Acts of Courage (12 page)

Laura and Mrs. Clement knew they must tell the boy’s mother.

Mrs. Law came quickly, her eyes red from crying, but she looked hopeful as she searched their eyes for confirmation that her son was found.

“My husband’s musket and box of cartridges are missing,” Mrs. Clement said slowly. Mrs. Law was silent as her face turned even paler than before.

The other children rushed up the steps. “We couldn’t find a trace of him,” said Charlotte.

Mrs. Law groaned weakly and crumpled onto the stoop, holding her head in her hands. “I know my son,” she cried out. “He’s gone to get the men who killed his father and brother. My son, my son…”

Laura stared at Mrs. Law and then at the Clements. Could such a young boy really have gone to the battlefield? Surely his mother’s grief had turned her head.

Mr. Clement broke the silence. “You may be right. There’s no other reason for my musket disappearin’. It was there this mornin’.”

Mrs. Law looked very determined. “I’ll bring him back if I have to drag him with my own two hands. I’ll not lose all my family on the same day.”

“We’ll go together,” Laura said. “I want to go home to see if there is any news of James. May I leave the children here, Mrs. Clement? Fan and Bob and Charlotte will care for the younger ones. My baby takes milk from a cup now.”

“Certainly they cin stay here. I wouldn’t want the young-uns goin’ back to Queenston, though I don’t rightly think you should be goin’ back there yourself, Laura.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What good cin you do? Better to stay away.” Then she looked at Mrs. Law. “Still, May here could use the company…but, like as not, dear, you’ll find John halfway there, shootin’ at a rabbit.”

“No, I won’t. I know my son.”

SIXTEEN

A strange stillness had settled over the town of Queenston. The streets were deserted and the pungent smell of sulphur hung thick in the damp air.

The women tramped down the empty street toward Laura’s home at the foot of the Heights. As they reached the Secord yard, they heard the gunfire start again and, before Laura could stop her, Mrs. Law rushed toward the Heights.

“John…John!” she was screaming.

A musketball tore through her petticoat and grazed her leg. She fell instantly to the ground. Then, with blood soaking through her stocking from just above her ankle, she struggled to her feet. Unsteadily, she limped in and out among the men as she asked, “Have you seen a young boy?”

Laura stood still at the edge of her own dooryard, unable to do anything to help. Then a bareheaded soldier came limping toward Laura. She recognized him at once. It was Josh’s young brother Elijah. Laura grabbed him just before he fell against her. With her support, he reached the house.

Inside, he slumped onto the couch in the hallway. “It’s just my leg,” he said. “There’s others worse off.”

“Have you seen James?”

“Not since early this morning. He was leading his men into the fighting.”

“If you’re all right, I’m going to look for my friend and her young son,” Laura said. He nodded.

She rushed back to the edge of the lawn. Then she saw them. Mrs. Law was dragging her son, who was screaming and kicking at her. She walked with a bad limp, and her stocking was soaked in blood. Laura ran to them and took one of John’s hands. With their combined effort, they pulled the hysterical boy into the house.

Inside, Laura poured water into a bowl to bathe the wounds. John had stopped fighting his mother now and was standing beside her, looking down with surprise at the blood on her torn petticoat and leg.

Laura worked rapidly, propping the woman’s leg onto a kitchen bench, and the bleeding started to ease. “It’s good it bled like that,” Laura said. “It cleans the wound.”

Mrs. Law showed no evidence of the pain she was enduring. Her thoughts were only for her son. “Don’t let John get out again,” she begged. “I’m afraid the boy’s gone a bit daft.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Laura promised. She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye as she worked on his mother’s wound. He was sitting quietly on a footstool by the kitchen window, staring straight ahead.

Laura approached the boy and stood beside him for a moment before she spoke. He looked up at her sullenly. “Your mother is going to need your help to get back to the Clements’ farm, John,” Laura said in a quiet but firm voice. He looked at her again and said nothing. Laura waited.

“I’ve used up all my ammunition, anyway,” John answered finally, “but I got some of ’em.”

