A Call to Battle

by Gillian Chan

  I took the bible and fife from my shirt and the handkerchief from my pocket. “He wanted these returned to his family,” I whispered.

  Father put his arm around my shoulders and I leaned gratefully in to him. “Can you do that, Sandy? Do you have the heart for it?”

  I nodded. “He didn’t hear it, but I vowed I would, so I must.”

  “You’re a fine boy,” Father said, “but I’d hoped to spare you all this. It changes a man.”

  I wanted to tell him that I understood now — why he’d tried so hard to keep me from the fighting, but he was all business, calling John Lee to come, asking him to make sure that Abell’s body was burned. Lee picked up Abell in his arms and, cradling him like a baby, set off towards the bonfires.

  “Come on, Sandy,” Father said, patting me on the back. “We’ve dealt with the dead now. Let’s see what we can do for the living.”

  Every jounce and jostle of that wagon ride to Newark caused the men in the bed of the wagon — some eight or so packed tight together — pain and anguish. Those who remained unconscious like Angus were the lucky ones, although I fretted so much about Angus that I found myself constantly turning round to see that his chest still rose and fell. As for the conscious ones, some tried to muffle their groans of pain, but others could not control themselves. Some screamed, some talked. For one man it was a litany of profanity that he chanted, as if the repetition would keep him safe. Another, a grizzled British veteran, kept calling for his mother, a woman who must be long dead. I did what I could, handing out cups of water and even some hardtack that John Lee had provided. I’ll admit to being grateful for that, too, as it was only on seeing it that I realised how hungry I was. Father, grim-faced, drove the horses hard.

  There was little time for talk, but gradually we pieced together each other’s stories. Father had spent the night helping at the farmhouse where we had taken George Markle, frantic at not knowing whether Angus or I would be amongst the wounded that poured in throughout the battle. He told me of the fierce fighting for the British guns, fighting that lasted until near midnight, when the Yankees held the guns. Even though all appeared to be lost, a final, desperate charge was ordered, only to find that the Americans had fled. Why such a turnabout had taken place was unclear even yet, but Father speculated that their losses were just too great to bear and perhaps the Americans had retreated, intending to return, only to find their advantage lost. It did not matter now. We held the field.

  Fort George was chaotic when we arrived, our cart just one of many carrying horrific cargo. A sergeant quickly directed us to where we must go. Father’s lips thinned as he whispered more to himself than me, “I am come back to where my sojourn in this colony started. Pray God it ends as well.”

  If I had thought the battlefield a charnel house, then the barracks where we were sent was worse. The wounded were stacked in rows, spilling out from a building that was half falling down, waiting their turn to be treated. Father and I unloaded our wounded, adding them to the rows. A burly sergeant darted out from the building, and seeing Father and me standing by Angus, came running over.

  He was sweating, all his clothing so blood-spattered that he looked as if he had sustained a mortal wound. “Are there more coming?” he panted.

  “Aye, I reckon so,” Father said. “We were one of the first away from the field.” He hesitated as if unsure of himself. “The one with blond hair —” he pointed to where Angus lay “— that’s my oldest son. He’s hurt bad.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “They all are,” he said, weariness evident in his voice. “And they’re all someone’s son.” He seemed to notice me for the first time, measuring up my size. “And who is this one?”

  “My younger son, Alexander. Sandy,” Father said.

  “Is he a strong-minded boy?”

  I was puzzled by this question.

  “Strong-minded and strong-willed, too,” Father said with a tired grin as he looked at me.

  “I shouldn’t do this,” the sergeant said, “but if you’ll lend him to me for the next little while, I have need of his strength and size. Then I will make sure your other boy does not wait too long for Surgeon Dunlop to look at him.”

  Father’s wrinkled brow showed his doubt, but I spoke up. “Father, whatever needs to be done, I can do it!”

  It was agreed that I was now the British sergeant’s boy and that Father would return to Lundy’s Lane once he had rested and watered his horses, and would come back when he could with more wounded.

  “Come, Master Sandy.” The sergeant’s tone was jocular, but there was steel there, too. “Let’s go in and get started.”

