by Gillian Chan
Angus was silent for a few seconds. I knew he was thinking of the uncle we had never met, the one whose story had been drummed into us. He had been Mother’s brother as well as Father’s best friend. And they’d fought for the British together, but Roger had been killed when he’d returned secretly to his old farm in New York State. He’d been bent on retrieving the silver he’d buried there — silver Mother’s family could not carry when they first fled. And he’d been killed during a heated argument with people he had thought to be friends, not just neighbours; those people had taken the abandoned farm for themselves.
“We can’t let the country that drove out our parents take over here!” Angus spoke quietly but with determination.
“Huzzah!” I shouted, relieved that his resolve was still firm. “Race you back to the house.” I waited until Angus surged to his feet and took off running before I set after him. I still beat him and did not have to puff and wheeze, as he did.
I don’t think that any of us expected to sleep well before the wedding. Morag and Polly were whispering long into the night in the room they shared with Ellen. This was no surprise, since Polly had never been without Morag’s company and now would have only Ellen. I could hear the murmur of voices from Mother and Father’s room, although I could not make out what they said. I could hear Samuel chattering to Drew in their small room. Only the room I shared with Angus was quiet, except for Angus’s infernal snoring. I could not sleep for it, and my mind roiled with thoughts of what might happen if the American army did attack. I returned to my earlier thought, that age would be no barrier then — every able-bodied man or boy would be needed.
The heat that night did not help. It seemed that our weather was nothing but extremes this year — perhaps a reflection of our troubled times. Ice had remained in the creeks until mid-April and now we baked and boiled as if it were late summer rather than early June. I tossed and turned in my bed, trying to find a cooler spot on my pillow, but to no avail. I lost track of the hours I lay awake, but I didn’t sleep until after I heard thunder in the distance, thunder that I hoped would bring a brief shower to cool us down but not spoil tomorrow’s meeting and Morag’s wedding.
When the brothers Hatt arrived with their families early the next morning, they brought exciting news. I would have set off immediately into the night had I known what last night’s thunder really was — the sound of cannon! The American army had penetrated as far as Stoney Creek, a scant fifteen miles from where we were. But best of all was that our army had trounced them near the farms of the Gage brothers and sent those Yankees fleeing for their lives, and two of their generals had been taken!
During the hubbub at this news, I took Angus aside, out of Father’s hearing. “We should go, you and I. From what Captain Hatt says, there are still Yankees lurking in the woods round Gages’ farms. We can help flush them out. We won’t be missed with so many here. Let’s saddle the horses and go!”
At first Angus didn’t reply, but I knew he was thinking about it because he got the wrinkle between his eyebrows that always comes when something concerns him. “No, Sandy. Men in fear of their lives are dangerous adversaries,” he said. “They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” He gave me his broad grin, the one that melted many a girl’s heart, and waved a hand towards the crowd now thronging our apple orchard. “Let’s celebrate Morag’s wedding and the fact that the pluck of our soldiers has given us the chance to do so.”
I let him pull me along with him as he headed towards the crowd, but I was able to slip away when his attention was diverted by Callum Murdoch, now standing with only a stout cane rather than a crutch, holding hands with Amy Mason.
It took me just minutes to saddle Hamish and grab Angus’s musket from the house. I had my own shot and powder. I thought of taking the time to change my clothes, but wanted to be on my way before anyone noticed that I was gone. I led the horse quietly away from the house until we reached the track to Wilson Street, and then on to the Iroquois trail towards Stoney Creek and the battlefield. Once I was safely out of earshot, I mounted as quickly as I could and urged Hamish to a gallop.
I swear that the whole of Ancaster was at our farm that morning, for I encountered no one as I rode through the village itself. I prayed that the presence of so many people at the wedding would conceal my absence just a little while. If my luck held, it might not even be noticed at all.
