A Call to Battle

by Gillian Chan

  This declaration unmanned some of the accused, and they fell to weeping, some screaming out their innocence. The crowd erupted. We let rip with what we thought of those who had turned on the country that had given them shelter. I was loud, but Eric was louder still. His face was twisted and red with anger.

  Soldiers mounted the wagons to secure the nooses to the braces. Once they were clear of the wagons, a shot was fired and the wagons were driven away, leaving the traitors to dangle at the ends of their ropes.

  They did not die quickly. They writhed and kicked, their eyes bulging in their blood-engorged faces.

  I screamed for blood with the best of the crowd, caught up in the wave of hatred flowing from them. I joined in the chant of, “Quarter, quarter, quarter!” and booed and hissed when the bodies were taken down and only a symbolic cross — more of a scratch — was made on their torsos. The cheering reached a crescendo when the bodies were decapitated and the heads were fixed on pikes that were paraded in front of us, then stuck in the ground as a warning to all who harboured treasonous thoughts.

  A group of men nearby were yelling, “Death to Yankees!” One among them cried out that all able-bodied men should march for the border and fight. His cry was taken up and I was the loudest. I knew that I had to do this.

  Eric had been shouting all along, but now fell abruptly silent.

  “Come, Eric!” I cried. “Let us be brothers in arms as well as brothers-in-law!” A blazing determination burned inside me. I would fight alongside Father and Angus and damn the consequences. The flush was fading from Eric’s face and he struggled to meet my eyes. “I cannot,” he said weakly. “Morag and the baby — there would be no one to help my father.”

  I could not hide my contempt. “Do what you see fit, but I am not a coward. I will go and do the duty that we both should owe. If you have not the stomach for it, you can help me, at least.”

  “Sandy, no! You should not be so rash. Don’t get so carried away by the mood of the crowd. Your father is depending upon you.”

  Eric had paled and sweat beaded his forehead. He put a hand on my arm as if he would hold me back. I shook him off and moved away. Then I unbuckled the traces that harnessed Hamish to the wagon.

  “Father will have no choice but to let me fight when I join him and Angus.” My voice was steady and I hoped that Eric heard the determination it held. “Drew can manage as long as you take time out to oversee him and help him if he needs it.” I stared hard at him.

  He started to protest, but I cut him off, outlining the plan that was forming in my mind even as I spoke. “I will take Hamish. Go get me your saddle and harness your horse to the wagon, and take it back to my family. You can get a saddle from the barn and use it till I return. Tell my mother that I know she will worry, but that I cannot, as a son and brother, fail to stand alongside Father and Angus. Tell her it is what her brother would have done. Tell her that you will help Drew and that he can manage. It will not be long until we all return victorious!”

  The fire of my own words sustained me as I rode away, little caring what trouble I had caused behind me, or what lay ahead.

  There were quite a few riding with me on the trail towards Niagara. Our spirits were high, but as the afternoon sun bore down, our numbers dwindled. Some just drifted away. Others made their excuses — feeble ones about cows to be milked or wives who would worry — and eventually there were just two left, myself and an old greybeard who must have been at least my grandfather’s age. As we neared Stoney Creek, he slowed his horse and then stopped. Out of politeness, I pulled Hamish up alongside him. His expression was rueful and he shook his head as he spoke. “I am fooling no one but myself, boy,” he said. “My fighting days are done. Even this ride has got every bone in my body aching. I’ll not last a mile longer.” He grinned at me, showing a few brownish-yellow stumps of teeth. “A fine boy like yourself, you’ll make a difference. Go and give them what for. Strike a blow for me, too — Caleb Watson, who wishes he was in his prime once more!”

  I couldn’t help but smile as he shook his fist enthusiastically, only to wince as if it pained him, before turning his horse around and heading back the way we had come.