  Smack in the middle of the room, ankle deep in blood, crouching over a table and wielding a saw on an unconscious man’s leg, was a striking man. He was as tall as I was — a rare sight — and had a shock of red hair that stuck up from his head like the comb of an angry rooster. He was young, too, appearing not much older than Morag, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Without looking up, he roared in a Scottish brogue as thick as Father’s when he was angry, “Where’s that blackguard Denman? Denman, get your scrawny, pustular arse over here and help me.”

  “I’m here, Surgeon,” the sergeant called, “and I’ve found us a fresh and lively body to help out.” He dragged me over by the sleeve so that I was in view of his doctor.

  “So, you’re some use after all!” Dunlop cackled and then addressed me. “Boy, you’re our brawn. You lift, carry and hold, no more. Can you do that? And I mean do that without crying for your mama, fainting like a girl, or puling like a babe. Do I make myself clear?” He looked sideways at me, his fingers now busied with a large needle and gut, sewing a flap of skin over the bloody stump he had created.

  “I can, sir,” I managed to stutter out.

  “Well what the hell are you waiting for, then?” he roared, making me jump almost out of my skin. “Carry this one out, and bring me my next victim!”

  Sergeant Denman and I scurried to obey. The surgery was quick and brutal work. Dunlop seemed to work like a machine: a cursory examination, a quick decision, and then action. More often than not with all the shattered limbs, it was amputation, and here I discovered why one of my duties was to hold. Each patient was given rum, then a spittle-slick piece of leather was positioned between his teeth for him to bite down on. If an arm was the afflicted limb, then Denman took the shoulders and I the feet and we bore down with all our might to keep the patient from bucking as Dunlop worked. If it were a leg, then our positions were reversed, for Denman knew exactly where to hold and yet keep out of Dunlop’s way.

  I waited for horror to wash over me, but it did not. I was appalled by what I saw, but it did not sicken me. Rather, it fascinated me that one man held another’s life in his hands and acted with such confidence, doing all that he could to ensure that life continued. Surgeon Dunlop might be young, but he was fast, taking little more than ten minutes to remove a limb.

  There was no way to keep track of time in that hellhole of a place. We worked continuously, not aware of light changing outside. It stank of sweat, blood, shit, vomit and piss. A black cloak of flies buzzed constantly around, settling on the wounded. Most were too weak to wave them away. Denman was true to his word, and Angus was the fifteenth to be placed upon the table when his turn should not have come up for at least another fifteen. He was awake when we picked him up to move him, his eyelids fluttering as if it were an effort to stay conscious.

  I manoeuvred myself so that Denman took his feet.

  “Sandy?” Angus whispered, a familiar sweet smile spreading across his face. “You’re not hurt?”

  “No, Angus,” I said. “You told me true and sent me to safety. I just wish that you had got there, too.”

  His smile broadened, then faltered, “Father?”

  “He’s safe. He and I brought you and other wounded here. Now he’s returned to the battlefield to fetch more.”

  Angus nodded, then closed his eyes as if drifting off to sleep, opening them on
ly when we placed him on Dunlop’s table.

  “Surgeon Dunlop?” I asked.

  He barely looked up as he scrutinised his tools, readying them for use. “Aye? Why is my brawn talking? Brawn is action and nothing but!” He sounded fierce, but laughter lurked in his voice.

  “This is my brother, sir,” I said. “Can you … can you save his arm?” He took a look and shook his head. “Then may I be at his head instead of Sergeant Denman?” I held my breath, hoping he would agree.

  He actually straightened up and looked at me. “You’ve seen what Denman does by now. But if you slip and let your brother move, it could be the worse for him. Are you sure that you want to do this?”

  “I am, sir. He saved my life. Now, I want to help save his.”

  “Fine words, laddie, fine words.” Dunlop gave me a savage grin. “Don’t let them be lies.”

  Angus coughed and spluttered at the rum, but got it down. His teeth bit down on the leather and we were set to commence. I bent double, my hands gripping his upper arms, my head alongside his.

