by Gillian Chan
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. The Americans laughed at me, perhaps mistaking my silence for fear. I had to think fast, to try to wheedle my way out of this situation. I could not tell the truth — not unless I wanted my military career to be over before it even started. “I am from Ancaster, sir. It’s on the road to York.”
The man who had spoken first did not allow me to continue. “You’re a long way from home then and you have me wondering why. I see no weapons.”
“My grandfather, sir — a smith — lives near the Falls. I have instructions to bring him to Ancaster, away from the fighting that is sure to occur here.” I tried to sound as if I were scared, when really I wanted to scream defiance at these invaders. “He is old and alone and has no family but us.”
“A smith, you say?” The man scratched his chin thoughtfully. “John Thornton,” he suddenly bellowed, causing Hamish to skitter even more. “Your horse is about to throw a shoe, is it not? You’ve been whining and holding us back for the last hour. I think we have a solution to your trials.” He grinned wolfishly at me.
I cursed myself for embroidering my speech with details, which really should not have been said. The last thing I wanted was to lead our enemy to my grandfather’s smithy.
“Get down off your horse, boy!”
I stared at him and did not move.
He drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it, pointed it at me and repeated his instruction. His eyes gleamed and I knew that he would not hesitate to shoot, so I scrambled down off Hamish’s back and stood beside him.
“Unsaddle him!”
I wasted no time and did as I was told. When he gave Thornton a similar order, I saw what was to happen. They were taking Hamish and leaving me with a horse going lame. I felt a lump in my throat, and as I worked I patted Hamish and spoke soothingly to him, hating what now lay ahead of him. It was a poor reward for a horse that had given us such faithful service.
My fingers were clumsy. Thornton had his horse unsaddled and was standing impatiently by as I fumbled with the buckles on the cinch. As soon as I had pulled the saddle off, he set to work immediately. I moved towards his horse with my saddle, but the one in charge stepped in front of me, blocking my way.
“Not so fast, boy!” he said. He was smiling still, but his eyes never left my face. “We can’t have you running off to raise the alarm that we are in the area, can we?”
“I won’t tell. I promise!” I would have said anything to make them leave me alone.
The man laughed. “That promise would last until we rode off. No, I am not going to take any chances. Even if Thornton’s limping nag would leave you on foot, a strapping boy like you could be in the nearest village with a couple of hours’ walking.” His men snickered and hooted at that, though I did not see any humour in it. “I think we should detain you a little.”
Before I could protest further, he signalled two of his men. They grabbed my arms. I bucked and tried to wrench myself free, but their grip was strong. In desperation, I let myself go limp, giving them dead weight to drag. All this did was earn me a blow that made my teeth clack together and my senses spin. When my awareness returned, four of them were half lifting, half dragging me towards the outbuilding. Another was waiting in the doorway holding rope.
“No,” I screamed, and tried once more to free myself.
The Americans’ leader strode over and thrust his pistol to my head, cocking it again. “One more sound from you and I will splatter your brains to kingdom come.” His tone was low but menacing. I was certain he would not hesitate to shoot.
It took them but a minute to hog-tie me and dump me onto the floor of the outbuilding. I was thankful that they did not close the door and leave me in darkness, for I doubt I could have borne that.
I don’t know how long I lay there, cursing my predicament, but it seemed hours that I was forced to listen to the raucous shouting of the Americans, the anguished bellowing of the cow, shots being fired, and the sounds of wood being broken and china smashing. I struggled against my bonds, but I had been tied up by men who knew what they were doing. All I did was make the ropes tighten and cut painfully into my wrists and ankles. I am ashamed to say that I cried — angry tears because nothing was going right for me. Those tears eventually brought sleep.
