The Hunt for the North Star

by The Hunt for the North Star (retail) (epub)

  ‘I would introduce Colonel Boerstler to a party of Canadians, men who are loyal to our cause. They would help him with the next stage of the plan.’

  MacLea’s scalp began to tingle. ‘Are there many of these men?’

  ‘More than you can imagine,’ said Calder. ‘Polaris has a network of sympathisers all over the Niagara peninsula. Once Colonel Boerstler arrived, word would be sent to these sympathisers, and our secret army would rise up and join the Americans.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked MacLea. ‘The next stage of the plan, you said. Once Boerstler had received these reinforcements, what would he do? March downriver to attack Chippawa and Niagara?’

  Calder shook his head. ‘No. The plan was more audacious than that. Our local allies would guide the army up the Chippawa River and then overland to take Ancaster and Burlington. The attack would come as a complete surprise; your troops would never expect the Americans to come from that direction. From Burlington, it is but a short march to York, the capital of Upper Canada. And York is only lightly defended.’ He paused. ‘Once York is taken, the rest of Upper Canada will quickly fall. The British authorities will be forced to sue for peace. In two weeks, the war will be over.’

  MacLea shook his head. ‘Your plan has failed, Calder. Colonel Boerstler and his men are now rowing across the river towards home.’

  ‘This time,’ said Calder. ‘Another chance will come.’

  MacLea studied the other man. ‘So. You say you are an important figure in the plot. You claim to be the link between the Americans and Polaris’s secret army, the man who would bring them together at Watersmeet. But instead of doing your duty, you decided to smash open a cask of rum and drink yourself into oblivion. Why?’

  Calder looked down at his hands. ‘To put it bluntly, I was terrified,’ he said. ‘I still am. My convictions are strong, but I… I thought a small tot of rum might fortify my courage. One turned into two, and then three…’

  ‘So I see,’ said MacLea. ‘You’re an armchair patriot, aren’t you, Calder? Full of fine talk about freedom and destiny, but not prepared to actually fight for them. When danger comes, you run and hide, and sell your comrades to the enemy.’

  Calder’s shoulders slumped. ‘I hope God will forgive me,’ he said. ‘I know I will never forgive myself. But I am terrified of death. I will do anything…’

  His voice trailed off. He continued to stare at his hands. He really is afraid, MacLea thought, and a small corner of his mind registered a pang of sympathy. A frightened man was not necessarily a bad one, or one undeserving of respect. Calder’s convictions were genuine, but so was his fear.

  MacLea nodded. ‘Very well. You said you could tell us who Polaris is.’

  There was a long pause. ‘If he learns I have betrayed him, he will kill me,’ Calder said.

  ‘He will not learn of it from me,’ said MacLea. ‘On the other hand, if you don’t tell us, I will withdraw my pledge and hand you over to Captain Boydell’s men, who will shoot you. Tell me. Who is Polaris?’

  Calder raised his head and looked MacLea in the eye. ‘He is one of the most prominent men on the peninsula,’ he said steadily. ‘He has a house and mill on the Chippawa River, not far from Brown’s Bridge. His name is Squire George Wilson.’

  A couple of seconds passed, and then Richard Hatt exploded. ‘Wilson! What the hell are you talking about, Calder? I know George Wilson! I’ve done business with him. He’s no more a traitor than I am.’

  ‘You knew me before the war too,’ Calder said. ‘We also did business together. Did you know I was an American sympathiser?’

  ‘Shut up!’ snapped Hatt. ‘MacLea, are you going to listen to this rubbish?’

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ said MacLea. ‘If there is a chance that Wilson is Polaris, then we must investigate.’

  ‘You said your commission died with General Brock,’ Boydell said. He too looked appalled. ‘You will be acting without orders.’

  Damn that, MacLea thought. ‘I’ll speak to Colonel Bisshopp,’ he said. ‘If he will give permission, that will serve.’

  He turned back to Calder. ‘Where is Wilson now?’

