by Tamara Gill
One of Perlaine’s eyebrows rose. “By no means. The people of Fort Erie were courageous, but not foolhardy. Their resistance to the Fenians might have been a passive one, but it was effective. They provided no opportunity for the invaders to gain a toehold. Their refusal to accept the Fenian dictum that Britain was evil and must be evicted from North America left the invader without the moral and intellectual purpose on which to wage his war. They laid the foundation on which the volunteer army was able to build when it fought the Fenians. All together, your analysis was excellent.”
This kind of lavish praise from Perlaine was extremely hard to take in. Jaclyn looked down at her title page. Perlaine had written, ‘Excellent report, well crafted, clearly written, insightful. Would you consider changing your post-grad goal from an MBA to an MA with a focus on Canadian history?’
Her eyes flew up. There was a rueful smile on Perlaine’s face, probably because of the shocked expression on hers. “I...” She fluttered her hand over the title page. “I’d have to think about this. It’s an interesting proposition, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a change as big as this.”
“Fair enough,” Perlaine said. He indicated the folder. “In the meantime, please don’t push aside the revisions on this. I think it’s an important document and worthy of publication.” He stood up. “Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. It has been a pleasure.”
***
It was the Friday night of the October Thanksgiving weekend and the university had emptied as students headed to home to do laundry and enjoy too much turkey dinner. The train from Kingston had been packed and the pick up area at Toronto’s Union Station was a chaotic mass of milling parents searching for their chicks and the chicks doing the best they could to visit with their friends before once more surrendering to Mom and Dad’s tender embrace. The chaos would be repeated on Monday evening when the same band of students returned to Kingston for classes Tuesday.
Jaclyn wouldn’t be returning Monday, though. She was staying in Toronto for an extra day so she could visit the public archives to check a couple of references that Perlaine had complained weren’t cited properly. With that done she would be able to finalize the last of the revisions he’d requested on her Fenian report. He should then sign off on the paper and she could send it in to the journal he’d recommended. Then, perhaps, her link with the Fenians would be severed and she could get on with her life.
His suggestion that she change her focus to Canadian history had been in the back of her mind since her meeting with him in August. Although she hadn’t actually sat down and thought the matter through, weighing the pluses and minuses on each side, she had mulled the idea over more than once. Something kept stopping her from making a decision and she was pretty sure that something was Major Sean O’Dell.
Not knowing what had happened to him was driving her crazy. That was why, even though she had only a couple of references to check, she had earmarked a whole day at the archives. She planned to scan through some of the post invasion newspapers and other documents one more time, just in case she’d missed something. Obsessive as her rechecking was, she had to do it.
On Tuesday morning she arrived at the archives early, a turkey sandwich in her backpack for lunch, and a wad of paper for notes. She was their first customer.
Bill, the staff member on duty, remembered her from her summer research and greeted her cheerfully. “1866, wasn’t it? You still working on that Fenian stuff?”
“Yeah. There’s a couple of things I need to check for my paper, then that’s it, I hope.”
“It’s pretty quiet today,” Bill said, in his friendly way. “You’ll have the microfiche area to yourself, for a while anyway.”
Jaclyn nodded. She quickly checked the references she needed, then selected a microfiche reader where she would work on her real reason for coming to the archives today. Dumping her paper beside one of the better machines, she went over to the long rows of metal filing cabinets that housed the newspaper collection.
She found the boxes she wanted and stifled disappointment that she would not be reading the newspapers in their original form. She told herself she was an idiot. History had opened up and sucked her in once; it wasn’t going to do it again. So the microfiche reader would be just fine for her needs today. She switched the machine on, threaded the film through the reel and began.
The reading room was serenely quiet on this second Tuesday in October. People trickled in as the morning progressed, but Jacqui hardly noticed. No one talked. The only sound was the rattle and clunk of turning microfiche rolls and the occasional short conversation with Bill or one of the other archivists about materials. Jaclyn plowed through the films she’d found, then went back to the filing cabinets for more and plowed through them, then did it all again. Her stomach had started to grumble when a headline caught her eye.
