by Gillian Chan
When I passed this news on to Mother and the girls, they cried to hear of Angus’s close call. Mother cried even more when I told her that Father and Angus would not be home until the start of December, being on garrison duty at Fort George until then, guarding prisoners. I could not work out whether these were tears of sadness or happiness. For my part I would be glad to have Father home. I could try again to persuade him to let me go back with them, now that the harvest was in and Drew was working so hard. Surely he and Morag could manage the outside work without me.
When Callum Murdoch was finally recovered enough to attend a Sunday service at the Shavers’ farm, I heard nothing of the sermon from the visiting preacher because I was burning to find out all that had happened at Queenston. As soon as the after-sermon visiting started, I made my way immediately to where Callum sat on a bale of straw, Amy by his side. I was shocked by how thin he had become, and winced when he dragged himself up to a standing position using a crutch that Amy passed to him.
“You want news of your father and brother, I’ll wager,” Callum said before I even had a chance to open my mouth. “I’m sure that you’ve already heard that they both came through unharmed, although Angus did have a close call!” He grimaced in pain as he shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on the crutch.
“We did,” I said, “but …” and I hesitated, not wishing to appear crass in my eagerness. “What was it like? To fight, I mean?”
Callum’s smile faded. “Nothing like you might imagine it to be, young Sandy. I was not with your father and brother, as I was with a group under Sam Hatt who were guarding guns at Vrooman’s Point, just north of the village. When the gun on the Redan Battery fell to the Americans, we were all that was left, firing at the American boats as they tried to cross the river.” He smiled ruefully. “Not that we were doing much good, as the distance was too great for accuracy.”
“But you were holding fast?” I said, eager for more details.
“Oh aye, we did. When the troops retreated, carrying poor General Brock, it was near our position they formed up.”
“You saw Brock?” I wanted so much to hear of the hero of Detroit. “Did you hear him speak any brave last words?”
“I saw him, Sandy, carried by his men, but he was long dead by the time they arrived.”
I was disappointed, wanting to hear of General Brock exhorting his men on to glory and to revenge his death.
Callum patted my shoulder. My disappointment must have shown in my face, for he said, “He was very brave, Sandy. He had no thought of his own safety, or so his men said — he charged the enemy with his sword in hand until he was shot down. And if you want heroes, then look no further than Captain Norton and his Mohawks! They scaled the heights by way of an overgrown track, and surprised the Americans. Even though they were driven back at first, they persisted, and such is the fear they engender, the Americans lost heart.” He stopped as a fit of coughing overtook him. I waited patiently, hoping for more. This was just the type of derring-do I knew I would have if only Father let me join him and Angus.
Amy glared at me. “Enough, Callum,” she said. “This is the first time out since your sick bed. You must not overtire yourself.” When Callum seemed likely to stumble, she turned on me and said, “Make yourself useful, Sandy. Instead of questions, help me get Callum to our wagon.”
She might have been little in stature but she was fierce, and I did as I was told, supporting Callum as best I could. He leaned heavily on me, and as I boosted him up onto the wagon’s seat, he managed a smile and said, “We will talk more, Sandy, I promise.”
I hoped that we would, as I had so many questions still. What had Father and Angus been doing, how had Callum been wounded, and how proud was he of all that he had done?
Once December came, we all were on tenterhooks, waiting for Father and Angus, or at least for some news that they were on their way home. None came. The atmosphere in our home was sour and sad. I preferred to spend my time in the barn with Drew, threshing oats. Then one morning I heard a commotion in front of the house — Mother screaming as if someone had wounded her. Drew and I raced out of the barn to find her supported by the girls, all of them crying. A stranger was standing there, holding his horse by the reins, looking more than a little aghast at the weeping women in front of him.
I drew myself to my full height and tried to speak in my deepest tones, praying that my voice would not crack and squeak, as it was prone to do. The man was unarmed, but a musket was tied to his saddle. “Sir, might I ask your business? Business that seems to have upset my family.”
“You have my apologies.” The man spoke with the same Scottish burr as Father. “I have the unhappy task of being the bearer of bad news.”
A wave of dread washed over me.
“I was travelling up to York and stopped the night at Forty Mile Creek at a farm owned by the Van Camp family. They asked me to amend my journey to seek out the family of a Robert and Angus MacKay and bring news of them.” He paused. “They were on their way home to you when the older one was taken ill.”
Mother let out another wail.
“Van Camp has given them shelter in his barn, but he wants them off the property quickly lest they share the contagion they have brought with them.” He spat then and grimaced. “Van Camp is a hard man, with little kindness about him, and I fear that he will turn them out if someone does not go for them soon.”
I had never felt such a mix of emotion — relief that Father and Angus were alive, but also worry about the situation they now found themselves in. Thoughts were racing through my head. If I set out now with the horses and wagon, I could be at Forty Mile Creek before night fell … What illness could make my Father unable to travel? … Would we need to seek out Dr. Tiffany — often a hard job, as he ranged the countryside treating the sick.
I did not hesitate. “I’ll go. Drew, go harness the horses and ready the wagon.”