* * *
All was silent when I woke. The weak, early morning sun was rising above mist. I ached all over from my night on the hard, wooden floor. My wrists and ankles felt raw from my struggles and my bladder was painfully full. Tears threatened again as I realised the hopelessness of my position. Unless someone came, I could die here. I roared out as loud as I could, calling for help, but knew it was a foolish thing to do. I tried to wriggle my way out of the doorway and was making good if painful progress when suddenly I could move no more. Something held me fast. The bastards had tied my ropes to something I couldn’t see.
Neighing startled me out of my morass of self-pity, but I decided it was only the lame horse left in exchange for Hamish. Hope only came when I realised that I could hear the sound of a horse’s hooves, hooves that seemed to be moving at a steady pace. I hollered for all I was worth and kept going, hardly stopping for breath until I heard the jingle of stirrups and bridle.
A voice called out, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
“In the outbuilding. I’m tied up. Yankee scouts, damn their eyes, surprised me yesterday.” I winced as I realised that I had no guarantee that this man was not an American, too.
The sun was suddenly blocked out as a figure loomed over me. He was dressed, to my relief, in ordinary working clothes.
He crouched down and, with quick fingers, untied me and helped me to stand. I groaned as pins and needles prickled my hands and feet. My head was ringing and pounding and it was several minutes until I could speak or look my rescuer over.
“Take your time, lad.” His voice was kindly and he patted me on the shoulder. “Then you can tell me what happened here.” He gestured with his free hand. I looked up to find a scene of devastation. The neat gardens in the yard had been trampled. Scattered among the broken plants were smashed pots, furniture, even clothes that had obviously been dragged from the house. In the middle of this senseless destruction lay the poor cow, her sides hacked and carved where they had taken meat from her. I hung my head, not wanting to look at what could so easily be our own snug farm, if the Yankees won.
“Bastards!” I spat out.
The man said, “I share your sentiments, son, but not your choice of words.” He shook his head in sorrow and disbelief. “Years of labour gone. And poor Clover, too. My children will cry when I tell them. I knew there were American scouts nosing around, so I thought it would be safer if I took my family to St. Davids to shelter with my brother there.” He cleared his throat and continued. “What a mistake! The Yankees came and chased the 1st Lincoln out. After that they did what they liked, taking what they pleased, then burning the houses. We were helpless. My brother lost everything.” His eyes were wet with tears as he struggled to contain his emotions. “We stood by and watched them as they laughed and shouted, making mock of us. Once they left, I waited a while, not wanting to run into them again, then came to see whether it was safe to return.” He gestured at the destruction. “And I find this.”
“At least they did not burn your home here,” I offered. It was poor comfort, but true.
“You’re right, boy. I will bring my family and my brother’s family, too, and we’ll get it shipshape again.” He paused. “But how did you come to be here?”
My whole sad story poured out. When I told him of my intention to seek out the 5th Lincoln in Queenston, he shook his head again and snorted. “Think again. The Americans have taken Queenston, too. You’d do best to head back towards Twelve Mile Creek, as I think that’s where they might be, under Major General Riall. Or even head to the Falls or Fort George in Newark.”
My heart sank. How would I find them? “I’ll head for the Falls, sir, where my grandfather, John Livesay, has a s
mithy. Perhaps he will have news of the Lincolns.”
“I know your grandfather — a good man. I wish I could help you get there, but I must tend to my own family. Tell him that you met Isaac Bowman and what happened here. You have a long walk ahead of you, so take care. If you can find food in this mess, you are welcome to it.”
As he remounted, turning to ride off, I ran quickly to the side of the house to deal with my bursting bladder. As I relieved myself, thoughts churned in my head. I had lost Hamish. Eric’s saddle at least was still in the yard where I had dropped it, but it would be heavy and awkward to carry. Father was going to be furious. It occurred to me that although the Americans had killed the farmer’s beast, there was no sign of Thornton’s horse. I doubted that they would take it, for their leader had been complaining of how it hampered them. I decided to search the woods for the horse — it could bear Eric’s saddle, at least. My first task, however, was to try to fill my empty belly.
