Chapter Ten
“Hey!” I twist back to Gunner, trying not to panic. “The current is taking us downriver!”
“Yeah,” Gunner says, laughing. “Not so easy to cross, is it?”
“What do we do?” Arman screeches, jumping to his feet. The boat rocks.
“Sit down,” Gunner orders. “It’s under control. We’ll go with the current and pull up near the bridge.”
For the first time, I notice that Gunner is holding on to something at the back of the boat. With relief, I realize it’s a rudder, and he’s steering the boat. I peer ahead at the arches of the distant bridge. We’re closing in on it pretty fast. And there is a speedboat heading directly for us. I call out a warning, and Gunner adjusts the rudder. The oncoming boat sees us at the same time and slows down, veering around us. It growls past. Then its wake rocks us.
“Whoa!” Arman calls out as he grips the side of the boat.
I notice that the Canadian side of the river is getting closer again. Gunner must be steering us toward shore. I see a boat ramp. Some old men and kids are fishing from the rocks nearby. A woman and a girl, both with black curly hair, wave at us from near the ramp. It’s Nicola and her mom.
As we near the shore, I wonder if I’m supposed to call back some kind of directions. There’s no dock, just a cement ramp between the rocks. What am I supposed to say? A little more to the left? Whose left? Sean and the others are facing one way, and I’m facing another. Am I supposed to say something like hard to port? Which side of the boat is port?
I wave at Nicola as if everything is under control then look back at the guys pulling the oars. I feel as useless as one of those wooden figureheads on the front of an old ship. Or worse, a dog wagging his tail and pointing his nose at the shore.
I shift closer to Sean. His face is pink, and he’s sweating under his straw hat.
“Hey,” I nudge him. “Do you want to trade spots?”
“No,” he grunts, gripping the end of the long oar.
“Why not? You look like you could use a break.”
“You’re supposed to be directing us in,” Sean says, breathing hard.
Why is he such a rule-lover?
“Come on. Just give me a turn.” I reach for the oar.
“Get lost!” He tries to knock my hand away without letting go of the oar. The paddle catches in the water and splashes.
“Watch it!” Carter says as his oar bumps against Sean’s.
The boat rocks.
“Let go!” Sean growls, his face reddening. “Why do you always have to be such a jerk?”
He lifts one hand from the oar to give me a push. I’m not expecting it. I lose my balance. I grab for the side of the boat, but my hand slips on the wet wood. My hip bangs against the edge. The boat rocks again.
“Sit down!” Gunner yells. Too late.
I flip over the side and into the river. Before I can take a breath, cold water closes over my head. Water fills my eyes, and I can’t see. For a second, I don’t know which way is up or down. Panic spikes through me. But then the life jacket pops me back up to the surface.
I cough up water. Where is the boat? I twist around, flailing my arms. Stop panicking, you idiot. The shore is close, and you know how to swim. I try to kick my legs, but my shoes are like weights on the ends of my feet. And the current pulls me down the river.
Great. I’m not going to drown now. I’m just going to float down the river and go over Niagara Falls. And then die.
Someone is yelling my name. Now, the boat is beside me.
“Grab hold!” Sean calls, holding out one of the long oars.
I stretch my hand toward it, trying to kick closer. My fingers touch the oar. Then slide past as the current pulls me away.
“Over here!” another voice calls. Nicola? “Try standing,” she says. Does she think I can walk on water?
I turn toward her voice and see rocks and bushes. I’m closer to shore than I realized. I splash my arms, trying to move toward the rocks, but the current is too strong. It’s going to pull me right past.
One of my feet hits something. I feel a tug on the back of my life jacket. I jerk sideways, banging my knee on a rock. Someone is pulling me out of the water.
“Thanks!” I gasp, as I collapse on the rock like a beached fish. I look up into the face of an old guy who must be one of the fishermen I saw on the rocks earlier. Beside him, Nicola stares down at me.