Laura turned away and walked to the bake table to tear strips of linen to bind Elijah’s wound. He was wincing with pain now. She could hear John talking to his mother in the background.

“I hope your leg doesn’t hurt too much to walk, Mother. I figure I should be taking back Mr. Clement’s musket. I wouldn’t want him to think I stole it. I figure I can work to pay him back for the cartridges.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it, son. I’ll pay for them. We’d best be going now, but I’m going to need you to hang onto.”

Before Laura could tend to Elijah again, she heard the door opening, and in stumbled half a dozen red-coated Queenston men.

“We’ve pushed them back up the Heights, but they’ve still got possession of the top,” said Joe Pine, one of the Lincoln militia.

“They’re on the defensive. They’re not attacking Queenston anymore.”

“The Yanks are in control of the Heights and down around the cannon, but it’s not working. Our men took care of that.”

“Are you going back to attack?” Laura asked.

“Not now. We’ll hold Queenston if they attack us, but we’re waiting for Major General Sheaffe to come up from Fort George, and the Mohawks from Chippawa.”

“Have many men been killed?”

“I don’t know. But General Brock…General Brock…”

“I know.”

“And Macdonell fell, too, but he’s still breathing.”

“The doctor says he’ll not make it,” said Joe.

“Have you seen James?” she asked.

The men hesitated then, and Joe looked down. She realized that he knew about her husband. “Please, tell me,” she said.

“He’s alive, but he’s wounded and behind enemy lines. He fell just left of the cannon.”

“How long before Sheaffe’s men are expected?”

“Two or three hours, at least.”

“…and James will be lying helplessly in the middle of a battle!”

“I’m afraid so, Laura.”

Laura looked down then and spoke quietly to the men. She knew what she must do. “Help yourselves to anything in the kitchen—bread, cheese, milk,” she said. They did not need urging, for they needed to keep up their strength. As they went into the kitchen, Laura slipped unnoticed out the back door.

At the foot of the Heights, she broke her run and walked briskly to the left, in the direction of the cannon.

“Where are you going, Laura? The enemy have control of the Heights,” called a local volunteer soldier who was standing guard.

“I know. They also have my husband. He’s wounded. I’m going for him.” The soldier looked for help, but not a man stepped forward to stop her.

Her ankle-length white petticoat stood out starkly among the soldiers’ dull uniforms. Her hair was tucked under her white cap.

Enemy soldiers saw the white figure approaching and alerted others. White was the symbol of parley and sometimes surrender between fighting soldiers. They watched with anticipation until they discerned that the approaching figure was only a slender young woman. What had she come for?

Oh, dear God, please help me, Laura breathed as she kept on advancing toward the enemy line.

Laura hesitated. The enemy was stationed just beyond. Dead and wounded soldiers lay before her. She trembled as she heard their groaning. As she ran fearfully from one to the next to find her husband, she forgot that the enemy soldiers were watching her intently.

Suddenly, she saw James. He was lying very still on the ground between two standing American soldiers. One soldier had raised the butt of his gun in the air ready to strike.

“No!” Laura shouted.

The soldier looked up.

She ran and threw herself over James’s body and screamed, “Kill me, not my husband!”

“Why not kill both of you?” the soldier snarled as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

“She’s too pretty to kill,” the other soldier yelled, and yanked her over beside him.

Laura gasped for breath as she struggled to free herself.

“Stop!” A sharp command rang out.

Laura looked into the face of an American officer who had come up beside her.

“I apologize, Ma’am, for the conduct of my men,” he said politely. Then he turned aside and barked, “Page and Johnson, take these two under guard.”

Two more soldiers stepped forward from the other side of the battle site. They grabbed the weapons of the soldiers who had threatened Laura, then walked the offenders on up the Heights, where they disappeared among the trees.

“You may take your husband home,” the captain told Laura.

“Thank you,” Laura said, with tears falling down her cheeks. Already she was beside James, holding his head in her hands.

“Please, James, try to sit up. Then you can lean on me.”

He did not move.

