by Ben Guyatt
“You keep doing that and one of these days you won’t be coming home,” Adam Green said.
Billy wheeled around to find his father on a ridge, aiming a musket. “Did you see him, Pa? He was beautiful!”
Adam waved at his son to join him on the ridge. “I almost had to kill him, and that would have been your fault.”
Billy climbed the steep hill and stood beside Adam, glancing at their farmhouse close by. “I could’ve shot him, but I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”
His father wiped sweat from his brow. “Animals are as unpredictable as people, Billy. And I thought I told you there was work to be done this morning. That flour mill isn’t going to run itself. We’ve got orders to fill.”
Billy kicked at some pebbles. “I know but … but it’s boring.”
Adam pivoted and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Listen, Billy, that boring mill keeps food on the table and a roof over your head for our family. Understand?”
Billy wrapped an arm around his father as they continued walking. “Yes, sir.” He studied Adam’s leathery face. His father was only fifty, but he looked much older. “You miss New Jersey, don’t you, Pa?”
“I miss your mother more,” Adam said, looking skyward. “That’s why we owe it to her to keep working. She would’ve wanted it that way.”
Billy stopped walking and licked his nervous lips. “Pa … I want to join the militia.”
Adam’s face darkened, and he grabbed the musket from Billy’s hand. “We’ve already discussed this and the answer is no!”
“Why?”
Adam hurried into the barn, set the weapons aside, and began piling sacks of flour. “I said the answer is no! Get to work!”
Billy started lugging the bags and stacking them against the wall. “I hear there are soldiers my age fighting on both sides.”
“That may be so, but I’m not their father. Let their parents worry about them.”
“A lot of people say the Americans could even come here to Stoney Creek and take over this country.”
Adam threw the sack in his hands against the wall, causing an explosion of white powder. “It’s not going to happen! It’s just a stupid rumour.” He pointed at his son. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time. There will be no more talk of the war in my house!”
“I’m not a child! I’m a man, Pa!”
“Then start acting like one! No man wants war!” Adam snatched one of the muskets. “My brothers were jailed during the Yankee Revolution and one of them died there! This gun doesn’t solve anything!”
“Don’t you want to fight for your country?”
Adam’s eyes flared with rage, but he quickly regained his composure. “I did … I just backed the wrong side.”
“You told me they stole six thousand acres from you in New Jersey because you supported the British. Now you’ve got three hundred in Canada. What if the Yankees do come here? We have to fight.” Billy lowered his head. “And I want to help.”
Billy’s father sat on one of the stacks and massaged his sore neck. “I’ve seen war, son. It’s not glamorous. It’s not exciting. It’s bloody and it’s something you want to forget but never can.”
“You can’t stop me … you just can’t!” Billy cried as he ran out of the barn.
“Billy! Billy!” Adam shouted. He tried to catch his son but could only watch as the teenager disappeared into the long grass.
At dawn the distant sounds of birds cooing and the gentle lapping of waves could be heard. Mist rolled in from Lake Ontario, frequently allowing brief glimpses of the smouldering Fort George.
A few seagulls pecked at the sand for food until the boom of a cannon shattered the serenity. Another burst followed and offered a quick flash of brilliant orange from somewhere amid the haze.
“Man your guns!” Brigadier-General John Vincent yelled with an Irish accent as another cannonball whistled overhead and exploded, sparking more fires. “Get the women and children back to the basements! Quickly now!”
The dashing officer assisted a young woman and her child as a flame-engulfed beam fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing them. Then a wall collapsed, catapulting a handful of screaming British soldiers through the air, their clothes ablaze.
Vincent scrambled up a stairway, retrieved his scope, and peered at the lake. Looming on the calm waters, he saw a flotilla of troop carriers headed toward the shore. Swiftly, he turned and spotted one of his officers. “I was wrong! The invasion’s coming from the shore! Prepare the men!”
Inside one of the American vessels ammunition handlers withdrew a red-hot cannonball from a furnace and carried it in an iron cradle to the gun. The glowing sphere was rammed inside, followed by the wad. Then the weapon was fired and the process was repeated.
