A Call to Battle

by Gillian Chan

  I was heartened to see so many already there, and to be told by a sentry that reinforcements from both Twelve Mile Creek, led by Riall himself, and from York were expected. I was convinced that although we might be smaller in number, we would soon send any Americans packing, and received a clap on the back for saying so. Apart from the sentries, many of the men were taking their ease. Some were even trying to sleep, for they had marched through the night. I briefly considered staying where I was and attaching myself to another Lincoln unit, but honour would not let me take such an easy route. My intention was to stand alongside my brother and father to protect our land, and I would have to face Father’s anger first in order to do that. The 5th Lincoln were on the right flank, so I worked my way across the hilltop until I spotted their commander, Colonel Bradt, ride up and dismount.

  As I picked my way between men, carefully stepping over sleeping bodies, Angus spotted me first. He leaped to his feet, dropped the musket he had been cleaning, and stared at me, mouth open, as if he were catching flies.

  “Where’s Father?” I asked before he could speak.

  “He and the other sergeants are with the officers. The main American force is at Chippawa, but we expect them to move forward.” Angus shook his head. “You’re doing what you always do, Sandy, befuddling me with a question. What in tarnation are you doing here?”

  There was no point now in being anything but honest. I told Angus straight what I had done and why. He did not interrupt, but I gauged his reactions by the expressions that flickered across his face: horror at my description of the hangings; sadness to hear of Mathilda Van Camp’s plight; amused irritation when I said that no matter what, I was staying. I finished by saying that I would hide from Father’s sight if need be, but that I was going to fight and nothing would stop me.

  “Ah, Sandy, you’re so headstrong!” Angus’s tone was half admiring. “I don’t know where you find the strength to challenge things as you do. Come here.” He gave me a fierce hug. “I will be proud to have you fight alongside me, but now we have to convince Father to let you stay, and that might not be easy.”

  I could not settle. I kept one eye out for Father’s return at all times, and in the end Angus checked my musket for me rather than see me fumble with it. He shared some rations he had in his pack and suggested that I try to sleep, as he was going to do. From where we sat in the shade of a tree, I could see Father in a huddle of men — he was easy to recognise, as he stood so much taller than the others. The Hatt brothers were there too, along with Colonel Bradt and John Lee. When the conclave ended, Mr. Lee and Father walked back together, deep in conversation.

  It was Mr. Lee who spotted me as I leapt nervously to my feet. “MacKay, you have both your boys here now!” he said, clapping Father on the back. “You did not say that young Sandy was coming. It’s a good thing, too, if the scouts are to be believed and the American army is moving our way in such force.” He was oblivious to the way Father was reacting, his face first blanching and then setting in anger as he stared at me. “I’ll go find my rascal Jack and tell him that his companion in arms is back.” He set off, grinning. I wished that Father were so happy to see me.

  Angus had been awakened by Mr. Lee’s loud voice and stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder. I was grateful for that touch. It gave me courage to speak. “Father, I know you didn’t want me to be part of this, but after what I saw at Burlington Heights, the hangings …” I shuddered as the image of those twisted, purpling faces rose unbidden in my mind. “And the rumours I heard of the Americans being about to attack, I just had to come.” I thought that if I kept talking I could stave off his anger, so I hurried on. “What good am I working on the farm if the Americans break through here and move towards Burlington Heights and even our own home? Mother knows where I am. She will not be happy, but then if the Americans win …” I did not voice what horror that would bring her. “Eric Holzer is helping Drew and Polly to keep the farm going; he promised me that. They can manage. And if we have victory here and rout our enemies once and for all, we can all be home in a matter of days.”

  Father tried to break in, but I kept going, adding details that I thought would help my case. “I spent a night at Grandfather’s and he has wished me well. He even gave me his own musket and shot, saying that I fight in his stead.”