I turned to the stranger. “I thank you, sir, for bringing us this news.” For a moment, I was at a loss as to what else to say, but then I thought of what Father would do. “If you have the time to spare, my family would be happy to provide you with a meal before you resume your journey.”
He smiled then. “A kind offer, but I have business with George Rousseau at his hotel in the village and must make my way there now.” With that he remounted and, with a click of his tongue to the horse, was on his way, leaving our family shattered in his passing.
“Sandy.” Morag stepped off the porch. “Let me come with you, or at least let me send for Uncle William. It is a long journey to make on your own.”
“No, I’ll do this,” I said. “You will do better here. I don’t want to waste time waiting for our uncle to arrive. Send Drew to see if Dr. Tiffany is at home and ask him to come here tomorrow, late in the afternoon, if he can. If all goes well, I will set off for home at first light tomorrow to bring Father and Angus back here.”
Drew was quick in readying the wagon, but I was not allowed the speedy getaway I wanted. Polly and Morag hastily gathered together blankets and a straw tick, while Mother put bread, cheese, some cold chicken, and scones into a basket, along with stone jugs of whisky and water.
It was a bright but cold mid-morning by the time I set out. I was grateful, as it meant that the trail would not be a slough of mud to slow me down, and I had time to sink into my own thoughts. What could be wrong with Father? It sounded bad. He had always been strong, rarely ill, but he was no longer a young man. I saw no one on the trail until close to Forty Mile Creek, when I passed a farmer who was able to direct me to the Van Camp farm just as dusk was falling.
As my wagon rattled over the rutted track, I marvelled at the farm ahead. Broad fields lay winter fallow around a spacious house made of stone. I had thought our wooden house fine, but this was like something you might see in a city. Several outbuildings, also stone, lay to one side.
Even before I had time to get down from the wagon, a short, bearded man with a lantern in his hand
came out from the house. “Are you a MacKay?” he demanded. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “You have the look of them — big lummoxes both.”
A girl about my age had come out, too. She stood framed in the doorway, clutching a shawl tightly around her shoulders. She looked scared, and I saw her shiver as her father raised his voice to speak again.
“I’d not have allowed your kin to stay had I known what contagion they brought with them, but it was already night and there was a threat of snow.”
He noticed the girl then. “Mathilda, get back inside at once.” When she hesitated, he took a step towards her, his fist raised, staying like that until she slunk back into the house.
“Can you take me to them?” I stepped towards the house, but Van Camp waved me back.
“Come no closer. They are in the barn.” He spat on the ground ahead of my feet. “All soldiers are filthy and licentious. The militia, too,” he said. “Even healthy, I would not have them around my womenfolk.”
“Sir,” I said, struggling to keep my anger from flaring, “my father is a well-respected man in our village, who gladly serves the king to protect our country from the Americans. He and my brother fought bravely at Queenston.”
“A patriot,” Van Camp snorted. “There are some of us who think it would be better if we threw off the yoke of the British.”
“That’s treasonous talk!” The words flew out of my mouth, and before I had the chance to say more, Van Camp stepped forward and cracked me across the mouth with his open hand, rocking me where I stood.
“Shut your mouth, whelp!” He pointed to the furthest outbuilding. “They’re in there. I’ll be reasonable and not turn you out in the night, but understand this. I want you gone by first light. You can feed and water your horses, but don’t expect anything else and do not come to the house for any reason.”
When I went to speak, he pointed his finger at me. “No more,” he said. “I will not hear your puling words.”
I headed into the barn, dreading what might await me there.
At first it was hard to see, for the building had only one small, shuttered window. In the far corner a candle flickered, enough that I could make out the shapes of my father and brother. Angus sat with his back against the wall, his head in his hands, but looked up as I stepped inside. Father was on the floor alongside Angus, his head resting on a blanket roll. The blanket covering him was pulled awry as he twisted and turned, his body racked with tremors.
“Sandy, oh, Sandy!” Angus sprang to his feet and clutched me to him. He smelled rank, sweat mingling with wood smoke. “I’ve been praying all day that someone would come, but I thought it would be Uncle William.”
“Father! What’s wrong with Father?” I pulled myself free and knelt down beside him.
Angus stood behind me, one hand resting on my shoulder. He must have felt the shudder that shook me as I regarded Father, for he gripped my shoulder even more tightly. Father’s face was flushed, stippled with red dots. He was sweat-soaked, his hair lying in wet strands across his face. His eyes were open but he did not seem to see us. His mouth moved, but I didn’t understand the words that came out of it.
“I think it’s Gaelic,” Angus said, kneeling down beside me but not letting loose his grip on my shoulder. “The language he spoke in Scotland. He’s been like this for two days now. I’ve tried bathing his face with cold water and I’ve got some water into him, too, but that’s all I’ve been able to do. He won’t eat and I don’t know what we can do other than get him home and out of this hellhole.” Angus’s face was sombre. “Van Camp wants no truck with us, scared that whatever Father has will be passed on. It’s gaol fever, I think, caught from the prisoners and —” Angus’s voice faltered here “— I’ve seen more of them die than recover.”