  Calder lowered his eyes again. ‘At Watersmeet,’ he said. ‘He came in person to meet Colonel Boerstler. He will have an escort with him.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Ten men, perhaps twenty. It depends how many answered the call.’

  ‘Then let’s go get him,’ said Alec Murray. From outside the tavern came the tramp of marching feet and a crisp, aristocratic voice giving orders. ‘Colonel Bisshopp has returned,’ said Boydell.

  MacLea nodded.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Calder.

  ‘You kept your side of the bargain,’ said MacLea. ‘Now I’ll keep mine. For now, you will be held under guard. If you have told us the truth, I will keep my part of the bargain and you will be released. But if you have lied, even if Captain Boydell doesn’t shoot you, I will.’

  Chapter Three

  Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Bisshopp was a tall, briskly arrogant man of about thirty. He was the son of a baronet, held a commission in the Foot Guards, and had formerly been an MP in the House of Commons in London. It was therefore somewhat surprising to find that he was also an efficient and capable officer. He listened intently while MacLea reported what Calder had said.

  ‘And now you want to find Wilson? How many men do you have?’

  ‘Ten, sir. We reckon Wilson has at least a dozen, probably more.’

  ‘You’ll have to make do with ten. I can’t spare any more. The Yankees have landed at Red House, near Fort Erie, and are assaulting the battery there, and I’m going down to drive them off. Hatt, Boydell, Givins, form up your men. Be prepared to move in fifteen minutes. Anything else you need, MacLea?’

  ‘My men haven’t been fed yet, sir. And we’re almost out of ammunition.’

  ‘See my quartermaster, take what you need, and then get under way. Find Wilson and interrogate him. If you think he is guilty, arrest him. Report to me when you return.’

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, after refilling their cartridge boxes and bolting a hasty meal of cold biscuit and salt beef, MacLea and his men hurried back up the road towards Chippawa. Miller, his head wrapped in a bandage, had insisted on coming with them. Behind them, the first of Bisshopp’s scouts was already probing towards the Americans at Red House, and they could hear the pop-pop-pop of musketry again.

  ‘Do you think Calder was telling the truth?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Some of it, at least.’

  ‘Funny how he sobered up so quickly, though. He absolutely stank of rum when we went in, and yet you’d never have known it once he started talking.’

  ‘Fear has a sobering effect,’ said MacLea.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Murray said dubiously. He was not very familiar with the idea of fear. ‘What about this story of a secret army waiting to rise up and join the Americans? Do you believe it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said MacLea. ‘But we can’t afford to ignore it. You know how thinly we’re stretched, Alec. If Polaris turns the country against us, we’re finished.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said McTeer, who had been listening. ‘There are a few disgruntled folk, sure, but most people are dead set against letting the Yankees in. If it’s a choice of President Madison or old Mad George, they’ll take Mad George every time.’

  ‘Will they?’ asked Murray. ‘Hell, half the population of Upper Canada were born in America, or their parents were.’

  ‘And they left America because they didn’t believe in the revolution,’ said McTeer. ‘Or they did at first, but then they got fed up with the new government and came north in search of a better life.’

  ‘But who knows where their sympathies really lie?’ Murray asked. ‘Twelve thousand militia were called up at the start of the war, and within two months half of them had deserted, either gone home or gone over to the Americans. More have quit the ranks since. You’re wrong, McTeer. Mos
t people, given a choice of President Madison or King George III, will pick whichever one leaves them alone and gives them the least trouble. It’s only a few damn fools like us who think there’s a cause worth fighting for.’

  ‘And yet it’s some of the ones born in America who are strongest for that cause,’ said Abel Thomas. ‘We know what we ran from, and we know what we’re fighting against.’

  ‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘The problem is that men like Polaris are also fighting for a cause. That’s what makes them dangerous. Where is Watersmeet Tavern?’

  ‘It’s at Black Creek,’ said Murray. ‘A little way off the main road and hidden by a screen of trees. If you hadn’t heard of it, you wouldn’t know it was there. It’s deserted at the moment; the owners fled to Burlington at the start of the war.’

  ‘The perfect place for a secret meeting,’ said McTeer.

