by Ben Guyatt
BILLY GREEN
SAVES
THE DAY
Ben Guyatt
BILLY GREEN
SAVES
THE DAY
Copyright © Ben Guyatt, 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Michael Carroll
Design: Erin Mallory
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Guyatt, Ben
Billy Green saves the day : a novel / by Ben Guyatt.
ISBN 978-1-55488-041-6
I. Title.
PS8613.U927 B45 2009 jC813’.6 C2009-900503-4
1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
www.dundurn.com
Dundurn Press Gazelle Book Services Limited Dundurn Press
3 Church Street, Suite 500 White Cross Mills 2250 Military Road
Toronto, Ontario, Canada High Town, Lancaster, England Tonawanda, NY
M5E 1M2 LA1 4XS U.S.A. 14150
To my mother, Myrla,
who introduced me to the wonder of history.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Selected Reading and Websites
PROLOGUE
A light drizzle fell amid cherry blossoms swirling through the humid air. An opulent horse-drawn carriage emerged from the mist as hurried hooves echoed off the cobblestone path. The driver commanded the animal to stop, its heavy breath obscuring its black head.
A sentry holding a lamp stepped forward briskly and offered his trembling hand. “They’re waiting for you, sir,” he said nervously.
George Clinton, a distinguished man of seventythree, awkwardly descended with the aid of a cane and slapped the sentry’s hand away. “Well?” Clinton boomed as he wiped away the moisture from his balding head.
The sentry gawked at him dumbly for an instant, then stepped back and snapped a perfect salute. “Sorry … sorry, sir.”
Clinton half-heartedly returned the gesture and limped toward the White House doors. Then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “Sorry, son.” He peered skyward, his eyes flickering against a now-steady rain. “Age, politics, and the sniff of war tend to quicken one’s Irish temper.” Sighing, he heaved himself up the steps.
The doors swung open to reveal the vivacious, buxom Dolley Madison carrying a sabre. She threw her arms open wide. “Good evening, George. How is the rheumatism?”
Clinton raised a curious eyebrow at the feathered turban she was wearing and hardly stooped to kiss her tender hand. “I daresay my physical pain will be less than my emotional distress after this meeting, Mrs. Madison.”
“The wife of the president must always look good,” she said proudly, slightly adjusting the turban. “Do you like it? It’s the favourite one of my collection. I had it sent all the way from Paris.”
“I suppose Napoleon gave you the sword,” he said sarcastically, gingerly removing his coat. He handed it to her without looking as she scrambled to set the weapon aside and took the garment.
“If the British are intent upon our demise, I’ll be ready for them,” she said firmly. “The Boston Massacre, the Tea Party, the Declaration of Independence … Valley Forge …” She placed a hand over her heart. “This Quaker girl has seen history in the making.”
Clinton rolled his eyes as she grabbed a candelabrum and escorted him to a closed door, their silhouettes dancing eerily against the wall as their shoes creaked heavily against the wooden floor.
Dolley motioned him inside with a toothy smile. “Go on in, George. Everybody’s here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Madison,” he said, gripping the knob with a gnarled hand.
“Please, George, call me Dolley,” she said merrily just as her sword slid away from the wall and clattered noisily to the floor.
“I would prefer not to,” Clinton said, shaking his head.
Inside the decorative room Clinton studied the diminutive, sickly-looking James Madison. The president was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers.
Barely raising his eyes, Madison said a bit curtly, “On time as usual I see, George. The door ... please.”
Clinton pushed the door closed with an expert flick of his cane before nodding his greeting to the six Cabinet members seated before Madison. Thomas Jefferson, the former president, stood at the window with his back to the room, entranced by the steady rhythm of the rain, his tall, awkward silhouette majestic and somewhat ghostly.
The president got to his feet and motioned to the men. “You know everyone here, George. Please sit down.”
“I think I’ll stand,” Clinton said, shifting his feet. “Just get to the point.”
Madison suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing everyone to jump except Jefferson, who was still transfixed with the weather. “We’ve discussed this before! You shall refer to me as Mr. President!”
“Then you will call me Mr. Vice President,” Clinton insisted.
Both men stared at each other until Madison slid a glass of wine toward Clinton as a peace offering. The vice president waved it off, and Madison walked over to a full-length mirror.
“As you are all aware, with Britain and France at war, the United States has always wanted … needed to stay neutral,” the president said, straightening his jacket before tugging it downward. “I have asked Britain to continue trading with us, but she refuses. She even blockades the seas so we can’t trade with France. But perhaps worst of all, gentlemen, many of our ships are being seized and our sailors impressed.”
