the moment he gave the order to scatter. Then you start to bad-mouth him this morning because he got away and you didn’t.”
The whine in Able’s voice couldn’t be missed. “Colonel Dennis told us to stay in the washhouse. He said it would be safe there. It wasn’t.”
“No it wasn’t. Dennis found that out when he overheard Fenians interrogating the owner of the house. That’s why he bolted into the barn and found a hayrick to burrow into. He got away, yeah, he did, and partly because of you guys, but the Fenians almost got him in the barn and then he had to shave off his whiskers—”
“How do you know all these details?” George Denison demanded. He seemed to be more than suspicious now. In fact, he had somehow managed to have some members of his troop encircle Jaclyn and the two Welland men while they argued. “I spoke to Colonel Dennis this morning and he told me a similar story. How can you know so many details that these men, who were with him, do not?”
Jaclyn looked up at Denison. He’d also moved his horse closer and he seemed to loom over her. Oh man, I’ve done it now. I’ve shot my mouth off one too many times. “I told you, I’ve been hanging out, watching what’s going on.”
“Hanging out? What kind of talk is this? You’re a Yank, aren’t you?” Jaclyn opened her mouth to deny this, but Denison continued on, “You’re a Fenian supporter, even if you were too young to be one of their troops.”
Jaclyn shook her head. “No, Major, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m a student. A Canadian student.”
“You are under arrest. Consider yourself my prisoner, boy. Detachment, form up around the prisoner.”
Here we go again. She looked up at Denison and said with a sigh, “So what’s next, George?”
“We find the mayor of this fine town,” Denison said, then realized she hadn’t addressed him by his rank. His eyes flashed and he turned his horse’s head with an abrupt tug on the reins. “Move out.”
***
With Jaclyn as his prisoner it soon became apparent that George Denison wasn’t going to be able to gallop around town the way he had before capturing her. Even though the big horses surrounding her were merely walking she had to do an exhausting half-jog to keep up with them. She was glad when Denison pulled up at a prosperous looking house and had one of his men dismount an
d bang on the door until it was opened a cautious crack by a careful citizen of Fort Erie who evidently expected the worst.
Denison smiled at the man and saluted, but he didn’t climb down from his big black horse. “Major George Denison of the Governor General’s Body Guard at your service, sir!”
The door opened a shade wider revealing a man wearing only a cotton nightshirt hastily covered by trousers held in place by suspenders. “Where are the Fenians?”
An understandable initial question. When this guy had gone to bed the situation must have looked pretty bleak. The Fenians had beaten every Canadian force sent against them and they were camped at the old fort, within the town limits, ready to do who knew what. Now the Fenians had been replaced by a cocky horseman acting as if he was God’s gift to Fort Erie.
“The Fenians are in the custody of the United States Government, sir, safely under lock and key. I am the advance guard for Colonel Peacocke, who is commanding all of Her Majesty’s forces in this area.”
The door opened completely and the householder stepped out. He looked Denison up and down, apparently not in the least intimidated by the tall hat or the big horse. “It’s about time you got here.”
Denison’s horse pranced nervously. “If you will just tell me where I can find the mayor’s house—”
“You mean our reeve, Doctor Kempson?”
“—I’ll finish securing the town.”
“If the Fenians are gone you don’t have to worry, do you?”
The horse pranced some more. Jaclyn figured that Denison was getting annoyed at the civilian’s reaction, but the man had a right to make hard statements and ask questions that weren’t easy to answer. It wasn’t Colonel Peacocke’s professional soldiers, or the hotshot cavalry from Toronto who had dealt with the Fenians. It was the people of the Fort Erie area and badly officered militia units from Hamilton and Toronto who had proved to the Fenians that Canada West wasn’t interested in being liberated, no matter how sincere the idealism behind the liberation might be.