  ‘That’s sort of why it was built,’ Murray said. ‘Jim and Laura Secord told me all about it. There’s a lot of chapel folk live around here, and of course they’re supposed to forswear drink. Watersmeet is where a man can go and have a quiet slug or two without his wife and neighbours knowing about it.’

  James Secord was a merchant in Queenston, a comrade and old friend who had been badly wounded in the recent battle; Laura, his wife, was herself the daughter of American immigrants. ‘Did the Secords ever mention George Wilson?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Once or twice. I’ve heard his name elsewhere, too. He’s quite a big noise in these parts, owns a lot of land and mills along the Chippawa River. He also trades with Norton’s people, the Mohawks up on the Grand River. I wish we had Norton here,’ Murray added. ‘A couple dozen of his warriors would come in handy just now.’

  John Norton, British army deserter, Scottish trader and Mohawk war leader, was another comrade. After the battle at Queenston, he had slipped quietly across the river into America, and was now in New York State trying to persuade the Iroquois tribes there to rebel against the Americans. Each side in this war had their own secret armies.

  A light rain had begun to fall, dappling the waters of the river. The cold wind roared in the trees. MacLea held up a hand. ‘Black Creek is not far away,’ he said. ‘We go silently now. Get off the road, into the trees, and spread out. Croghan, you’re our scout. If there’s an ambush waiting for us at Watersmeet, I want to know about it.’

  * * *

  Watersmeet Tavern was a two-storey building with walls of unpeeled logs and small windows covered with oilcloth. A low stable block stood behind it, separated by a muddy yard. MacLea and his men crouched in the shadows, watching while Croghan circled around through the woods behind the tavern. There was no sign of movement.

  Croghan came back shaking his head. ‘I reckon they’ve upped and gone, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘There’s tracks of horses on the other side, fordin’ the crick and headin’ west.’

  ‘Let’s go take a look,’ said MacLea.

  They slipped quietly through the trees towards the tavern. In the yard they could clearly see the prints of booted feet and the hooves of horses. MacLea approached the door, his musket raised; Appleby and Hill crouched on either side, waiting.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ he called.

  There was no response. He tried again. ‘Wilson! If you’re in there, lay down your weapons and come out!’

  The silence continued. MacLea nodded to Hill, who kicked the door open. Inside, the common room was dark and empty. The ashes in the fire were cold. They searched the rest of the tavern swiftly and found it deserted.

  ‘God damn it,’ said MacLea in sudden frustration. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Are we going after them?’ asked Murray.

  MacLea looked at him. Murray held up a hand in apology. ‘Sorry. Stupid question.’

  McTeer cleared his throat. ‘I counted the tracks in the yard,’ he said. ‘I reckon there were at least twenty of them, maybe more. That means we’re outnumbered.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ asked Abel Thomas. ‘We’ve been outnumbered ever since the war started. You can stay behind if you want to, McTeer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ said McTeer. ‘I just thought someone should point it out, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Murray. ‘Are you lot finished jabbering? Good, now get outside and fall in.’

  * * *

  Outside, they met Miller coming through the trees with his musket. ‘I counted twenty-two sets of footprints in all, Cap’n. I reckon they left about an hour ago.’

  ‘They probably heard the firing, and reckoned Boerstler wasn’t coming,’ MacLea said. He looked at Miller. Rainwater had soaked through the bloody bandage around his head, turning it a livid pink. ‘Are you certain you’re fit to continue?’

  ‘I’ve got a hard head, Cap’n,’ said Miller cheerfully. ‘It’ll take more’n a Yankee bullet to break it.’

  ‘They have an hour’s head start,’ said McTeer. ‘And they’re mounted and we’re on foot. They’ll be a long way ahead of us by now.’

  He was a fine soldier, McTeer, but he knew how to be annoying, and what was more, he enjoyed it. ‘McTeer,’ said Murray, ‘if you can’t think of anything helpful to say, then shut your potato trap. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said McTeer smartly. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  The north wind roared another gust, spitting icy rain in their faces. MacLea turned to the two scouts. ‘Follow the tracks. We’ll be right behind you.’