As I approached the house, I heard a soft whicker and found the horse cropping grass under an apple tree. I backed away quietly, in case I spooked it, and got the saddle, bag and tackle from the front yard where the Americans had left it. I thanked God that I had kept my moneybag in my breeches and they had not searched me, for it was obvious that they had rifled through the saddlebag. The horse hardly stopped eating when I threw the halter over its head. It resisted just a little when I led it round the house and tied it to the porch rail while I gathered the meagre amounts of food left unspoiled.
The afternoon sun was hot as we walked. The horse favoured one leg and I swear he walked slower than even Sam would have done. I was sweating and sore. Relief only came when dusk fell. I knew that there was still some way to go and that it would be foolish to continue in the dark. I had seen few people on the road. Perhaps most were staying quiet because of Yankee patrols. No dwellings were in sight and, to tell the truth, I was now wary of being caught like before, so I led the horse — I had decided to call it Madison, after the Yankee president — into a copse of trees where we could spend the night in relative safety. There was a small stream, so at least we had water.
I did not rest easy. Every noise startled me from sleep. Several times I heard shouting in the distance, even musket fire. As dawn broke I set off once again. Even at that early hour, the road was busy. Troops from both sides were everywhere, scouting, to try to work out where the other had its main force. Still, the bustle could not drown out the roar of the Falls.
I must have looked such a forlorn sight that any soldiers who saw me decided I was no danger, nor likely to be of any use to them, for I was left alone.
From one British patrol I did glean that the 5th Lincoln had indeed been at Twelve Mile Creek, but were likely on the move by now. A farmer with a cart confirmed that John Livesay’s forge was just half a mile away on the Portage Road, and after this welcome news it seemed just a few minutes until I stumbled in through the wide doors of my grandfather’s smithy.
He had his back to me, working the bellows furiously, and didn’t hear me at first. When he did turn, expressions of surprise, curiosity and even a hint of anger slid across his face.
“Alexander, what in heaven’s name are you doing here and in such a bedraggled state?” He frowned, a look of worry replacing all other emotions. “Is it bad news you bring, of your mother, or of your father and Angus?” His hand shook as it held onto one of the bellows’ handles.
“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him. “I’ve come to join Father and Angus with the Lincolns, to fight alongside them.”
“And this is with your mother’s knowledge?” he asked.
I was glad that he had phrased his question the way he had, for I could honestly answer it. “Aye, sir, she knows where I am and what I am doing. Eric Holzer, Morag’s husband, will be helping Drew until we all return in triumph!” I congratulated myself on speaking nothing but truth, allowing him to assume what he would from the little I told him.
Grandfather smiled at that. “We all hope that will be the case. But Sandy, look at the state of you — as if you have been dragged through a hedge backwards. And you stink. You’ve had a hard journey, it would seem.”
His kind words acted like a key. Once the door was open, all that had happened with the Yankee patrol poured out of me. I could see that he had questions, but he held them back until I finished, and it was the measure of the man that he attended to the practicalities first.
“Sandy, where is this American horse? I should at least see to the poor beast. While I do that, clean yourself and then we’ll talk.” He laughed and said, “I have no clothes that will fit a young giant, but take a nightshirt from my chest and wash your clothes, too. In this hot weather, they’ll dry soon.”
Having taken Grandfather to Madison, I ducked my head through the low front door of the cottage and went inside. Mother often fretted that since my grandmother’s death, Grandfather must be struggling to take care of himself, but the neatness of the room gave no evidence of that. The floor was swept clean and the room tidy. A meal was cooking in a pot hanging over the fire.
I was so hot that bathing in a cool creek seemed like an idea made in heaven itself. I had my shirt and britches off in seconds and threw myself into the water, happy to wash off the dust of the road and to wallow in the water like a hog in mud. There were, however, things that could not be washed away — cuts and bruises from my tussle with the Yankees. I boiled inside, thinking of their arrogance.