At another cannon a canvas bag was loaded with rocks, metal slugs, and shards of glass. An American officer watched as white and black British soldiers marched on the beach. “Send them the grapeshot!” he commanded as the bag was stuffed into the cannon. “Fire when ready!”
The grapeshot sprayed the British infantry, cutting, slicing, and detaching limbs. Blood-curdling screams pierced the mist. The Americans hurriedly disembarked from their small boats and waded ashore as more ordnance bombarded Fort George.
“This is your chance, boys!” a British officer with a Scottish accent screamed as his troops ran to meet the enemy. “After two bloody days of those Yanks shelling us, it’s time to get even!”
The British regulars and militiamen splashed into the water and bayoneted several Americans, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The melee turned the water a cloudy red while men from both armies fought hand-to-hand as bayonets cracked bone and musket balls pierced flesh. Outnumbered, the remaining British hastily retreated, some dragging their wounded comrades beside them.
Vincent watched in horror as a thirteen-year-old British soldier was stabbed in the chest and cried for his mother. A few survivors pleaded for help as some drowned in the shallow water. He scanned the dead and dying on the beach before spying thousands of American troops appearing through the smoke and mist.
“I thought we could hold it,” he whispered sadly to himself, sinking to the floor. “I thought they’d attack from across the river.” His glazed stare focused on the British flag flapping in the breeze. Oblivious to the burning fort and terrorized inhabitants, Vincent closed his eyes, trying to block out the screams of men, women, and children and the constant racket of cannons and muskets. He trembled uncontrollably and gritted his teeth while beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. Then he jumped to his feet with new resolve.
“Get word to Colonel Harvey! Sound the retreat! Abandon the fort! Burn the munitions and spike the guns! Do it now! We haven’t much time!” He looked through his scope again, training the lens on Winder and Chandler, the two American generals. They were proudly stepping ashore, wearing black cocked hats with gold epaulettes on their coats with silver stars. “We’ll meet again, gentlemen,” Vincent muttered, collapsing his eyepiece with an expert slap of his hand before running off.
Sarah Foote, a fresh-faced young teen with blond hair, meandered along a well-worn path leading from her small wooden house. She struggled through some bushes into a clearing and then began to run, her heart pounding, lungs burning. Dry knee-high grass crackled beneath her feet, and she began to slow her pace until she finally halted.
Breathless, Sarah closed her deep blue eyes and sat on a fallen tree. She listened to her heavy breathing and fanned herself with one hand before opening the locket around her neck. Sarah studied the strands of brown hair inside and closed it again upon hearing an owl.
A forced smile broke across her face as hands covered her eyes from behind. “I knew it was you,” she said as Billy Green plopped beside her. “Owls don’t hoot in the middle of the day.”
Billy stared at her and edged closer, his lips pursed, but Sarah playfully pushed him off the log. Then she darted away, carrying the hem of her dress as Billy gave chase. “A sui
tor should court me properly,” she said, laughing.
Pursuing her through the meadow and around some trees, Billy gently tackled her to the ground. They engaged in a soft kiss beneath the heavy canopy of foliage before he leaned on one elbow and caressed her face. “We need to talk.”
Sarah sat up, obviously troubled. “I can’t stay long. I have chores to do.”
Annoyed, Billy gathered some stones and threw them aimlessly. “You deserve a life of your own ... away from your father and his beliefs.”
“He needs me.”
“I need you, too. It’s been two years, Sarah. I didn’t even know my mother.”
Sarah fingered the locket around her neck. “You don’t understand. I can still hear her screams ... see her lying there.”
Unnerved, Billy put his arm around her. “I know it must have been horrible.”
Sarah bolted to her feet. “You don’t know! I watched her die!”
“Sarah!” a man’s voice shouted.
Billy and Sarah quickly turned to discover Samuel Foote standing a few yards away with a pistol in his hand. The stern face and dark eyes of Sarah’s father sent a chill down Billy’s spine.