  Hamish was not a young horse and as dusk drew near, his pace slowed. I knew that soon I would have to stop. I was hungry, thirsty and tired because, in the fervour of the hangings, I had set off with no thought of food or drink. The landscape was familiar and I realised that I was close to Forty Mile Creek, where I had come to fetch Father and Angus from Van Camp’s barn. From hearing Father talk, I knew there were two inns in the village and thought I would break my stay at whichever was cheapest.

  On a whim, I turned Hamish and headed down the track that led to Van Camp’s farm, curious to see whether Mathilda Van Camp remained and how she and her family were faring since her father had been declared traitor. I had not forgotten the kindness she had shown Father and Angus, kindness that had cost her dearly. Unlike my first visit, when the house had a sombre, closed-in feel, there was light in the windows and I could make out figures sitting on the veranda — men, by the loud voices and guffaws that rang out.

  I dismounted and led Hamish towards them, calling out a greeting as I came. “Is this not the Van Camp farm?”

  In answer I got no words, but one of the men leaped down and ran towards me. I caught a gleam of metal in his hand. “Who comes here, seeking that traitor?” he demanded. I saw that he held a knife.

  My heart was beating fast. I had no weapon of my own. “No friend of his, sir,” I stammered out. “Just Alexander MacKay of Ancaster on my way to join my father and brother, Robert and Angus MacKay, already at the border with the 5th Lincoln.”

  The fellow still regarded me suspiciously, tossing the knife from hand to hand. “What’s your business with Van Camp, then?”

  “None with him, but rather with his daughter, sir. She was kind to my father when he took sick and stayed here coming back from the battle at Queenston. I wanted to thank her and tell her that he was well again.” I was cursing my impulsiveness and wishing I had stayed on the road.

  The man spat at my feet. “Van Camp and his boys are riding with Willcocks and his damned Canadian Volunteers — although how dare they call themselves by that name. After what they did at Newark, none of those filthy Yankee-lovers will dare show their faces here again, not if they want to stay alive.” He paused. “I’ve heard of the MacKays. Loyalists all, isn’t that right, boy?”

  I nodded, unsure of what he wanted me to say.

  “We drove Van Camp’s family off a while back.” He grinned. “Why shouldn’t they suffer the same fate as the womenfolk of Newark, being thrown out of their homes with only what they stood up in.”

  I shivered, thinking of poor, cowed, kind Mathilda, and wondered where she might be with all turned against her because of her father. Lost in my thoughts, it took me a moment to realise that the fellow was still speaking to me.

  “You’re welcome to bed down here for the night, if you’d like.” He no longer played with his knife and was smiling as he gestured towards the group on the veranda. “We’ve a roast piglet and beer.”

  I had not liked Van Camp, but the relish with which this man spoke of chasing away his defenceless womenfolk sat ill with me. I thanked him and made my excuses, saying that I had arranged to meet a family friend at one of the inns. I mounted Hamish and, as soon as I was out of sight, cajoled him into as fast a gallop as he could manage.

  It was dark by the time I reached the inn and my side trip cost me any chance of a bed to myself, for the inn was full with people going to the border and also some who were fleeing north. Talk was wild, veering from how easily the Yankee army would be defeated, to how, after our loss at Chippawa, we should prepare ourselves for them to fight their way up and chase the British out of Burlington Heights. I listened as I ate my meal of boiled meat and pickled cabbage, but said nothing. It was obvious that all who could fight must try to prevent this invasion succeeding. And that included me.
/>
  I had to share a bed with a merchant from York who snored so badly that it was hard for me to sleep. I was up early the next morning, eager to eat and be on my way — so early, in fact, that I was the lone guest ready for breakfast. The innkeeper was sitting working on his accounts, but when he saw me he called out a name and a girl came out from the kitchen. I was stunned to see that it was Mathilda Van Camp. She kept her eyes lowered and did not look at me as she told me that she could prepare some eggs and bacon, and asked whether I would like beer or milk with my meal.