Chapter Eleven
“You didn’t have to laugh so hard,” I complain to Nicola as we begin the long walk back to camp.
“I didn’t laugh until I knew you were okay,” she says.
By this time, the two boats have been loaded onto a trailer. Nicola’s mom and Major Helston are driving back to the fort in the truck, pulling the boats (I still have trouble thinking of Major Helston as Nicola’s dad). The rest of us have to walk. They offered to give me a spot in the truck, but that seemed more humiliating than walking back with everyone else.
The sidewalk follows alongside the river through a long narrow park. Sean, Nicola and I are a bit behind the rest of the group.
“You did look pretty funny,” Sean says. He flaps his arms in imitation of me floundering in the water. I don’t laugh.
“I could have drowned!” I snap.
“The water wasn’t even over your head,” Sean points out.
“I’d like to see you try fighting that current with all your clothes on!”
Nicola must sense that I’m ready to hit Sean. She steps in between us.
“Well, I’m glad we didn’t lose you,” she says, linking her arm through mine.
My anger eases, and I can’t resist smiling when I see Sean’s gaze drop to Nicola’s arm touching mine. But then she reaches out to take Sean’s arm with her free one, and I stop smiling.
We walk in silence for a while. The tension between Sean and me simmers. In the background, we can hear the hum of traffic crossing the Peace Bridge and the drone of boat motors on the river. Gulls screech overhead, and a shard of laughter breaks loose from the group ahead of us. But still, the world seems quiet, except for one sound—the squelch squelch of my wet shoes.
Suddenly, the three of us start laughing. We try to stop, but then I take another step. Squelch. Our eyes meet, and we burst out laughing again. Now, I picture myself splashing around in the river, and I can see how funny it must have looked. At least, now that I’m safely on shore.
Arman and Carter drop back to join us.
“Look,” Arman says, pointing at the river.
The border patrol boat is back. It cruises past, close enough for us to see two uniformed patrol guys on board. One looks through binoculars. He scans the river first and then turns them toward us. For a second, I feel guilty—as if I’m doing something wrong.
“What are they looking for?” Carter asks.
Arman waves.
“Dude,” Carter warns. “Don’t get their attention.”
“Why not?” Arman says. “We’re not drug smugglers.”
On the water, the boat seems to pause for a second, defying the current. The officer raises a hand in a brief return wave.
Arman laughs. He and Carter high-five like they’ve achieved some kind of victory.
“See,” Nicola says. “They can tell we’re harmless.”
Yeah, they can tell we’re idiots.
It takes us longer than we expected to walk back to the fort. The two boats are already stowed near the spot where we launched them earlier. We follow the other campers up the path to the fort. They don’t look much like 1812 soldiers anymore—if they ever did. Everybody drags their feet, and several guys have their shirts off and wrapped around the top of their heads. The breeze through my wet clothes kept me cool most of the walk. But now, my clothes are almost dry, and I feel the heat as we move away from the river.
Most of the guys turn off the path to walk around the fort to the field where we’re camped. Sean and I pause to say goodbye to Nicola at the fort’s main gat
e. A movement on top of the left bastion catches my eye. I look up to see Major Helston standing there peering over the wall. He’s not looking down at us but out toward the river. I follow his gaze. The border patrol boat is there again. It’s cruising back upriver, and I can swear Hell Storm is watching it, frowning.
Sean and I make plans to meet up with Nicola after dinner, and then we follow the other guys to the campsite.
“What do you think Hell Storm is up to?” I ask Sean as we walk across the grass.
“What are you talking about?” he says.
“You saw the way he was watching the patrol boat,” I tell him. “Like he was worried about something.”
“You mean like he doesn’t want the border patrol to discover his illegal plot?” Sean says sarcastically.
“Exactly,” I say.
“You’re crazy,” Sean says.
“What about yesterday afternoon when he disappeared?” I point out. I’m not serious, but sometimes Sean is fun to mess with.