Once on the road, I was surprised to see my first Yankees. A more miserable set of men would be hard to find. They trudged along, their eyes down, faces pale, with little or no attempt at military order. Many people had turned out to savour their defeat and dejection — families in wagons, groups of men on horseback like me, all headed towards the battleground. I asked one man who rode alongside me why the Yankees were allowed such liberty. He shrugged, suggesting there might not be enough soldiers either to imprison them or pursue them. We jeered and catcalled. One lad rode his horse at a group of them and the Americans immediately panicked and attempted to run, although it was more of a stagger than anything.
Laughing at their terror, the lad did it again, but this time the Yankees were wise to him and did not scatter in panic. Most just went doggedly on, but one had enough of a spark of defiance to raise his fist and shake it at the boy, shouting, “Just you wait! We’ll be back but with a bigger army!” He said more, but it was drowned out as we all shouted insults back.
The Gage farms were surrounded by thick forest and as I rode through it, I could hear voices and movement, causing me to wonder how many men still wandered or hid there. Captain Hatt had said that the British fell upon the American camp in the middle of the night, so it was likely there were still fugitives or strays in the woods.
I had never before been to visit the Gages, although I had heard Father talk of them, saying that they were carving out good farms from the forest. But good farms were not what I saw that day. Their crops had been flattened. All the rail fences dividing the fields had been torn down and trampled, in some cases shattered. The remains of campfires, some still smouldering, marked the ground like sores, their smoke mingling with the smell of powder that tainted the air. Abandoned guns and equipment were scattered thickly across the ground. Bodies lay where they had fallen, British and American intermingled. Many wounded spilled out from the farmhouse ahead of me, lying by its doorway or slumped against the wall. A woman, a small girl of about eight by her side, was offering them water from a dipper, which they took gratefully. People were moving around the field, some helping themselves to souvenirs, others truly helping by carrying the wounded to the house.
“Hey, you!” a voice called. One of the men tending to the wounded had stopped, raised a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun and was looking in my direction. “Is that you, Angus MacKay?”
I understood the man’s confusion. On horseback my size was less apparent, and we MacKays all had a look of our mother, with the same fairish hair, although mine was more a light brown to Angus’s butter blond.
“No, sir,” I replied, “I’m Angus’s brother, Sandy, come to see the battle site.”
He sighed, and then spat on the ground. “Tether your horse and come make yourself useful rather than gawking.”
I did as I was told, tying Hamish to the rail on the porch, and then loping back to the man.
In the time it took me, he had gathered a group of young men and was rattling out orders. Some men were from the Gage family itself. They were sent to get an ox sled. The others were militiamen. The man giving orders was, I learned, John Lee, a sergeant in the 5th Lincoln, who knew Father and Angus well. Our job, he told us, was to gather the dead and dig two graves, big enough to take them all — one by what was left of the church, the other by a knoll topped by an abandoned American gun. I did not know which was worse, the grave digging or the collecting, but it was the collecting to which I was assigned, along with another young fellow. As we were moving away, Sergeant Lee called me back. “You’re MacKay’s boy, yet you’ve not turned o
ut to any militia training. Are you simple in the head or subject to fits? For there can be no other reason that MacKay would not have a son of his do his duty.”
I bristled at his remarks, unhappy both at the suggestion that I was simple and that my Father had shirked his duty.
“Sir,” I said, drawing myself to my full height, which I was happy to note allowed me to look down at Lee, “although I am big for my age, I do not turn fourteen until later this month. My father will not let me go to war until I am sixteen, as he values my work — the equal of any grown man’s — while he and Angus are off soldiering!”
My partner sniggered at the look of shock on Lee’s face. “He’s a big ’un, isn’t he?”
Lee smiled. “Yes, he is, Jack. Has a touch of his father’s pride and bite, too.” He turned back to me. “Let’s see if your work is as valuable as your father thinks. If it is, you can teach my lazy rapscallion of a son some better ways. Off with you both, now.”