Clinton snorted. “From what I understand most of those seamen are actually British runaways.”
Congressman John C. Calhoun leaned forward and casually helped himself to another glass of wine. “I’m more concerned with those Indians led by that heathen Tecumseh,” he said with a Southern drawl as he brushed aside his long, thick hair. “He’s scaring everybody to death west of the Mississippi.”
“You’re right, Congressman Calhoun,” Clinton said. “It’s only their land. What right do they have to it? Your wealth has blinded you to reality.” He dug into his pocket and flipped some silver at the congressman. The coins fell to the floor, making a sharp noise that echoed in the room. “Maybe that will buy your youth some common sense.”
Calhoun scowled. “Pennywise and pound foolish you are. Contrary to what you might believe, none of us need your permission to maintain our struggle against the British for our liberty and independence.” H
e bent down, picked up the change, and deftly manoeuvred one of the coins through his slender fingers. “The only reason you’re here is because you are the vice president and your support would be … preferential, shall we say?”
Another congressman, Henry Clay, swallowed the remainder of his drink and greedily held out his glass for more. Calhoun filled it. “And you just know the British are encouraging the Indians to attack us every chance they get. Expanding westward is proving more difficult than we imagined.” The man had the whiff of intoxication about him as he resumed shuffling a deck of cards.
“Your insatiable taste for liquor and gambling clouds your judgment,” Clinton said to Clay as he moved the wine bottle farther away.
“Would you like a duel?” Clay asked, laughing. Then his fine-featured face grew dark. “I have a wellknown temper, Mr. Vice President. You would do well to remember that.” He sat back in his chair to reveal a pistol beneath his jacket.
Clinton surveyed the room. “These are all nice speeches, but this isn’t the floor of Congress. All you’re doing is making excuses for war.”
“We’re wasting time, gentlemen,” Madison said, returning to his desk and unfolding a large piece of paper. “This is a map of Upper and Lower Canada.” He reached for an imaginary object above his head. “It is a plum just waiting to be picked.”
The others chuckled.
Clinton stabbed the map with his cane. “You’re going to throw away twenty-nine years of peace with England for that?” He glared at the assembled men.
“The American people won’t stand for this!”
Madison resumed sitting and sipped his wine. “Your usual flair for the dramatic has been duly noted … Mr. Vice President.” The president pushed away the tip of Clinton’s cane.
“This betrays our own heritage, for God’s sake!” Clinton said. “The United States prides itself upon liberty and equality for all … including our neighbours.”
Madison sighed. “Sit down, George.”
Clinton shuffled closer to the Cabinet members and looked each one in the eye. “Have you all forgotten how unpopular conscription is?” He glanced at Madison. “And need I also remind you that the debt is already at forty-five million dollars? Pursuing this folly will surely triple that amount! You, Mr. President, will bankrupt the country.”
Madison kicked his chair back and pointed a threatening finger at Clinton. “I’ve had enough of your insubordination in public and in private! You will show me my due respect!”
“Men are going to die for the sake of your ego,” Clinton said calmly. “You’re incubating a lie for the American people. If you truly want war, then attack the harbour in Halifax. That, sir, is where the British navy is based.”
Paul Hamilton, the secretary of the navy, cleared his throat nervously. “I … I must admit we might not be ready for such a conflict.”
Madison frowned. “Are you a coward, Mr. Hamilton? You were a professional soldier. I’m sick of your excuses!”
“I just want to be ready, sir,” Hamilton said, his plump face flushing.
Clinton smiled knowingly and poured a glass of wine with quaking hands. “You want nothing to do with Halifax because you know the British navy is too strong, not to mention the hundreds of Loyalists who live there.”
Madison smirked and admired his reflection in the mirror again. “You are jealous of me, George, aren’t you? You failed to be elected president twice. That’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”
Clinton clenched his jaw and inched closer to Madison. “I was an unwilling candidate and you know that. The only reason I did run was because so many people didn’t want you.”
Madison slicked back his snow-white hair. “George, you’re nothing but an old, stubborn, unpatriotic man who’s lost his will to fight.”
Furious, Clinton swiped the desk with his cane and sent the crystal glasses and wine bottle crashing to the floor. “I fought in the French and Indian War!” he thundered as he hobbled to a copy of the U.S. Constitution hanging on the wall. “My name would have been on that document, too, but I was in charge of the militia at the request of George Washington himself. Remember?”
Madison strolled to the crackling fireplace and warmed his hands. “In case you’ve forgotten, I am the Father of the Constitution, George. Washington was a good friend of mine, as well, but this is about the economy. Invading Canada is a good bargaining chip against the British.”
