by Gillian Chan
I was hacking and spluttering. Angus was faring no better. A sergeant yelled to us, pointing to a man on the ground by his side. What the man’s wound was I never found out. We were struggling to lift him, and even for us it was a struggle — gunners have to be fine, strapping men — when the Americans broke through and were amongst us.
Bayonets flashed in the moonlight, and sabres, too, as the officers cut and slashed for all they were worth. Some of the gunners snatched up muskets and fired blindly at our attackers. Angus and I were weaponless — in danger not only from the enemy but also from the wild shooting of our own men. I snatched a ramrod lying beside one of the cannons and called to Angus to stay close. I jabbed and poked at any Americans who came near. One tall fellow dropped his musket, grabbed the ramrod and tried to pull it from my hands. I clung on, desperate not to lose the only protection we had. He swore as he tried to yank it from me. Angus stepped from behind me and, with all his strength, hit the man in the face. Blood gushed instantly. He cried out and brought his hands up to his shattered nose. With the ramrod free, I swung it hard, catching him on the side of the head. He dropped like a poleaxed cow. Angus quickly grabbed the man’s musket from the ground. We stood back to back, ready for any attackers — me with the ramrod and Angus with the bayonet.
The order to retreat came and we ran.
The fighting was thick around us, but many were now trying to flee to the safety of our own lines. It made us easy targets and the Yankees were quick to take advantage, firing at our retreating backs. With musket balls flying by, I felt a surge of fear that it would end here. I ran in a blind panic.
Angus must have had similar thoughts. “Head for the trees close to the left flank!” he cried.
His words made sense. If we could reach the woods, then it would be easier to evade the Americans and work our way back up the slope and across to find Father and the rest of the Lincolns.
I ran like I’ve never run before — head down, fists pushing against the air as if I could tear my way through it, my lungs burning from the smoke that swathed the battlefield. I ran over bodies in my path, leaping over them if I could, trampling them when I could not. Finally I crashed through underbrush and into the woods. In my panic I flung myself headfirst beneath a tree, unable to speak until my breathing slowed and my voice returned. I dared not shout, lest our enemies were hiding here, too, so I whispered as loud as I could, “Angus, Angus, where are you?”
No answer came, so I cautiously sat up and peered around. I tried again, as loud as I dared. “Angus, call out and let me know you are safe.”
I heard it then, a faint call a little farther up the slope, in the trees. I crawled on my belly in the direction of the call and soon saw the outline of a figure propped up against a tree.
“Angus!”
It was only when I went to embrace him that I realised that this man was too small and slight to be my brother.
“I’m not Angus, but will an Abell do?” The voice was quiet, perhaps even a little weak. There was a hint of amusement as he carried on. “They both start with A and have the same number of letters.” It was so dark under the tree that I could not see what uniform the speaker wore, just the pale glimmer of his face. “Who are you, sir?” he continued. “Don’t be afeared. I offer no threat to you.”
He was young, judging by his voice — the voice of a boy who had not yet reached manhood. He tried to laugh, but seemed to choke a little before he sputtered out, “Do you mean me harm?”
I sank back on my heels, then lowered myself to sit by him. “No, I don’t,” I said. I could not fight down the sob that ripped its way up from deep within my chest. “My brother Angus and I were at the cannons and he was behind me, and we were running. He was right on my heels. He told me to make for the trees. Now I can’t find him. I have to find him.” I dashed tears from my eyes and tried to get to my feet, but the boy grasped my sleeve and held on.
“No, stay. It would be madness to go out from here.” His voice was low, the tone urgent. “In the dark you’ll not find him, only get yourself killed in the process. Look out there, and tell me that I don’t speak true.” He sighed. “I got separated, too, but they’ll come looking for me when they can. Sergeant Dunkley promised my mother he’d keep me close. Your brother will come looking for you, too, I’m sure.”