I probably did a poor job with my clothes, but I was too tired to care. Grandfather’s nightshirt fit in the shoulders, for years at his forge had made him brawny, but it was far too short. I must have looked a ridiculous sight with it ending just above my knees. By the time I re-entered the cottage, he was sitting at the table waiting for me. He handed me a tankard of ale. “Food, then sleep are what you need, my boy,” Grandfather said. “I doubt that we will see either your father or brother tonight, for they called here yesterday when they were out on patrol, but tomorrow you can try to catch up with them. I’m sure that if we ask in the village, someone will be able to direct you to them.”
“They were here?” I said. “I just missed them?”
Grandfather didn’t answer right away. He rose and ladled out two bowls from the pot hanging on the fire, and fetched a warm loaf out from the oven. I swear that food has never tasted so good, either before or since. It was rabbit, and there were potatoes and carrots. Grandfather did not speak or let me speak until he had given me my second bowl and I had slowed down a little.
I tried again. “Father and Angus were well?” I asked.
“Yes,” Grandfather said. “They call in when they can, but the militia have been kept busy dealing with American patrols. Your encounter attests to the fact that the blackguards are out scouting, looking for weakness. Some say that they will push towards Burlington Heights, but I am sure our fellows will do their very best to thwart such a plan.”
He paused and used a knob of the bread to wipe his bowl clean, popping it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing it before speaking again. “Poor Hamish, he was a good horse.” He sighed. “Let’s hope that he comes to no harm. The horse you got is a good one, too, now that I have reshod him — young, but strong and placid. Your father will only be a little put out by such an exchange, but …” He looked amused. “I’ll warrant that he will give you grief about the loss of a musket and shot.”
I nearly blurted out, “What musket?” but managed to stop myself in time, for Grandfather’s words neatly presented me with a solution to a problem that I had not even realised I had, until he spoke — my lack of a weapon. I tried to look as hangdog as I could. “That he will, sir, and I must hope that there will be a spare when I join them.”
The words I was angling for came from his lips without hesitation. “Take mine, Sandy, and make good use of it. I wish I could be there alongside Rob, Angus and you, but you will be a fine substitute. But,” he added, “only if you get some sleep, for I have never seen eyes th
at struggle so much to stay open.”
He was right. It was all I could do to stumble up the ladder to the sleeping loft and fall upon the straw tick.
When I woke up, the sun was once again high in the sky, burning down. In my surprise, I cracked my head hard on a beam as I reared up. My clothes, neatly folded, lay by the side of the tick. I dressed hurriedly and slid down the ladder, only to find the cottage empty. Two horses were tethered to the rail outside the forge and when I went in, Grandfather was in conversation with two British officers. Their conversation broke off at my entry and Grandfather waved me forward. “This is my grandson, come to join his father and brother with the militia, the one I told you about — a fine addition, is he not? He’s looking for the 5th Lincoln. Would you know where he might find them?”
I blushed a little at my grandfather’s obvious pride, but perked up when one of the officers said, “There are rumours that an American army, some five thousand strong, have left Chippawa and are marching to the Falls, to camp here before moving on. When that report reaches Major General Riall, I’m sure he will send part of his force forward to block them. Most likely the 5th Lincoln will be included.”
Grandfather shook his head and sucked air in between his clenched teeth. “A bad business. Let’s hope they get no farther than the Falls.”
I burned with impatience to set off as Grandfather continued his conversation. When the officers finally left, I asked Grandfather for his musket and shot. He sighed, but gave them to me, telling me that Father and Angus were probably only a mile away. “Stay safe, Sandy, and listen to your father,” were the last words he said as he hugged me hard.
When I drew close to the junction at Portage Road I saw a fine array of British troops and militia spread out across a small hill, in the fields and even in the woods. I began to wonder what greeting I would get from Father, and how to prevent him from sending me back to Grandfather — or more likely home like a whipped puppy.