“I want you home right now!” Sarah immediately complied and rushed toward her father. “I told you to stay away from her, Green!”
“She’s not a child,” Billy retorted.
Samuel raised his gun and pointed it at Billy. “One less Loyalist urchin will make the invasion that much easier!”
Sarah lunged forward and tried to wrestle the weapon away from her father, but he pushed her aside.
Billy advanced toward Foote. “Those threats might work in America, but not here! Like it or not, Canada isn’t part of the United States and never will be!”
Sarah stepped between them and tugged at Billy’s arm. “Billy please … don’t.”
“It’s men like you that forced my father to leave New Jersey!” Billy cried.
Samuel moved closer. “Traitor!”
Billy waited, every muscle taut with anticipation as Samuel fired over his head.
“Next time you won’t be so lucky!” Foote gripped his daughter’s arm and escorted her away as she strained to look back at Billy.
Billy watched them for a few seconds before following a trail to the edge of the Niagara escarpment. He sat on the ground with his feet dangling over the precipice and stared at the tranquil, sparkling water of Lake Ontario. Suddenly, his eyes caught movement below on a ridge. There were flashes of colour through the greenery and the noise of breaking branches. It was a line of British redcoats. He gaped in amazement before scuttling to his feet.
“I don’t believe it!” he whispered excitedly.
Billy descended the ridge but froze when several of the flanking soldiers took aim at him. He flung his hands up in surrender. “My name’s Billy Green. I’m from Stoney Creek.”
Satisfied, the men lowered their weapons and resumed their painful march as Billy kept pace with the column. He studied the dozen beleaguered warriors, their faces dirty and bloodied from battle. A few lagged behind. Some limped, while others were aided by crutches and fellow soldiers. All were exhausted.
“Where are you going?” Billy asked.
“Burlington Heights,” one of the men mumbled.
“Where was the battle?”
“Fort George has been captured,” one of the men said dully. He had a bloodstained patch over one eye.
Billy grinned enthusiastically. “What was the fight like?”
“Don’t ask such a stupid question,” the soldier replied in disgust.
Taken aback, Billy slowed. “I … I want to fight, too.”
Another soldier shoved Billy aside, causing him to fall into the mud. “The British Army doesn’t need or want the useless militia,” the man growled. “Go back to your mother!” Several of the other soldiers laughed as they continued on their way.
Humiliated, Billy wiped the dirt from his face and watched as the platoon plodded out of sight.
CHAPTER TWO
A lamp illuminated the face of a dead young British soldier; his eyes wide, mouth agape. Two American infantrymen picked up the body and lowered it into a trench alongside other fallen redcoats. Dirt was shovelled over the mass grave.
The battle at Fort George was long and bloody, evidenced by the smoke still drifting from the battlefield and billowing in the decimated compound. Mangled bodies were strewn everywhere — British, American, black, and Native. Inside the fort the Yankee forces supped boisterously, huddled around countless campfires outside their tents. Above the fort, in makeshift headquarters, U.S. Generals John Chandler and William Winder relaxed before a roaring fireplace.
“I’ve had court cases tougher than this battle, John,” Winder declared, slightly inebriated as he slurped directly from a bottle of rum. The stout, ruddyfaced officer laughed stupidly and handed the alcohol to Chandler.
“Your love of drink is exaggerating your confidence,” Chandler said, preferring to pour the libation into a glass.
Winder grinned. “The British are going back to Burlington Heights to lick their wounds like the dogs they are.” He chuckled, kicked off his boots, and plunked his feet on the table. “I’ll wager you they give up on the defence of Upper Canada altogether. We’ve already captured Fort York and burned it to the ground. Their supply lines are virtually cut off.” Winder reached for the bottle clumsily and raised it. “We’ll march and sail unabated to Kingston, we’ll control the St. Lawrence, and we’ll strangle the British navy.”
“We don’t control Lakes Ontario and Erie yet, my drunken friend,” Chandler cautioned, corking the bottle.
Winder smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. “Just think of it, our names will be written in the annals of history. It will tell of how we courageously and brilliantly captured an entire country.”