The Romance of the Raid.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her body suddenly became cold. The Romance of the Raid. Romance. Could it be?
Hastily she scanned the article below the headline. It was written in the coy style often used in the Victorian period. The story was about a Fort Erie girl, unnamed to protect her parents’ honor, who had fallen in love with one of the Fenians. Aided by the young girl, this fellow had apparently hidden in a disused cabin on the family’s farm until after all of the British troops had left. He then escaped back to the US and so had not been tried or punished for his wrongdoing, much to the indignation of the reporter. The girl had gone into a decline, pining for her lost love, and the family had despaired of her life. But worse was to come for the long-suffering family. The Fenian returned shortly after Thanksgiving and the girl had eloped with him. They were last seen in a buggy driving across the International Bridge at Niagara Falls. The family was appalled and the outraged father had disowned his daughter.
Part of Jaclyn was shaking her head at the stilted language and the stupidity of parents who would disown a child just because she married someone they didn’t approve of, but in another part of her excitement was building.
Could it be? Could it be Sean and Sara? The broad storyline fit. The Fenian who didn’t return with the rest. The girl who cared for him. But Grandpa and Sean had both wanted Sean to return to the US as soon as possible. Had the test run been so bad that the plan was scrapped completely?
Well yeah! Give it up, Jaclyn, you dope! You disappeared. Old Jim Bailey must have been frantic. He probably heard Denison shouting, the horse galloping and perhaps the thump of her body hitting the ground, then nothing. Denison would have been sniffing around like a frustrated hound dog too. He’d have had the riverbank crawling with troopers for hours afterward. What a scene. Of course Grandpa Bailey had dumped the original plan.
Her hand shook as she touched the screen. Nothing. No voices, no images flashing into her mind. If she were somehow connected with the Romance of the Raid she would have to touch the original newspaper for the paranormal phenomena to happen. She stared at the screen, considering, then she pushed out her chair and went over to the help desk to find Bill.
He smiled when he noticed her. Jaclyn sat down in the chair in front of his desk and smiled back in a friendly way. “Bill, I need your help.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to see a newspaper from the fall of 1866 in its original form. A bi-weekly from the Niagara area.”
He rubbed his chin. “It may be a problem, Jaclyn. As you know, all those old papers were filmed back in the seventies. Most of them don’t exist any more.”
“I know.” She chewed on her lower lip. To be so close to solving the puzzle, yet to be unable to go any further was the worst.
“Is there a problem with the microfiche copy?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s ...” She shot Bill a considering look. Bill was a nice guy, but she didn’t think he’d buy into newspapers and old documents that brought the sounds and emotions from the past into the present. “The research I’ve been doing on the Fenians is for this
prof called Perlaine. He’s a real stickler for details and he wants me to publish my paper...” She trailed off suggestively, letting Bill draw his own conclusions.
“Perlaine? You’re studying under Anthony Perlaine?”
Jaclyn eyed him thoughtfully. Maybe she was on to something here. Bill had helped her before, pushing the newspaper archivist to dig the originals up for her. “Yeah, you could say that.”
Bill drew a deep breath. “Anthony Perlaine is one of the best Canadian historians today. I know he’s meticulous in his details and documentation. If he thinks it’s advisable for you to see the original documents, then that’s what you should do.” He tapped the blotter on his desktop while he thought. “Look, let me call the archivist. What’s the name of the bi-weekly and the date? Maybe he can find it for you.”
Jacqui gave Bill the details and waited tensely while he conversed with his associate somewhere on one of the upper floors. When Bill finally hung up his phone he was smiling. “Looks like you’re in luck. We still have that paper and that issue. It’s being sent down now. You can pick it up at the retrievals desk.”
Jaclyn grinned as she jumped up. Impulsively she leaned across the desk and kissed him on the cheek. “Bill, you are awesome!”