  Father surprised me. As I spoke, the anger faded from his face and his shoulders drooped. “Oh, you foolish, foolish boy,” he said as he stepped forward to embrace me. Then he pushed me back and, holding me at arm’s length, said, “If I shut my eyes and just listen, it could be your Uncle Roger talking to your mother’s father, trying to convince him he was old enough to fight.” He looked upward. “Is it always going to be the province of the young to be so foolhardy and brave?”

  I could see tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll make you proud, Father, I promise,” I said.

  “I know you think that, Sandy.” Father’s voice was gentle. “And you do and will. But now I have to worry about both Angus and you.” He tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. “Your mother will skin me alive if I let anything happen to her boys. All those arguments you have given me — about how your size and strength will be an asset, that I have trained you to be as good a shot as any — they are all true. But while they will be a help, luck is what you need most in a battle. I pray that we will all have that in the next few hours.”

  Angus, who had been silent till now, stepped alongside me. “Are we to fight then? Is that what you were told?” I heard no eagerness in his voice. No fear either, just resignation. An excited anticipation surged up inside me.

  “Aye, by the end of the day for sure,” Father said. He let his hands drop from my shoulders to his sides. “The American army is on the move from Chippawa and heading this way. We have to stop them here. Let’s rest our bones while we can.” He sat down. “But for the Yankees pushing north, I would send you back to your Grandfather, Sandy, but I daren’t risk it now.”

  He rested his hands on his knees, straightened his back, then said, “My duties may take me away once the fighting starts, but I want you both to promise me that you will stick together and look out for each other.” The urgency in his voice had us both swearing that we would, our voices overloud as we tried to prove our sincerity. This seemed to ease his mind, for he stretched himself out in the shade, and said, “Rest now, while you can. It is likely to be a long and hard night.”

  I knew I would not sleep, but I lay down, as did Angus. We shared his pack as a hard and knobby pillow. None of us spoke, and for the first time, a little fear rose inside me and lodged in my chest like a stone. I glanced first at Angus, who lay on his back, his breathing regular, and his eyes closed, and then at Father, who was staring back at me, his eyes wide in his pale face. I could not stand that steady stare, so closed my eyes, trying not to think about what was coming.

  I doubt that any slept as afternoon faded to evening. The constant roar of the Falls, shouts as scouts returned, even an occasional crack of a musket, all combined to keep sleep at bay. By about six, word came that Americans had been seen nearby and in considerable force, as close as Willson’s Tavern down by Table Rock, and all became confusion as the order to retreat to Queenston was given. I was aghast. I had come to fight, and now was being ordered to flee like a whipped cur without even trying to repel the American force. Many men were grumbling and being deliberately slow to move, until Father and the other sergeants hurried them along.

  I did not understand the thinking behind that order or why it was quickly countermanded. Some said that Lieutenant General Drummond, fresh that day from York, had stopped the retreat, loudly berating Major General Riall for a coward, his face as scarlet as his uniform. We had only gone a mile before we were ordered to turn smartly around and form our battle line along the ridge of Lundy’s Lane, around the church on the hilltop. Our guns, four in all, plus a rocket division and a howitzer, were planted in the cemetery on a gentle slope. The blue-coated ar
tillerymen struggled to get everything in place quickly, the guns’ muzzles facing towards the open space in front of the chestnut woods. The British regulars formed up behind the guns on the hill. On the left flank, curving gently down the slope by the Portage Road, were more redcoats and some of our incorporated militia. The 5th Lincoln were at the far edge of the right flank of the battle line, alongside the Glengarry Light Infantry and Captain John Norton’s warriors. I had met John Norton when he visited our village, and a handsome man he was, but now he and his warriors were fearsome sights with their topknots and grim, painted faces. I was glad they were not my enemies. Some stayed in the battle line while others drifted like smoke into the woods.

  There was a stillness like none I had ever experienced before. It was as if time had stopped, or rather that I had stepped outside it. Every sense was heightened.

  I heard birds singing, the ragged sound of Angus’s breath as he stood alongside me, my own heart — which seemed so loud that it must shake my body — the rushing waters of the great cataract. Not a man in the ranks spoke. Raw and untrained though I was, I knew from Father and Angus that I should not speak either, just concentrate on hearing the orders the sergeants would relay to us.