Jack Lee was giggling fit to burst at his father’s embarrassment, but his smile faded once we set to work, carrying the bodies over to the ox sled and loading them onto it.
I had seen the dead once before. We had all been present when Uncle William’s wife had died of a raging fever. When it was over, Aunt Mary had looked like a peaceful shadow of herself, one that you could almost think asleep rather than dead.
The dead here were different. They lay twisted, their bodies cratered with shot, flies clustering around their wounds. Some had faces contorted in terror. Others looked surprised at what had befallen them. They stank of blood, piss and shit. They all felt heavy, leaking fluids as we moved them.
I felt my gorge rising and swallowed hard. Jack was faring no better. His face was greenish, his brow dotted with sweat. He was slighter than I was, but my strength allowed us to work fast. That was good. Although neither of us said so, I knew that we both wanted this job done quickly.
I lost count of how many bodies we moved — thirty, forty, fifty. When Jack’s father gave us leave to wash up, I poured an icy bucket of water over my head. Jack copied me and we sat down under the shade of a tree, letting the water cool us.
“It doesn’t get rid of the stench, but that felt good.” Jack looked sideways at me as he spoke. “I have a year in age on you, so I’ll go next time the militia are called out, but after seeing this, let us hope the Americans have learned their lesson and the war will end.” He was breathing hard. Without warning he doubled over and vomited on the ground.
I jumped to my feet to escape the splatter. He rose quickly, too. “It’s the stink,” he said. “I’m not afraid, truly I’m not.” His eyes glittered in the shadows as he looked at me.
“I know that,” I said. “I know that you’re not scared.”
My words heartened him and his ready grin flickered across his face. “Old Fuss,” he said, indicating his father over by one of pits, “will be quick to find us more work if he spots us with idle hands. Let’s head into the woods to see what we can find there. Billy Green came back with a full ammunition pouch, and even an officer’s sword. Wouldn’t we be the swells if we found treasure like that?”
It did not take me long to agree. By the sun, it was after noon, and I would soon have to ride for home. But when I spotted a column of redcoats marching out of the forest, obviously come from Burlington Heights, it decided me. I nodded. Let them do what work remained!
Jack was a chatterbox. As we made our way into the trees he had me laughing at the outrageous stories he told, most of which involved him finding ways to get out of his chores and go off exploring and hunting in the woods.
This made me think on what might await me should Father discover my absence. I wondered whether I should ride for home right then.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, looking closely at me.
I confessed that I had come without permission, sneaking off from my sister’s wedding celebrations, and that I dreaded facing my father’s anger when I returned. I did not add that this was the first time ever that I had done something I knew Father would have forbidden.
Jack laughed. “So you get a beating, but the pain of a beating fades fast and is soon forgotten. Anyway, your father wouldn’t dare take a switch to someone your size.”
His words set off a twinge of guilt, for no matter how badly we behaved, it was rare that Father beat us. I could only recall one time, when I had deliberately run away from Drew in the forest, and it had taken Father and Angus the good part of a day and night to find him. Father had cut a switch, laid me over his knee and whacked me until Mother caught his arm to stop him. Father cuffed us occasionally to show his displeasure, but beat us regularly, no. I feared his disapproving silence far more than his hands.
My thoughts were cut short as Jack froze.
He whispered, “Did you hear that?”
I listened, straining my ears to hear what he had. There was nothing at first, then the rustling of leaves as someone or something moved close by. I cursed myself, for I had left Angus’s musket strapped to my saddle. Putting my finger to my lips, I moved as quietly as I could in the direction of the noise, using my other hand to signal Jack to follow me.
The noise came again, and I forced myself through the undergrowth and burst into a clearing, Jack treading on my heels in his eagerness to follow. We were confronted by a Yankee soldier. He was just lowering himself onto the ground, his back against a tree, but sprang to his feet as soon as he saw us.