He uncorked the liquor again, then staggered to his feet to fill his colleague’s glass but spilled it. The rum spread quickly and soaked Chandler’s shirt. Winder pretended to have shot him, and they both laughed heartily until there was a knock at the door. “In!” Winder bellowed.
A junior officer entered and saluted. “Sir, I have the final figures.”
Impatient, Winder waved for him to continue.
The junior officer read from a sheet of paper. “We had thirty-nine killed and one hundred and eleven wounded.”
“Brave boys,” Winder muttered, visibly shaken.
“And the enemy?” Chandler asked.
“Fifty-two killed, forty-four wounded, and two hundred and sixty-two captured,” the officer said, folding the paper.
“All of them ... on both sides were brave boys,”
Chandler said, raising his glass and drinking, much to the chagrin of Winder.
“Bring one of the prisoners in here!” Winder commanded, pulling on his boots. The officer disappeared for a moment as Winder buttoned his uniform jacket.
“What are you doing?” Chandler asked nervously.
“I can end this war even faster,” Winder said as a scared young British soldier was hauled into the room. “Sit down,” Winder ordered, motioning to a chair. The trembling teen took a seat, and Chandler offered him the bottle, but Winder swiped it away, smashing it to the floor. “How many forces do you have at Burlington Heights?” Winder demanded.
“I ... I don’t know, sir.”
In an instant Winder withdrew his sword and held it to the boy’s throat.
Chandler looked on, thoroughly alarmed.
“I don’t ... I don’t know,” the lad said, fighting back tears.
“Liar! I swear to God I’ll run you through!” Winder said, pushing the sword harder and causing the skin to break as a tiny line of blood trickled. Beneath the soldier’s chair a growing pool of urine began to puddle.
“Perhaps the prisoner can recollect if he has food in his stomach and his body has slept,” Chandler said, gently pulling the sword away. He smiled warmly at the young man before gesturing t
o the American officer to lead him away.
Once they were gone, Winder slammed the door and wheeled toward Chandler. “You should have filled him with buckshot!”
“Prisoners require fair treatment, William! As a lawyer, you should be familiar with that concept!” Chandler yanked the sword away from him. “We’re all tired. I know what the stress of war can do to all of us.”
Winder collapsed into his chair again, drank loudly from the bottle, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Full of disdain, he eyed Chandler from head to toe. “You don’t belong here.”
“And you do?”
Winder broke into an evil simper. “Look at you. You’re a tavern keeper. Once penniless and illiterate, I might add.” He drained the bottle, burped, and waved the container in Chandler’s face. “Serving up liquor is all you’re good for.”
“Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouth. But if you’d like, I’d be happy to tell our commanding officer about your treatment of the enemy.”
Winder snickered. “Ah, yes, General Dearborn. If it weren’t for him lending you four hundred dollars to buy your two hundred acres, you’d still be begging in the streets of Maine. You got rich because of that old man. It’s nice to have friends in high places, isn’t it?”
“You should know,” Chandler said, marching for the door, which opened before he got there.
Haggard and ill, General Dearborn limped inside. Winder and Chandler immediately stood at attention and saluted. The sixtyish officer coughed and patted his forehead with a cloth. “Gentlemen, I have your orders.” He wheezed and handed Chandler a piece of paper. Dearborn spied the empty liquor bottle and watched as Winder tilted. “General Chandler, you’ll be in charge. I’m too sick to join you.” He coughed hard again. “I suggest you sober up, gentlemen, and get some rest. You’re going to need it.” Slowly, Dearborn turned for the door as Winder and Chandler saluted.
After Dearborn was gone, Winder chuckled and slapped Chandler on the back. “High places, eh?”
The modest Green homestead basked in the glow of a full moon, and the sound of crickets filled the night air, along with the frequent call of an owl. Adam Green stepped onto the porch, lit his pipe, and relaxed into a rocking chair. Levi Green, Billy’s twenty-five-year-old brother, soon appeared with their brother-in-law, Isaac Corman.