  Shadows were creeping down the hill where we waited. I could not see anything but the broad back of George Markle in front of me. I wondered whether Markle hoped to bring glory to his family name and erase the shame of his traitorous relative, Abraham. From the way Markle’s spine stiffened, I knew that the American soldiers were in sight, coming out of the trees and forming up on the flat, open meadow below the hill. They would be waiting for the order to fire, just as we were. I wanted to close my eyes, but dared not. For long minutes I saw nothing more than the worn threads of a jacket, the grime embedded in a sunburned neck, a queue of brown hair that was slowly losing a battle to grey.

  It was hot, even though the day was drawing to a close, so hot that we all were sweating. I had drunk from my canteen just a little time ago, but my mouth was parched and dry, as though it would never be anything else ever again. There was an odd taste there, metallic, but rotten, too — the taste of fear.

  The world exploded. The hill shook to its roots as our cannons opened up, a deep rumble that travelled through my body, leaving me feeling hollowed out. My ears rang with the booming of the guns and my eyes smarted from the bitterness of the smoke that blew all around us. In that cacophony, I could still make out the familiar sound of my father’s deep voice. “Prepare! Aim! Fire!”

  George did just that, then dropped to one knee so that I might do so, too. All those times I had secretly practised loading Father’s musket in the barn stood me in good stead — my fingers did not fumble too much, but I was slow, tamping down the powder, inserting the shot and cocking the trigger. I had barely got my shot off, and I can’t say that I aimed at all, before George was rising, ready to shoot again. We kept at it — loading, firing, and not thinking, not able to see whether our shots were true. Time had no meaning for me. It could have been five minutes or fifty minutes. The British guns pounded away and so much smoke rose up that it was hard to see what was happening ahead of us. The Americans were being beaten bloody, but they held firm and kept firing, although they were too far away for their musket balls to reach us. After our first few rounds we were given the order to cease fire and stood there silent, watching the slaughter take place below us, wondering why the American commander did not give the order to retreat, as the Yankees were so badly outgunned.

  As smoke cleared briefly, Angus gripped my arm and pointed. I gaped at what I saw. The Americans, despite the pounding they were taking, were trying to advance towards the British guns, bringing them into even closer range. Raised voices shouted orders, and suddenly the Glengarries, who had stood at our side, were on the move, marching forward to form a skirmish line in the trees alongside a farm track, a move that would put them in position to attack the American flank.

  My mouth went dry again as I waited to hear whether we would be given the order to move forward. I checked my musket, gripping it as tightly as I could. The light was fading, but musket flashes showed where the enemy position lay. My heart skipped a beat when word came that we were to move forward in support.

  I thought that our lines would march proudly forward, and then stop and fire, but this was a different kind of warfare. A ragged collection of Lincolns, the 2nd Yorks and Norton’s warriors advanced, hugging every bit of cover we could find — broken-down fences, trees, shrubs, even gravestones for those on the left who were nearer to the guns.

  The Yorks’ commanding officer did not accompany them, choosing to hide behind a shed. Some of our own men slipped away into the growing darkness at the top of the hill rather than start on down it. I cursed them for cowards and was proud that I did not hesitate, but silently followed Angus and Father into the fray.

  We fired at will, but it was impossible to see what effect our muskets had. The Americans fired back, but sporadically. Were their losses now so great that few remained, or was their ammunition low? Angus and I were crouched behind a shrub, rising to shoot in turn. Father and George Markle were placed a little to our left. I was waiting my turn to fire when a shout of pain erupted from my left. My world stood still, for I could not tell who had cried out — Father or George. I was frozen in place and would have stayed like that had not Angus pulled me into motion, whispering hoarsely, “Come, Sandy, George is shot.” I had not realised I was holding my breath until Angus’s words released me.