  I reached out for her hand and spoke as gently as I could. Even so, she startled like a frightened rabbit and tried to wrench away. “Miss Van Camp, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

  The use of her name seemed to scare her further and she pulled herself free, hunching herself over as if expecting a blow.

  “You may not remember me,” I said, “but you showed great kindness to my brother and father, Robert and Angus MacKay, when they were in need.” Still she would not look at me, so I continued, adding detail that might help her recall them and convince her that I meant no harm. “My father was sick and you persuaded your father to let them shelter in your barn. When I came to fetch them home, you gave me soup …”

  She looked at me then, and I saw how thin she had become. “I remember you, sir, but times have changed,” she said, her voice small and reedy. “It is not good to talk of my father here. It causes ill feeling and trouble I scarce need.”

  The innkeeper stirred himself and came over to us. “Is there something wrong, young man?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “I recognised Miss Van Camp, who helped my father and brother some time ago, and was reminding her of that.”

  He grunted and I bristled, prepared to defend her if he treated her unkindly. “That’s all right then,” he said. “Mathilda suffers much because of what her father is, and I try to shield her when I can. That’s why she cooks more than serves.” He stalked off, leaving us alone once more.

  “He has been very kind,” Mathilda said. I could hear in those few words and her tone that many had not been.

  “I went to your farm, before I came here,” I said. “I wanted to thank you and see how you were, as I heard your father was arraigned for treason. His name was read out at the Assizes.”

  Her face twisted bitterly. “No doubt you met the farm’s new owners. I am sure they were happy to tell you what they had done.”

  I felt my face colour, as if by even listening to what had been done I was somehow party to it. I nodded.

  “So, milk or beer?” Mathilda’s tone was brisk, as if she wanted no more to be said.

  “Beer,” I muttered, thinking on how badly she had been treated and how the actions of one person could harm so many.

  When Mathilda returned with my food, I asked her if she might sit so that I could tell her how her kindness most likely saved Father’s life.

  She sighed and after a quick nod to the innkeeper to indicate that all was well, sat at the bench opposite me.

  I was hungry, so I am ashamed to say that I spoke between mouthfuls, but despite my lack of manners I gradually persuaded Mathilda to tell me what had befallen her.

  “My father left us last summer, so yes, it is true that he was at Newark.” She sighed and rested her head on her hands. “Who knows what he intended — to come back and take us to America, or perhaps he thought the Americans would win and he could return in triumph. I cannot forgive him for what he left us to face.”

  “You said ‘us’ … so you are not entirely alone?” My words were meant to give hope, but tears rolled down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away.

  When she spoke, I had to strain to hear her. “My two brothers rode with Father. It was just my mother and I left behind.” It was almost as if Mathilda had forgotten about me, because the words that tumbled out had the feel of private thoughts, ones that she had had many times. “We knew there would be trouble when people realised where Father and the boys had gone, but we hoped it would not be more than nasty words. Newark changed that. When some of the survivors managed to struggle back, telling their stories, naming names, we knew it would be worse than words. No one would work on a traitor’s farm. Mother and I tried so hard to keep the farm going just even a little. Then we’d hear men at night, riding round the farmhouse, trampling our vegetable garden, letting the chickens out from the coop for the foxes and coyotes to get. What could two women do against that?”

  Mathilda looked at me and I hated her father and brothers for what they had done.

  “When Father was declared a traitor at the Assizes, men came to our farm, claiming that all traitors’ land was forfeit. Maybe it was. I don’t know.” She knuckled her eyes hard. “They told us to get out. When Mother tried to collect some clothes and goods, one of them lifted her up and threw her down the steps to the yard. We ran then, and John Ford —” She nodded in the direction of the innkeeper, who was still pretending to pore over his ledger. “He took us in, gave us shelter, although it has cost him dear in both reputation and income.”

  “Your mother works here, too?” I prompted, and was horrified when Mathilda started to sob and shake.

  “Her mother died a week ago.” The innkeeper spoke up and walked over, putting a grimy but gentle hand on Mathilda’s shoulder. “She’s got a home here with my wife and me, although it may take folks time to forget what her bastard father did.”