Congressman Clay aggressively nodded his approval and patted his pistol. “The president is right. Only war will restore America’s honour in light of these British transgressions.”
“Here, here!” Congressman Calhoun said, pounding the desk to demonstrate his support.
Clinton stared at the Constitution. “War Hawks — every one of you,” he whispered before turning to confront the men. “Many of the militias won’t even fight outside their own states. New England won’t stand for this and neither will Congress. And you, Mr. President, why don’t you call this what it really is — Mr. Madison’s War?”
The president wheeled to retaliate, but William Eustis, the secretary of war, stood up. “Actually, Mr. Vice President, Upper Canada has many American migrants who are sympathetic to our cause. The entire area is weakly defended and thinly populated, I might add.”
Clinton raised his cane and pointed it at Eustis. “Those aren’t good enough reasons for spilling innocent blood. As a surgeon, you should know that. Haven’t you seen enough killing?”
Eustis ignored Clinton and turned his attention to the president. “Scouting numbers suggest there are fewer than five thousand British troops in North America. Besides, England is too preoccupied with Napoleon to defend such a vast area.”
Clinton shuffled over to Madison and placed a hand on his shoulder. “James, please listen to me. I know we’ve had our differences, but justifying this folly to the citizens of our country will be impossible. Some of their relatives live in Upper Canada, and they’ll undoubtedly be caught in the middle. And what about the slaves? They could revolt and side against us. Do you really want to go down in history as the man responsible for such madness?”
Madison slowly removed Clinton’s hand. “Now you call me James? Go home, George. Go home and let men who love their country do their work.”
Clinton searched Madison’s eyes for a moment, but the president simply looked away. The vice president leaned closer. “You are a small, small man, James. Maybe that’s why you and Napoleon have so much in common.”
“Get out!” Madison barked.
Clinton limped toward the door. “The Loyalists are still angry for being robbed of their land and possessions during the Revolution, gentlemen,” he said as a burning ember from the hearth leaped to the floor. “If they ally themselves with the Indians, there will be more trouble than you bargained for. I promise you that.”
Madison stepped on the ember and crushed it with his shoe. “Perhaps you should join them, George.” He gestured at the wisp of smoke curling from beneath his foot.
“How dare you!” Clinton cried, storming toward the president. When the vice president faltered and nearly lost his balance, a few Cabinet members steadied him. “I was a brigadier general in the Revolution! You have no right to speak to me that way!”
Madison smiled thinly. “Maybe it’s time for you to retire, George.”
An uneasy silence filled the room until Jefferson turned from the window. The aging former president poured a glass of wine. “As the Republican Party founder, I can confidently state that the acquisition of Canada is a mere matter of marching. And that, good sirs, is precisely what I intend to tell Congress.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the annexation of Britain’s crown jewel. Let the cannons roar.” The men cheerily clinked their glasses as Clinton exited the room.
Surprised by the vice president’s sudden appearance, Dolley Madison hid the box of snuff she was using and handed Clinton his cloak. “Good night, George. It was a pleasure to see you again.”
CHAPTER ONE
A twig snapped and the young black bear swung its head to locate the noise but soon returned to eating raspberries. The bruin finished gorging and lumbered farther along in search of more food. Pushing through the thick brush, the beast flushed a flock of birds from a small tree. After that everything was silent again. The bear slightly raised its great head to sniff the air. In an instant it turned and reared up on its hind legs. The animal let out a frightening roar, saliva dripping from its mouth.
Billy Green, a teenage lad, stood a few yards away, holding a musket. His piercing brown eyes stared directly at the bear. With a swing of its head, the animal dug at the earth with razor-sharp claws and bellowed again, but Billy stood his ground, his finger slowly wrapping around the trigger.
The beast dropped to all fours and inched closer but suddenly stopped, its eyes locked on Billy’s. “I’ve been following you for almost an hour and you didn’t even know,” Billy whispered as he reached into a pocket. “I was always downwind. I haven’t seen you before. You haven’t been away from your mama for long, have you?” He retrieved a piece of beef jerky and held out the meat with steady hands. “Come on, boy, you can have it.”
The animal took a few guarded steps and menacingly rolled its head. Letting loose with another blood-chilling roar, the bear returned to its hind feet, mere inches from Billy. The teenager could feel the creature’s hot breath against his face as the bear searched his eyes for a sign of aggression or weakness. Then the beast gently took the jerky from Billy’s hand and darted off into the thicket.
Billy exhaled deeply and checked his hands. They were beginning to tremble.