  We edged our way to Father and George’s position, grateful for the shelter of darkness. Father was down, too, and an icy splinter of fear pierced my heart until I realised that George had fallen on him and he was struggling to free himself.

  “Boys, come quick,” he hissed as he managed to crouch down by George. “He’s taken a musket ball to the chest, I think. We need to get him to safety.”

  It was impossible to see the extent of George’s wound, but he was white-faced and shaking, his eyes fixed on something that we could not see. His entire right side was wet with blood — blood that showed black in the dim light.

  “George. George!” Father gripped his left shoulder. “Can you hear me? We’ll get you to safety, but it would help if you can walk.”

  George gave no answer but a groan, sounding more like an animal than a man.

  Father rocked back on his heels and ran a hand down his face. “We cannot leave him here. We’ll have to carry him back up the hill.”

  I flinched at the thought, as George, although not tall, was a solidly built man.

  Father gathered George’s musket, then reached out his free hand for our muskets, too. “You two are stronger than I am. Angus, take his shoulders. Sandy, take his feet, and go as fast as you can. I will be close behind.”

  The MacKay boys’ strength was never more needed. We flew up the slope, crouched over like dogs, pursued by the whizzing wasps of musket balls, not stopping until we were safely behind our own lines. I feared that our frantic run had killed poor George, as his head was hanging loosely and bobbing between his shoulders, but he groaned when we laid him down.

  Other wounded were trickling back, some walking, others carried — and we were told to move George to the farmhouse just a little to the side of our original position. The lady of the house, pale-faced and weeping, told us to set him on her kitchen floor. This we did, horrified to see how many wounded already lay there.

  When we emerged from the farmhouse the guns had all fallen silent, but along with the roar of the Falls, I could hear voices giving orders — on both sides, I presumed — and the sounds of men moving in the dark. Worst of all were the screams and moans from the injured that lay in the dark, terrified they might be abandoned. I was eager to take up the fight once more, but my hopes were cruelly dashed. Colonel Bradt was striding along with a pair of redcoats by his side, both of them carrying sacks. When he came to us he said, “MacKay, hand over your ammunition and that of your boys. It’s going to the regulars!
Accompany these soldiers to get the ammunition from the rest of our men.”

  “Sir, we can fight, you know that!” Father shot back.

  Colonel Bradt’s face darkened and he bellowed, “Damn you, MacKay, are you questioning my orders? I was nearly killed by the wild shooting of my own men. Do as you’re told and report back to me for further orders. Leave the shooting to those who know what they are doing!”

  Father was furious, but he held back the words I guessed he wanted to say and with a quiet, “Sir!” turned on his heel and marched stiffly off, the two redcoats trailing behind him like a pair of lost puppies.

  Angus and I set off after Father, but had only gone a few steps when the colonel bellowed, “You two don’t need to help your father. Bring back more wounded. Ours first. Only bring theirs if you can find none of ours. At least we can show the damned British that we have some uses.” He stalked off, muttering angrily under his breath.

  Before we set off to find our wounded, a cheer went up from our fellow soldiers — reinforcements from Twelve Mile Creek had arrived. Even though I smarted that I would not be in the actual fighting, at least our victory was assured. I could not stop my face splitting in a grin.

  I turned to Angus and, as calmly as if I were asking him to take a walk with me, said, “Shall we?” I pointed down the hill to where our guns were bombarding the enemy. I suspected that we would find many wounded artillerymen in need of rescue, since their positions had been closest to the Yankees.

  We started to run down the hill, aware that other militiamen were moving down, too, some carrying ammunition, others empty-handed and probably charged with the same task as us.

  We arrived in the midst of the guns as they started up again, but this time they were not firing at an American force frozen in place like sitting ducks. Now they were under attack.

  It was hell. I have no other word for it, even though I know Mother would blanch to hear me say it. Thunderous noise, fire from the mouths of our cannons, the shuddering recoil of those guns, musket balls whizzing through the air, the screaming of the injured and dying on both sides, smoke filling my lungs, the stench of blood and shit — all of these assaulted my senses.