I had no words to comfort Angus. “I’ll bring you some food that Mother sent. Perhaps Father will eat some, too. I’ll tend to the horses, then come in and watch over Father while you get some sleep, which I warrant you’ve not had these last two days. You need to be rested when we leave first thing.”
He smiled — just a ghost of his usual broad grin — but said nothing and took up his position by Father again.
I was so frightened that it consumed me as I went through the routine of unharnessing and then taking the horses to drink from the trough of icy water in front of the barn. I almost didn’t hear the low whistle. Startled, I looked round. There, pressed up against the wall of the barn, was the girl I had seen earlier. Mathilda. I started towards her, but she motioned me to stay where I was.
“Keep working on your horses,” she said in a low whisper. “My father would beat me if he saw me talking to you. I’ve got a bowl of broth here. When I’m gone, take it and give it to your brother for your father. My father says there may be snow tonight, and you’ll need something to warm you up. Hide the bowl in the straw when you’re done, and I will take it up later.”
Before I could thank her, she drifted away in the direction of the house. I got the horses settled in the barn, their whickering telling me that they were content, even if a little spooked by their strange surroundings and the presence of Van Camp’s horses. I retrieved the bowl from the foot of the wall and draped my open jacket around it so it could not be seen.
Angus smiled when I told him of our unexpected gift. “She’s kind.” he said. “It was only through her pleading that her father allowed us to spend the night here in the first place, and that was before Father took sick.” His face grew sad. “I think she paid for it. Her face was bruised the next time I saw her. We’ve been lucky, Sandy, not to have a father quick with his fists.”
I didn’t dare tell Angus that Van Camp had struck me. We would be safely on our way before he saw the bruises that surely would develop.
Angus reached inside his pack for a spoon and tried to feed Father the broth, but to no avail. Father clamped his lips shut and turned his head away. Soup trickled down in his whiskers and Angus wiped it away with a grimy handkerchief.
“If he won’t take it, you have it, Angus,” I said, conscious of how thin he had become. “Then try to sleep.”
It was a long, hard night. Angus did sleep some, perhaps an hour or two, but I could not as I watched Father, whose restless movement and muttering did not slow down. Once Angus realised I was not sleeping, he shifted so that he sat next to me, our backs against the wall. I wanted to ask whether he thought Father would pull through, but I could not bring myself to say it, in case the answer he gave was the one I dreaded. Instead, I asked him about the fighting he’d seen, burning to hear of the glory of it all, how our brave troops had routed the Americans so easily.
Angus didn’t answer at first. He stared straight ahead and frowned before he finally spoke. “It’s hard, Sandy, to find words to describe it.” He stopped, as if he were looking for those words. “We were in Queenston village and we’d been given so much guard duty at night, we were hardly awake when the Americans attacked in the early hours. I just kept my head down and did what Father told me, fired my musket when he told me to, ran when he said we should run. Others followed him, too, in all that confusion.” He laughed then. “It was well I did — keep my head down, that is — for once, as we ran, musket balls flying all around us like shooting stars, one grazed the top of my hair.” He pointed to the top of his head. “You can see the scorch mark there still.”
Angus paused. “You cannot imagine what it was like, Sandy. It’s confused in my mind even now with the noise, the movement and shouting. The British had retreated from the heights to the village and we were all firing from the shelter of houses. American guns had the measure of the village and were bombarding it. By mid-morning I thought we were done for. The Yankees had managed to turn our own gun on the Redan against us. Some stormed into the village, looting the houses and managing to free the prisoners we had taken. We bided our time, skulking, shooting when we could, until British reinforcements arrived from Fort George.”
I wanted even more than
this drab tale that Angus was telling me. “But Angus, did you do any great deed?” I asked. “Did you save someone’s life, or kill any Yankees single-handed? Were you there when General Brock died leading a charge on the heights?”
Angus shook his head. “No.” He smiled. “Not that that would stop half the Lincolns who were with me from telling you that not only did they see him die, but they cradled him in their arms and heard his last words.” The smile faded from his face and his voice became quieter. “I survived, Sandy, and that was enough. We were left to guard the village when the British and some militia counterattacked in the afternoon, so I cannot tell you what happened. Maybe Callum Murdoch might, for he was there … if he’s recovered.” Angus’s voice rose in question and he shuddered, perhaps fearing the answer he might get.
“He is,” I said fervently, wanting to see my brother’s usual sunny smile, which seemed to have vanished in the time he’d been away. “I saw him at the Sunday meeting, just a week ago. He will always limp and he looks much weakened.”
Angus ran his hand over his face. “Then he lives. Oh, that is good news. I feared for him, Sandy. In the end, it’s said that we sent them packing, but truthfully, I’m not sure we did. It would be better to say that we outlasted them. They had not the heart nor support to press on.”
Father groaned and we both looked down, thinking perhaps he was awake, but we were disappointed.
Angus patted my arm. “We should try to sleep. It will be a difficult journey home tomorrow.” He lay down on the straw beside Father.