  “My mother would take her in,” I blurted out without thinking, but once I’d said it I knew it was true. We had often talked of the girl who had defied her father to offer Angus and Father help. “We live north of here in Ancaster. Maybe people there won’t know the name Van Camp, or she could use another name.” I was warming to this idea. Mathilda was about the same age as Polly and I knew that she and Mother would be happy to help Mathilda in her time of need, just as she had done for Father.

  Mathilda was looking at me with tears still wet on her face, but with a tiny smile trembling on her lips. “She would?”

  “Most definitely. If not for you, Father might have died.”

  The innkeeper and Mathilda looked at each other. He was the first to speak. “Will you take her there now?”

  “I can’t,” I said, hating the way the hope on both their faces vanished so quickly. “I’m on my way to join the 5th Lincoln.” I will admit that I said it in such a way as to imply that this was the normal course of events and not that I was a runaway. “But if you give me paper, I can write a letter to my mother that would tell her who Miss Van Camp is, and to offer her a safe haven.”

  “Would you, really?” Mathilda was holding her breath and did not release it until I nodded that I would.

  A tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth when the innkeeper said he would take her to Mother.

  Other people were starting to come down and Mathilda scurried back to the kitchen, leaving the innkeeper to serve their meals, while I hastily wrote the letter to Mother.

  I did not set off as early as I had hoped, but when I did it was with hope in my heart that I had done some good, and that all further actions on this wild adventure would end as well. Hamish picked up on my mood and was almost spritely as we set off for Niagara.

  It was a long day’s riding, and more than once I saw British soldiers making steady progress south. Each time, I asked if they knew where I could find the 5th Lincoln, but only got vague answers that the militia were spread thin, guarding small settlements and dealing with American skirmishers who were set on causing as much mischief as they could.

  I decided to head to Queenston, thinking I might find the Lincolns there, but the day was drawing to a close. I was hungry, too, not having eaten since leaving the Red Tavern, so it was not likely that I would make Queenston before darkness fell. I saw a track leading off the road and decided to take my chances and see if there was a farm at its end that would offer me a bed for the night. In the fading light I saw the outline of a house, but no candles flickered in the wind
ow. I tied Hamish to the rail of the porch and called out, “Hello, is anyone here?”

  My voice sounded loud in the quiet of that clearing, but no reply came. I wondered where the owners of this farm were. Aware that it would soon be dark, I tried the handle of the door and went in. I could just make out the dim outlines of furniture, and saw cold ash in the hearth. On a table were cups and plates crusted with congealed food. Whoever lived here must have left in a hurry.

  I felt ill at ease being uninvited, but my growling stomach reminded me that I needed to eat. I found a muslin-wrapped wheel of cheese in a chest to the side of the table. A chunk of that and water I drew from the well stopped the hunger pangs. I could not bring myself to further intrude, so rather than take a cot in the house, I chose to bed down for the night in the outbuilding to one side where there were two boxes for horses. Hamish had one and I the other, and I have to say that he made less noise than Angus, so I slept well. I must have been more tired than I realised, because the sun was high in the sky by the time I woke.

  I think that I would have slept even longer had I not heard a bellowing and mooing outside fit to raise the devil. It was obvious that the cow making the noise had not been milked in some time. She had probably been turned loose when her owners fled. I found a leather bucket and quickly milked her. Then I decided to waste no more time, so I fed and watered Hamish and mounted him, ready to set off once again for Queenston.

  I heard hoof beats coming down the track from the road, so fast that I had no time to do anything before a group of men burst into the clearing. My heart started to race when I saw that they wore grey jackets, just like the Americans wore. About twenty men on horseback, all armed, blocked the entrance to the track.

  One spoke up, leering at me and riding close enough to cause Hamish to sidestep uneasily. “What have we here, boys? A spy? A stray militiaman? Or just a farmer’s boy about to run away?”