I tried to do as he said and peered out from the woods. All I could see was smoke, dim forms struggling within it, a writhing, shapeless mass. It would be hopeless trying to find Angus in that. I just prayed that he had found a place to take shelter.
“Sir, you know my name, Abell, but you haven’t given me yours.”
“Sandy MacKay.” I didn’t want to sit making idle conversation, and decided that I would wait until there was a lull in the fighting and try to go up the slope.
“Well, Sandy MacKay, Abell Phillips of Pennsylvania is glad for your company. I was scared here all by myself. I keep hearing movement in the trees. Voices, too, and I didn’t know what manner of men they might belong to.”
“Pennsylvania!” In my shock, my voice came out louder than was wise. I froze, thinking it might draw attention to our hiding place. “You’re American.” I kept my voice low but I knew it betrayed my feelings. Abell still had hold of my arm and I tried to shake myself free, but he held on with surprising tenacity.
“And you are not,” he said. He sounded tired. “I thought that likely, as you wear no uniform. Me, I’m no soldier, just a drummer boy who joined Porter’s Brigade for a lark and to see a little more of the world than our farm near Mansfield.” Still keeping his grip on my arm, he shifted slightly, as if uncomfortable. The small movement caused him to groan.
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I am. But just a little.” He tried to move again. “Something hit me and knocked me down, and when my senses returned, here I was. Someone might have carried me — I have no recollection of making my way here. I know I had my drum, and now that is gone. My pack and a water skin were by my side.” I saw a flash of teeth in a beam of moonlight that trickled down through the leaves above us as Abell smiled. “I bet Sergeant Dunkley carried me to safety. Yes, that’s it!” Abell seemed cheered by this thought.
My mind felt like a ship that had been knocked loose from its moorings and was being battered and whirled around by a great storm. Abell was one of our enemies, enemies I hated with all my heart. Yet he was just a boy like me. I shuddered when I thought that. I could see so many similarities between us. I sank down again and rested my back against the tree, unsure what to do next.
Abell’s grip fell from my arm. Perhaps he was convinced that I no longer would bolt away. “Are you with the militia, or is your home here?” he asked.
I saw no harm in telling him my story, though it took quite some time. He peppered me with questions until finally it came back to where my encounter with him began, my flight to the trees with Angus.
“We have a lot in common then,” he said. “I wanted adventure and you did, too, but perhaps you are nobler than I am, as that’s all I wanted. You want to protect your family and home. My father was against Mr. Madison’s war, but I was so set on going, he knew I’d run away and that the only way he could prevent me was to chain me to a post in the barn.” Abell laughed as he said that. “Which he would not do, being a man of gentle disposition.”
He groaned again and his voice was tight with pain when he next spoke. “Water … could you get me my water skin? I cannot reach it.”
The water skin was right on the ground to Abell’s left, his hand close by it. That puzzled me, but I got to my feet, walked to his other side, and reached down to pick it up. I caught my foot on a root and would have toppled had I not put down both hands to break my fall. When I righted myself and picked up the water skin, both hands were wet. I wondered whether the water skin had been punctured and had leaked. It wasn’t until I raised my free hand closer to my face that I saw it was dark with blood.
Abell saw me looking. “It’
s just a scratch,” he whispered, “just a scratch, nothing more. My mother always says that I bleed more than normal. Just a scratch.”
I sat down again, frightened by what I saw, but with no idea what to do, so I handed him the water skin and sat watching.
Abell drank long and deep, then seemed to falter, almost letting the water skin fall from his right hand. I caught it and placed it on the ground between us. He closed his eyes and started to talk — more like whispering — so I had to concentrate to make out his words.
“We’re both farm boys, Sandy, and both second sons. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of adventure.” He sighed. “There’s a girl back home, Abigail Thomas. She gave me a handkerchief when I left, one she’d embroidered with a big letter A. She had one, too, and when we marched she waved hers and I touched the one she’d given me where it was stowed safe in my pocket.” With the arm that seemed to work, he rooted in his pocket, grunting and hissing at each movement, but finally pulled it free. He held it out to me, seemingly blind to the fact that it was soaked in blood.