  A snort came from Dunlop. “Unorthodox, but perhaps it will work.”

  I talked the whole time, whispering to Angus what was being done, telling him to hold steady, telling him that all would be well. At the first cut, he bucked a little, but Denman and I kept him down and I felt all of his muscles tense as he, too, fought not to move. His eyes were wild and staring, like the eyes of the pigs when Father slaughtered them in the fall.

  Sweat ran so freely Angus’s hair was darkened with it. He did not scream like some did, losing their leather gag, but from behind his locked teeth came small whimpers. Those nearly undid me, but I knew that I had to stay strong. Thankfully Dunlop maintained his practised speed and Angus’s ordeal was soon over. I winced at the thud as Dunlop threw the lower part of Angus’s arm to join the other limbs piled in a stinking heap in the corner of the room. As we lifted him gently off the table, he turned his head. “Tell Father I was brave,” he said.

  His words brought Abell to my mind. “You can tell him yourself,” I said, fear making my voice sharper than I intended.

  “Laddie,” Dunlop’s voice rang out. “Brawn! Don’t you get any foolish notions about staying with your brother. He takes his chances like the rest and you will be back with my next victim, on the double! Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  I did not see Angus for two more days, did not know until Father returned whether he even survived.

  Dunlop was a Titan. He did not rest for three whole days, just chopped and sewed and bellowed. He worked Denman and me hard, but made us take breaks when some poor solider would be conscripted to fill in for one of us, while we grabbed food and a few hours’ sleep. There were so many patients that they had outgrown Butler’s Barracks and were housed in buildings around the fort. The lucky ones had family members who had come to attend them — wives, daughters and sons, some come across the river even from America. Father found me the morning of the second day to say that he would stay with Angus, who had a fever, and that I should come when I could.

  Even a Hercules such as Dunlop could not continue as he had been doing, and on the morning of the third day he fell asleep on his feet. Only his arm wrapped around his patient’s bunk kept him from falling. Sergeant Denman sent me for clean straw, which we laid at his feet. Then we gently unhooked his arm and lowered him onto it. He did not stir at all.

  For the five hours that Dunlop slept, Denman and I did what we could for his patients, fetching water, bringing what little food we could find for those who had the strength to eat, washing, cleaning and picking maggots out of wounds — for those pestilential flies continued to plague us all. We built a bonfire a little way from the barracks and tossed onto it soiled dressings and the severed limbs that Dunlop had thrown in a cavalier manner in the corner, exclaiming, “Another one for the pile!” I shivered, wondering whether I had held Angus’s arm one last time.

  When Dunlop roused himself, dashed water on his face and changed into the clean clothes Denman supplied, he looked surprised to see me. “Still here, Brawn? I thought you’d be long gone to your brother’s side.”

  “My father is with him, sir.” I felt awkward and a bit in awe of the man and shuffled my feet a little. “I did not like to leave in case you had further need of me, so I waited until you could tell me whether you do.”

  “Brawn, do you have brains lurking in that skull of yours? You seem a most mannerly young man.” Dunlop was smiling at me.

  I blushed and answered, “I am said to be clever, sir.”

  “You have done well, Brawn. Better than most men much older would have done. You have a strong will and a strong stomach, too, it would seem — just like me.” He winked as he said those last words. He probably meant them as a joke, but I took them seriously and it was then that a kernel of an idea formed.

  “So, Brawn, what is your real name?”

  “Alexander MacKay, sir.”

  “Well, Alexander MacKay —” Dunlop stuck out his huge hand “— let me thank you for all you did. You are a fine boy who probably saved many a life. Now go and be with your family.”

  I needed no more encouragement and raced round the fort until I found Father and Angus. Angus’s fever had broken. Father looked tired, having stayed up all night, bathing Angus’s burning forehead with water and washing his stump with whisky, a trick he’d learned when he was a soldier, saying it seemed effective in preventing putrefaction.

  Many of the wounded were being taken by boat to York, or to stay at Chippawa, which no longer harboured any Americans save the wounded and imprisoned. Neither location was to Father’s taste, and once Angus was able to sit up and eat the broth we prepared, he rode to my grandfather’s for a wagon to take us back there.