  They forded the creek and followed the trail through the trees. It was not hard to find; churned-up ground and broken branches showed the horsemen had been riding hard, more interested in speed than concealment. An hour later, they reached the edge of the forest and looked out across a belt of open fields and pastures. Another river lay in the middle distance, the Chippawa, a tributary of the mighty Niagara. Off to the right a couple of miles away they could just make out the roofs of Chippawa village and the blockhouse of the British fort.

  The horsemen’s trail led straight across the fields. Despite the rain, their tracks were easy to spot. A few minutes later, MacLea and his men reached the muddy road that followed the line of the river.

  ‘They’ve turned away upriver, Cap’n,’ said Miller. ‘They’re still ridin’ hard, too.’

  ‘They’re expecting pursuit,’ said Murray, ‘and looking to put a distance between themselves and whoever is following them. Once they reckon they’re safe, they’ll look for a place to hide.’

  ‘This is Wilson’s country,’ said Carson. ‘If there’s hiding places, he’ll know about them.’

  MacLea shook his head. The drizzle had increased and he could feel icy water leaking in around his collar and running down his back. ‘Polaris won’t hide,’ he said. ‘At least not for long. This plan failed, but he will have another one. He needs to get back to York or Niagara, make contact with his network so he can start again. And that means he has two choices. He can try to outrun us, or he can turn and fight.’

  ‘I know which I’d do,’ said Murray.

  ‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘Croghan, you’re the lead. Miller, Crabbe, I want you out on the flank. The rest of you keep your eyes and ears open.’

  * * *

  Twenty years had passed since the first European settlers arrived in the Chippawa valley, and now most of the land along the river was farmed. They passed fields ploughed and sown with winter wheat, green pastures lined with split-rail fences, the occasional grist mill or sawmill on the river, and waterwheels creaking in the current. Most of the farmhouses were little more than log cabins with barns and byres out back, and sometimes they heard the lowing of cattle or the grunt of pigs and cluck of chickens as they approached. Other farms looked to be deserted.

  Beyond the fields was the never-ending forest, a wall of beech and oak and dark spruce, with occasional patches of boggy land thick with clumps of white-barked aspen. MacLea began to realise the enormity of the task he faced. If Wilson and his men had escaped into the forest, they were gone for good. A r
egiment might comb these woods for a year and never find them.

  They stopped at every farm and knocked at the door. Sometimes they received no answer; when this happened, they opened the door and searched the empty house and barn, but found nothing. At the farms that were still occupied, they met a variety of responses. Some people became angry and hostile upon seeing MacLea’s uniform. Others, though, were friendly and willing to answer questions. Yes, they had seen a party of men ride past several hours ago, travelling fast upriver. No, they could not say for certain if Squire Wilson was one of them.

  ‘That’s his house,’ said an elderly woman standing in the doorway of a tumbledown cabin. It was late afternoon now, and the light was beginning to fail under a heavy sky. She pointed to a substantial two-storey house of whitewashed timber with a small portico over the front door, set near the riverbank about half a mile away.

  ‘Grand, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘A fine big house for a fine big man.’

  MacLea thought she was being sarcastic, but could not be certain. ‘Does he live there all the time?’ he asked. ‘Or does he have other houses? Is there a family?’

  The woman stared at him, her face lined and wrinkled like an old apple. ‘Wife and childer he has,’ she said. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘We’d like to ask him some questions,’ said MacLea.

  ‘Questions? ’Bout what?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ said MacLea. He looked around the little farm, seeing the fencing falling into ruin, the holes in the roof of the barn. ‘Do you keep this place alone, Mother?’

  ‘Aye, I do,’ said the old woman. ‘My man died ten years ago, and my boy two years after. Just me and the pigs here now.’ She looked MacLea up and down and cackled with sudden laughter. ‘You’re a well-set-up young lad. Why don’t you marry me and we can run this farm together?’

  MacLea smiled and bowed. ‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘But I struggle to manage my own farm down in Stormont County.’