Bill blushed, but he laughed and looked very pleased. “You’re welcome.”
She hustled over to the retrievals desk. The old newspaper, protected by a cardboard sleeve, arrived a few minutes later. She carried it to one of the reading tables, then opened the protective cover.
Jaclyn’s heart began to pound as she put on a special cotton glove to protect the yellowed paper from damage, then eased it out of its sheath and laid it flat on the table. There it was, Romance of the Raid, a big headline right at the top of the front page.
Cautiously, her hand trembling, her heart thumping, she reached out and touched the brittle document.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sound came first. A continuous roar that pounded the senses and seemed to come from all around until slowly, after what felt like minutes but must only have been a few seconds, Jaclyn was able to discern the direction, some distance to the east. The cool of a crisp autumn day followed and bit through the thin mock turtleneck sweater she was wearing with her jeans. She ought to have a coat on, but why would she need a coat in the archives?
She crossed her arms and stamped her feet. Suddenly she became aware that she was standing on earth, not flooring. At the same moment she also realized that her eyes were closed. Swallowing hard, she opened them and looked through the trees into what she guessed was the great natural gorge that was Niagara Falls.
But not the Niagara Falls she knew. There were no parking lots filled cars and minivans, no coin-operated binoculars mounted on steel posts, no stone wall rimming the edge of the ravine to keep the unwary from tumbling over the precipice. There were tourists, though. By the mid-nineteenth century the railroad had made transportation easier, allowing tens of thousands of visitors to the area each year. Niagara Falls still had a long way to go before it became the honeymoon capital of North America, but all kinds of people were already willing to travel long distances for the opportunity to look at the magnificent waterfalls.
Why was she here? Jaclyn had put her hand on the article in the newspaper and expected to hear a voice she recognized, or sense the emotions of Sean and Sara as they defied the rules of their time and eloped. Instead she was here, at Niagara Falls listening to the Niagara River pound its way toward Lake Ontario and wondering if she was going to freeze to death in the crisp October outdoors before she was able to get back to her own time.
Shivering, she decided that movement would be a good idea. She threaded her way through the trees, past a narrow path that appeared to be a shortcut somewhere, to more trees that bordered a broad roadway. At the edge of these she paused and looked.
From where she stood the other side of the path was bare and she had a wonderful view of the American Falls tumbling over the edge of the gorge. She couldn’t see the great Horseshoe Falls, though. That meant she was on the Canadian side of the gorge looking east.
Within her line of sight was the bright steel expanse of the suspension bridge that linked the States and Canada. She’d read somewhere that over the years there had been four different bridges spanning the Niagara gorge, but the one that had served the area during the Fenian invasion had been finished in 1855. Supported at either end by stone pylons, the bridge had two tiers, the top for train traffic, the bottom for those on foot or using a horse or carriage. Considered an engineering tour de force, the bridge had been built by John Roebling, who was later to build the Brooklyn Bridge.
A couple of wagons were trundling across the bridge, heading toward US side, while a mounted man passed the pylons on the Canadian side.
Jaclyn frowned. The man sat the horse with the relaxed elegance of one born to the saddle, but he was too far away for her to see his features. She squinted, trying to make out details, but couldn’t manage it. She nibbled her lip. Wondering. Hoping.
Could it be? Was this Sean?
What if he wasn’t Sean? But then why would she be here in this place at this time? So when was it anyway?
The rider was off the bridge now, heading toward her. For a few minutes she was able to watch his progress, then he reached a house by the side of the well-maintained roadway. There he paused.
There was a gate beside the house. It ran across the road, creating an effective barrier. Jacqui remembered that the road from the suspension bridge to Table Rock, a massive stone slab that jutted out from the Canadian side of the gorge, had been built by a private company and there was a charge to use it. The house, then, must be the tollbooth.