  Grandfather was beside himself with joy to see us. We had not been there a day before he started making Angus a hook to replace his left hand.

  I was amazed at how sanguine Angus was at his loss. I know that I would have driven all around me mad, blustering and bemoaning my fate.

  “I am alive,” is all Angus said. He had no smile on his face and it was strange to see him so sombre.

  But so many were not. George Markle and Abell Phillips were names I could put to the dead, but there were still many more — those who had died on the battlefield, and those Dunlop could not save and who died of their wounds on the stinking floor of the barracks.

  Father, once he saw that Angus was settled, departed for home, riding Madison — whom he declared to be a fine horse but less of a character than Hamish. “I have to tell Mother that both her boys are safe and will return soon.”

  I helped Grandfather care for Angus, who was soon on his feet again, although a thinner, quieter version of himself. He liked to sit on the bank of the river, staring at the water. When I finished my chores, for I felt it only fair to shoulder the heavier ones and leave Grandfather free to go about selling up his smithy and tools in preparation for his move to Ancaster, I would sometimes join him. We talked little, happy in each other’s company but lost in our own thoughts, for we both had much to think about.

  My mind dwelt on all that had happened and on Abell. With the war not yet ended, I wondered whether his family even knew what had befallen him, and I was determined that I would get the news to them eventually. Towards the end of August, when it was clear that we would leave soon, I decided that I had to return to the battlefield. I asked Angus if he wished to accompany me, but he shook his head and said, “You go, Sandy. I know what happened there and its cost. I think perhaps you need to see it to make it real.” His words puzzled me.

  The day was fair, the breeze a little cold despite the sunshine, a hint of the change of season that was coming. I set off after lunch, leaving Angus and Grandfather trying a new harness for the hook that Grandfather had made for him. The walk was easy and pleasant and I found myself reflecting on how different this was from the last time I had made the journey, when a mixture of excitement and fear boiled wit
hin me.

  Great charred circles from the bonfires of the dead could still be seen on the open space in front of the chestnut woods, but the fences that had been trampled down were now repaired. The gravestones in the cemetery had been righted and new ones had been set there, too. I walked into the woods by Portage Road, thinking to find exactly where Abell and I had passed the night, but one tree looks much like another. I sat down under one and thoughts buzzed in my head like bees: of lives cut short, of others changed forever, and of what Father and Angus had known which I had yet to learn. When I came out, I heard not guns and the cries of men in pain, but children’s voices intertwining with the roar of the Falls as a group of them chased a puppy down the slope.

  I could not bear to stay there long.

  Epilogue

  August 1820

  It was hard taking leave of them all. I had elected to start my journey early and I was touched to see the whole household there to wave me off. Father stood with his arm around Mother, and she did not weep too much. Angus clasped me to him, and told me that I was to make them all proud and not to worry, as Drew was a fine right-hand man on the farm. Then he laughed and changed that to left-hand man, which made Drew blush and kick at the dirt with his toe.

  Mathilda, her arms encumbered with little Angus and with wee John holding onto her skirts, kissed my cheek when I leaned down and embraced her. She whispered that she had so much to thank me for — sending her back to live with our family, and all that had happened since then. I thought but did not say that I had as much to thank her for, and not just for helping Father when he was so sick after the battle at Queenston, since it was her love for Angus that had brought back his sunny disposition.

  Ellen and Polly, now just as joined as Polly once was with Morag, were quite the young ladies. Both presented me with gifts they had made: a fine handkerchief embroidered with my initials, AM, from Ellen, and a journal from Polly, who knows how I love to write. Ellen’s gift made my throat thicken as I thought of that other handkerchief, lovingly washed by Mother but still faintly stained from Abell’s blood, wrapped safe with the fife and bible in my pack. All were going home now, as I had promised, for I would travel far into Pennsylvania, to Mansfield, before I went to Philadelphia. Letters have been few, but the Phillips family know I am coming and what I carry. Abell’s Abigail has married another, but she wants her handkerchief still.