“He probably had to go into town for something.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to get out of the way, so we could have the water-gun fight,” Sean suggests. “If he stuck around, he’d have to stay in character and not let us have the plastic guns.”
“You mean he got out of the way so we could have some fun?” I say. “Not likely.”
“Sometimes you’re an idiot,” Sean says. “Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy.”
Maybe Sean is right. Helston is Nicola’s dad, so he can’t be all bad. Still, I can’t help looking over my shoulder up at the bastion. But Helston is gone.
Chapter Twelve
Friday afternoon, the real War of 1812 reenactors start to arrive. The field outside the fort is now divided into three camps. One for us, one for the American soldiers and one for the British soldiers and the rest of the Canadian side. Already, there are rows of new tents set up. They look like an assembly line of white triangles. A larger tent at one end of the Canadian section flies a battered Union Jack flag. An American flag, which is several stars and stripes short, waves from the American camp. Like the British flag, it looks like it’s been in the middle of a battle or two. I wonder if the flags are like those jeans you buy with holes already in them, or if they’ve actually seen some action. Or maybe I should say reenaction.
After our afternoon drill, Sean, Arman, Carter and I wander over to the British-Canadian camp. Two middle-aged men in red uniform jackets sit on folding chairs in front of one of the tents. An old-fashioned lantern hangs from a metal stand, and two muskets lean against another stand. It looks like a musket teepee. I notice that their muskets have bayonets attached to the ends of the barrels. The blades look sharp. It’s a good thing Major Helston hasn’t let us use bayonets on our muskets, or half of us would be in the hospital by now.
The first man has a thick gray moustache and is drinking something from a tin mug. The second man has a long wooden pipe in his mouth, but it doesn’t look lit.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the moustache man says. The guy with the pipe nods at us.
We stop and say hi. I notice there’s straw around the bottom of their tent.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“To keep out drafts and rats,” says the second guy, moving his mouth around the pipe stem.
“Rats?” Arman asks, raising his eyebrows.
“In 1812,” Sean says quickly. “Not now.” He says it like he wants the reenactors to know he already knew about the straw.
“Military camps have always had trouble with rats and disease,” the moustache guy says. It’s hard to tell if he’s just talking about the past.
The guy with the pipe stretches his legs out and leans back, looking up at the blue sky.
“Nice weather for a battle,” he says.
I remember Major Helston saying it rained for days leading up to the siege in 1814.
“Are you boys fighting on our side tomorrow?” moustache guy asks.
“Most of us,” Sean tells him. I’m not sure if I should admit I’ll be fighting with the Americans. For all I know, they’ll jump up and take me prisoner.
We say goodbye, and moustache man raises his tin mug in a toast.
“To King George,” he says.
We play along and mumble some kind of agreement.
“Good luck in the battle,” Sean adds as we walk away.
“Don’t get caught on the north bastion,” the pipe guy calls after us. Luckily, thanks to Nicola, we know he’s talking about the explosion.
“Right,” we call back, grinning.
We continue walking, trying to stay out of the way of the people carrying in supplies and setting up tents. There are a few women wearing 1812-style long dresses and hats mixed in with the soldiers. Every once in a while, people greet each other with hugs like it’s a reunion.
At the end of the first row of tents, there’s a round tent that looks like it’s made out of animal skins. A group of First Nations guys stands in front of it, talking and laughing. They wear leather moccasins and what seems to be a mix of Native and European clothing. One has a heavy battle club tucked into the back of a sash around his waist. He has black war paint on the bottom half of his face. His head is mostly bald, with a tail of black hair sticking up from the top. Another guy wears breeches and a military-style coat with a blue blanket over one shoulder. He has a red turban-like hat decorated with a large white feather. His brown face is handsome and hard-edged.
“I wonder if he’s supposed to be Chief John Norton,” Sean says. “He led the First Nations warriors at the Siege of Fort Erie.”