There was a line up at the tollgate. The guard came out, collected the fees and opened the gate. Each time the toll was paid there seemed to be considerable discussion, particularly by the pedestrians. As Jaclyn watched three people walked through and one carriage drove by. A mounted man kicked his horse to a trot after passing the gates, but he wasn’t Sean. Jacqui was certain of that. The man rode the horse awkwardly, his body flopping around as he sawed at the horse’s mouth.
Jaclyn frowned. Where had Sean gone?
He had been at the end of the line of those waiting to use the toll road, but while she had been distracted by the action between the toll collector and his customers, Sean must have changed his mind about using the toll road. Had he ridden inland, away from the falls? If he intended to go to the Baileys’ farm near Fort Erie, what route would he take? Perhaps there was some inland roadway that would be faster than the toll road, which had probably been built to collect tourist dollars, rather than be a direct turnpike for the local population.
Despite her disappointment, Jacqui had to smile to herself over the behavior of the Niagara Falls residents of 1866. Apparently people were just as reluctant to pay road tolls and other fees in the mid-nineteenth century as they were in her own time. Guys she knew would park blocks away from their destination to avoid a meter, put a used ticket on the dash to fool a cursory inspection in the university’s parking lots, take another slower or less well maintained route to avoid a toll...
The path! The path seemed to run roughly parallel with the toll road. It would probably be a bumpy ride for a carriage, but for a horse and rider? No problem. She dove into the trees, heading back the way she’d come, certain now she was where she was meant to be.
She’d just about reached the path when she heard the sound of a horse moving quickly toward her. She stopped, listening intently. For a few minutes the trees hid the rider, then Jaclyn saw him, closer now, easily discernable.
Sean. He was riding a dark brown horse that didn’t appear to have half the spunk of Sunny Girl. Unsure whether or not to greet him, Jaclyn ducked deeper into the trees. From there she could observe the path, but she wouldn’t be seen herself.
Sean slowed the horse to a walk. He was wearing the normal, everyday street clothes of the mid-nineteenth century—a white shirt
, closed at the neck by a black tie, and a frock coat over a vest that had a narrow opening at the throat and no lapels. Both were made of a dark cloth, as were the narrow-legged trousers that had been thrust into black riding boots. The suit was carefully pressed and looked new.
On his head was a black, low crowned felt hat, not so very different in design from the cavalry one he’d worn during the invasion, but a world away in meaning. The only clothing that remained from the time Jaclyn had known him were the tall black riding boots. A lump formed in her throat and she had to swallow hard. Sean was as drop-dead gorgeous as a civilian as he’d been as a soldier.
He appeared to be looking for something in the woods, for his head was slightly turned and his eyes narrowed in that cautious expression Jaclyn remembered so well. Still, she was not prepared when a big chestnut horse exploded from the trees about ten feet from her. She jumped back and put her hand to her heart. This time travel stuff was hard on the nerves.
The chestnut danced into the middle of the path and tossed her elegant head. Jaclyn grinned. Sunny Girl was no better behaved now than she’d been the last time Jaclyn had ridden her. Old Jim Bailey, who was on her back, sat her with the same negligent ease Sean rode his horse, however.
Sean pulled the brown horse to a stop and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey. Thank you for meeting me.”
“I’m here because I won’t see Sara hurt.”
Their voices carried clearly in the crisp, clear air. The roar of the falls had faded into the background, no more intrusive than traffic noise in Jacqui’s time. She listened shamelessly, knowing she’d been brought here for some purpose and waiting to find out what it was.
Sean stared at Grandpa impassively. “It is not my intention to harm Miss Sara. Indeed, I’ve the opposite desire. I want to care for her and keep her safe.”
From where she was standing Jaclyn couldn’t see Grandpa Bailey’s expression, only his back and a little bit of profile. He stared at Sean for what seemed a long time before he said, “I wish I had the faith in you that she has. She’s been pining for you since the day I brought you here and drove you across the bridge back to the States.”