I took it and there in one corner was the A he had described, beautifully worked in blue stitching. All was silent as I regarded it, thinking what its condition signified.
A crashing erupted in the undergrowth just a little way in front of us. Moving fast, two of John Norton’s warriors passed by, not looking anywhere but straight ahead. I nearly called out to them, then the words died in my throat, as I thought what they might do to Abell.
Once they were gone, I let out my breath and said, “We were lucky those warriors did not see us.”
“Which warriors?” Abell shook in fear. “I heard noise but saw no one. Have they gone? I have heard how savage they can be.”
His words chilled me. Trying to move silently, I waved one hand in front of Abell’s face, just inches from his nose. His eyes were open but he did not respond, or ask what silly game I played.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
For one brief moment I wondered whether Abell was seeing some vision, but I realised that he meant the handkerchief.
“I would like it to return to its twin.”
“You will take it home,” I said, trying to put a vehemence in my words to make it so. “In the morning, or when the fighting stops, I’ll fetch help and your wound will be treated. Then you will be returned home to see your family and Abigail again.” I forced myself to believe this would happen. I wanted it to happen — enemy or not.
Abell tried to smile. “I will,” he said, although the words were so quiet that I had to strain to hear them. “In my pack are my fife and a bible that my family gave me when I left. It has our names and our town written on the fly-leaf — Mansfield … Mansfield.” He kept repeating the name until he coughed, and when he stopped I could see blood on his lips. I did not know what to say and was not even sure that Abell would hear me now. He struggled to speak again, the words spaced far apart, as if they were falling from his throat like pebbles into a brook. “I … am … so tired … so cold.”
I reached for him then, put one arm around his shoulders and drew him to me so that his head rested on my shoulder. I grasped his hand with my free one, and felt him weakly squeeze it.
“Tell … them … I … was … not alone.”
He never spoke again.
I could not stop the tears that came then. I bawled like a baby, not caring if my howling drew the enemy to me. I cried for Abell and his Abigail. I cried for myself. I cried for Angus and Father. I cried for shattered dreams of glory and adventure that had ended with a bloody, broken boy in a wood. I cried for oblivion and was granted it, for I fell into the arms of exhaustion and slept.
* * *
I awoke as the first light of dawn washed over that damned battlefield.
Abell’s head had fallen to one side, and in the early morning light I saw how young he was, a beardless boy like me, slight in build. His hair was the same shade of butter blond as Angus had, but his hair was curly, not straight. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. It was as if he floated in a sea of blood, with a huge crater in his side. I marvelled at his courage and felt tears spring to my eyes once more. His sweetheart’s handkerchief rested on his thigh. I picked it up and carefully placed it in my pocket. In Abell’s pack were the fife and bible he had mentioned. The pages of the bible were well thumbed, and dirty fingerprints marred them. I looked at the fly-leaf. My throat thickened and closed as I read:
Given this day, August 13th, 1813, to our beloved son, Abell, that he might remember us.
Mansfield, Pennsylvania
John and Alice Phillips
Martyn Phillips b. 1790
Anne Phillips b. 1791
Leah Phillips b. 1793
Jack Phillips b. 1794 d. 1798
Abell Phillips b. 1801
Robert Phillips b. 1803
Abell was almost my age, though few would have guessed it on seeing us together. I closed the bible and tucked it inside my shirt alongside the fife. I did not speak aloud, but the words in my head were as good as any spoken oath. I vowed that I would follow Abell’s wishes and return his belongings to his family.