I rushed him, sending him crashing back against the tree. He fought hard, wriggling to push me off. He was smaller than me, but wiry and strong. One hand was reaching to his side, and I realised that he was trying to grab the bayonet that was lying alongside his musket. I dared not take my attention from him, but I sensed rather than saw Jack dancing round helplessly, aiming the odd kick at the man, but more often getting me with his foot.
“Jack,” I bellowed, “grab the bayonet and musket.”
Jack snatched up both. Once that danger had passed, it was as if all fight left the American. He lay there limp on the ground, not even moving when I stood up.
“Get up, you bastard,” I snarled, and Jack prodded him with the bayonet when he did not move quickly enough for his liking.
“Boys, boys,” the man said, now on his feet, “don’t be hasty.” He held his hands out from his body, showing us the palms. “I’ll not give you trouble. I’ve been hiding in this godforsaken forest waiting for the redcoats to leave. All I want is to get away, find my regiment and get back home.” He smiled then, a nervous smile that went as quickly as it came. “I’m not a real soldier, just a farmer like your fathers, I’d reckon. I’ve got little ones at home. Why not pretend you’ve not seen me?” As he spoke, I realised he was edging away from us. Before he could try to flee, I darted forward, grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, hard.
He squealed, and then muttered, “Easy, easy,” but I wasn’t in the mood to be easy. Whether he had children or not did not concern me, or that he was a farmer. He had left them behind and come north to take our farms from us, and leave children here fatherless. I pushed his arm up higher, enjoying the way he rose on his toes to lessen the pain.
“Come on, Jack,” I said, “let’s take this piece of dung back and hand him over to the redcoats.” Jack laughed when I added, “You waited too long, see. Our soldiers left, but they’ve come back now just to round up scum like you!”
When we came out of the forest, pushing our prisoner ahead of us, a cry went up. Jack’s father called us both “bully boys” and said how proud we had made him and that he would be sure to tell my father that when next he saw him. Other prisoners had been rounded up and we happily handed ours over. We didn’t mention the weapons we had taken from him. Jack kept the bayonet and I took the musket, thinking that this at least would please Father.
All my euphoria leached away on my ride home. As dusk descended I knew there was no hope that my absence had gone unnoticed. A foolish shred of hope that Father would applaud my
daring was all I had, but deep in my heart I knew that this would not be so.
I was not wrong.
Father was sitting on the porch as I rode in, Angus by his side. Mother must have been listening for the sound of Hamish’s hooves because she immediately appeared in the doorway, her face white and her eyes red. I wanted to throw myself down from my horse and rush to tell her how sorry I was for causing her such worry, but I knew I had to face Father first. Without looking around, Father said, “Hannah, go inside. I will speak to Alexander.”
Mother hesitated slightly, but turned and without a word to him or to me quietly closed the door behind her.
Father remained motionless in his chair, sitting very erect, a hand resting on each knee. I wondered whether he feared that he might explode with anger should he move but an inch.
Angus rushed over, ready to take Hamish away to the stables. Moving around the other side of Hamish where Father could not see, he whispered, “I couldn’t cover your absence when Father asked where you were, Sandy. Someone said they’d seen you leading Hamish away. Father kept it from Mother for as long as he could, but when the Holzers and Morag made ready to go, she wanted the whole family to wave them off, and Father had to tell her that you had run off, likely heading for the site of the battle. He’s angry, Sandy, angrier than I’ve ever seen him.”
Carrying a musket in each hand, I took a deep breath and walked up the steps to Father. He stood up from his seat and looked steadily at me. Our eyes met and I stiffened my spine, readying myself for what was to come.
“Father, I’m sorry I went without permission, but I knew that if I asked, you would say no. I wanted to go to where they fought, to do something other than work on the farm, maybe help track down some Yankees …”
I was conscious that my excuse sounded feeble and whining, that my words could not convey the need to act that burned inside me each and every day. Would he ever understand the feeling I had that this was what I was meant to do, that unless I did something now, this war — my one chance for excitement and meaning — would end before I did anything.