The face of another First Nations warrior is painted half red and half black. He has feathers hanging from the top of his head and a metal ring in his nose. He notices us watching and glowers, holding up a dangerous-looking battle ax, as if he wants to throw it at us. I can feel Sean tense beside me, and I can imagine how the American soldiers must have been terrified to meet the First Nations warriors in battle.
The guy drops his ax and grins. Then he pulls a cell phone from his waistband and holds it out to me.
“Do you mind taking a picture of us?” he asks.
I hold the cell phone in position while the men squeeze closer. A couple of them pose menacingly, while the others laugh.
“Don’t let Major Helston see your phone,” I tell the guy as I hand it back. He must know who I’m talking about, because he nods and laughs.
We walk to the end of the Canadian camp and then head back.
“I don’t see any black dudes,” Arman says, scanning the camp. I cringe, hoping he doesn’t sound racist. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a unit of ex-slaves?”
“It was called the Coloured Corps,” Sean says. “Major Helston said they were stationed at Fort Mississauga during the Siege of Fort Erie, so the unit didn’t fight here. But there might have been some black soldiers in the battle.”
As we walk back to our camp, we see a crew cab pickup truck pull into the parking area towing a field cannon on a trailer. Another truck pulls in with a horse trailer. Things might get interesting around here tomorrow.
Chapter Thirteen
After dark that night, the field around the fort is dotted with lantern lights. Laughter and music drift on the air. There is no modern music, only rowdy singing to something that sounds like a flute. I can hear the voices of men toasting King George long after Sean and I are in our sleeping bags.
The next morning we have drill practice as usual. The real reenactors drill too.
“It’s all about muscle memory,” Helston tells us. “You don’t want to hesitate when you’re in the middle of musket and cannon fire. And you don’t want to get tangled up with the next soldier’s ramrod or bayonet.” Having seen the bayonets and our clumsiness, I have to agree with him.
After drill, we all head down to the river bank. Two American boats are coming across from Buffalo. They’ll joi
n the US soldiers already here and attack the fort. Then, once the Americans have taken over, we’ll reenact the British-Canadian attack on them. Two months of the war in one day.
The reenactor boats make their way across the river at a diagonal. They started from a spot west of Buffalo and row with the current toward us. I can see the men at the oars, wearing the blue uniform coats of the US regulars and tall black shako hats. The guy in the front of the first boat must be a general, because he’s wearing one of those big two-sided hats with a rounded top. None of the men are wearing life jackets, and I remember what Sean said about the reenactors hiding their life jackets under the seats.
The boats slide onto the beach beside our two boats. By now, there is a big crowd of tourists and local people watching from the park in front of the fort and from other boats on the river. I scan the crowd for Nicola, and catch sight of Major Helston instead. He’s standing off to the side talking with a man wearing jeans and a zippered gray hoodie. There’s something about the way the guy stands that looks tense, and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. He’s obviously not a reenactor, and I wonder what they’re talking about. They look out at the river, as if watching for something. Then they nod, without smiling, and move apart. Weird.
Sean nudges me, and I turn back to the action. We watch as the American soldiers march on the fort, and the British surrender. Then we return to camp. We wander through the merchant area, where people in 1812 costume are selling reenactment clothing, muskets, swords, coins, and other stuff. A burly guy dressed as a fur trader has a display of animal furs and piles of blankets and other things they used to trade for furs. At another stall, a guy wears an apron that looks like it’s streaked with blood. On a table in front of him are small saws, knives and a few other bizarre-looking tools. There are red splotches on the table cloth, and a sign that says Surgeon. Great. He’s an 1812 doctor.
“What’s that for?” Arman asks, pointing at a hacksaw in the middle of the table.
“Amputation,” says the guy with the bloody apron. “If a soldier has a bad leg or arm injury, I cut it off.”
Siege Page 4