No guns fired as I staggered out from beneath the trees. All I heard were the sounds of the Falls and of birds singing. Bodies of the dead and wounded lay where they had fallen — bitter enemies were now brothers in pain and death. Gradually, other sounds flooded my ears. I heard the cries and moans of the wounded. Soldiers and militia — my knees weakened in relief when I saw them to be our own — were picking their way across the battlefield. The mist and morning dew did nothing to hide the devastation. Already a bonfire had been started. The dead from both sides were being flung upon it, for there were too many to bury and the heat of the day was already rising.
“Angus! Father!” I screamed as loudly as I could, but I knew it was futile. Noise was rising and no one would pick out my voice from it. I tried to retrace my headlong flight of the night before, but it was impossible to be exact. I scrutinised the faces of the dead and the wounded as I passed, holding my breath lest I should see Angus or Father there, then letting it out in a deep sigh of relief each time it was not.
The area around the guns in the graveyard was a charnel house. Here the fighting had been fiercest, and here the dead and wounded — British, Canadian and American — lay cheek by jowl, beset by flies that buzzed all around. I fell to my knees and retched at the sight of heads staved in, bloody craters in flesh, limbs blown away. As I rose, the sun glinted on butter-blond hair at the edge of the cemetery. I ran to the body, fearing it would be Angus, for it wore neither a red or blue jacket.
He was lying face down and at first appeared unmarked, but when I heaved him over I groaned at the sight, falling to my knees once more. Angus’s handsome, open face looked as if he were asleep, but his left arm was shattered below the elbow, a splinter of bone breaking through the bloodied, lacerated flesh. Flies crawled on the wounds. I batted them away with my hands to no avail. I was so frantic to clear them that I hit Angus’s arm. He groaned slightly. He was alive.
I cradled Angus in my arms, and continued my futile battle with the flies, for I did not know what else to do. I was still sitting there when Father found us.
His howl on seeing us sounded as though it was wrenched from his body. I don’t know whether he thought us both dead. Angus’s stillness combined with my filthy, blood-soaked clothes would have terrified anyone. His joy on finding that the blood on me was not mine, and that Angus lived, was blazing, but being a practical man, he set about ensuring that Angus survived. His words were sparse and clipped, but his face showed his relief.
“Sandy,” he said, crouched in front of me, both hands on my shoulders, “they told me that you and Angus had been last seen down here by the guns. I prayed all night that you had found safety when the retreat was called.”
His face was grey. Before I could explain that I had only just found Angus, he continued. “Stay with your brother and I will return wit
h a cart — they are taking the wounded to Fort George. Keep him safe.”
I followed his gaze to where a group of militia and Norton’s warriors were patting down bodies and taking what they could find, not always caring whether their victims were dead or wounded. I nodded that I would do as Father said.
He was not away long. As he returned with a cart, I was happy to see John Lee sitting alongside him.
“Jack?” I whispered, not daring to ask more.
“Came through safe,” was Lee’s laconic reply. Then he grinned. “On burial duty again, and complaining about it just like before.” He leapt down from the cart. “Let’s load your brother on and then we’ll see who else we can take.”
Angus stirred briefly but did not awaken as we moved him to the cart.
“Sandy, go with Mr. Lee and gather up other wounded. Bring them here to the wagon.”
I hesitated, my eyes once more on the band of looters. “Father,” I said, “I was in the woods for much of the night, with an American.” I saw the shock on his face and spoke quickly. “Just a boy, a drummer boy.” I was struggling to find words to explain all that had happened.
“Does he live?” Lee asked.
I shook my head and tears ran down my face, cutting through dried blood and dirt.
“They’ll find him.” Lee nodded towards the burial parties.
“But —” It was hard to explain why I could not let Abell’s corpse lie unattended. In the end, I pointed to the looters.
“Scum!” My father spat on the ground. “Where were you?”
Mutely, I pointed to the wood on the left flank.
“We’ll go there. It’s close to our road to Newark. Come, we can fill this cart as we make our way towards the road.”
Abell’s body was untouched when we reached it. Father sucked in his breath. “Poor, wee lad,” he said. “So far from home.” He sighed and gently closed Abell’s eyes.