“Here! Adams…Durham,” the captain commanded. “Help this man to his home.”

Another pair of soldiers stepped forward, tied their coats together, and lifted James onto the makeshift stretcher. They started slowly down the hill. James’s arms hung down, limp.

Laura turned to the American captain who had helped. “Thank you. Thank you, Mr…”

“Captain Wool.”

“Thank you, Captain Wool.”

Then she ran to the men who were carrying James and directed them toward the Canadian line.

She walked in front and to one side so that the Canadian soldiers would see her first and allow the Americans to pass. When they reached the place where the Queenston men were guarding the ground they had gained, James roused himself a little and groaned. Then he slipped into unconsciousness again.

“We’d better take him directly to bed and not change coats here,” the one soldier said.

The Queenston guards understood the situation and did not object. “I’ll go with you to make sure that you get back safely after you leave James,” one of them volunteered.

They reached the house and carried James to a bed in the girls’ room. Laura did not dare lead them to the other bedroom and the body of General Brock.

She thanked them at the door. They nodded and were gone. The soldiers standing in her kitchen watched in amazement.

“Please, go for the doctor,” she said, putting a kettle of water on to boil. A soldier nodded and left by the back door.

She went back upstairs to James, who was groaning weakly. She could see two wounds, one in his leg and the other in his shoulder. She went to the girls’ nightstand to get a jug of water. When she came back to the bed, James, delirious with fever, was calling her name.

“I’m here, James,” she said, placing a cool cloth on his forehead.

Finally, she heard noise below and heavy steps. She walked out of the bedroom to see the doctor and another soldier at the foot of the stairs.

“Dr. Greenfield, thank God you’ve come,” she cried out. The doctor started up the stairs to see James. Laura stared in disbelief at his clothes. He was splattered with blood and pieces of flesh. Even his face and hands were dirty with mud, blood, and grime. The stench from his clothes was worse than the smell of James’s fresh wounds.

Up in the room, Laura quickly poured water from her pitcher into the china basin and handed the doctor a bar of her own strong lye soap.

He hesitated at first and then proceeded to wash his hands. He would please the lady, he decided. He had no energy left to quarrel with her.

She watched anxiously while the doctor examined James. He was conscious now and groaned feebly as the doctor probed his wounds. Finally, the doctor said, “I’ve got the ball from his shoulder, but I can’t get the one in his knee.”

Laura was relieved when James lapsed back into unconsciousness. For a few minutes, he was free from the pain and could not hear the doctor’s comments. Dr. Greenfield finished dressing the wounds and walked out into the hall with Laura. “He will get better, won’t he?” Laura asked.

“I can’t say. Only God knows that, Laura. I’ll venture to say, though, that if he lives through the night, he may make it. However, we’ll have to amputate the leg if infection sets in, and with the bullet still there, it’s bound to.”

A feeling of powerlessness overcame Laura, and she grabbed the railing of the staircase to steady herself.

“These powders may help a little to keep the pain down. I’m sorry I can’t leave more,” the doctor said. “I must go now. There’s to be another battle soon. I have to be ready for the injured.”

Back in the kitchen, the kettle was boiling over, and all the soldiers had gone except for the wounded Elijah. Dr. Greenfield took a look at his wound and said he was in no danger, but he’d be useless in the battle. Then the doctor left for the emergency tent set up for the injured not far from the battlefield.

“Where have the soldiers gone?” Laura asked Josh’s younger brother.

“To take the Heights,” he said weakly. “Sheaffe’s arrived, and they’ve gone to line up with his men.”

As Laura hastened back up the stairs and into the bedroom, the thunder of cannon and spatter of heavy musket fire filled the house. “Thank you, God, that James is not out there in the middle of it,” she mumbled aloud. At least there was that relief. But turning toward James, who was moaning now and moving his head back and forth on the pillow, she wondered if there was any reason to hope.

Laura emptied the dirty water into the pail and poured fresh, cool water into the china washbowl. She squeezed her damp cloth and laid it across her husband’s forehead. Already she had cut away his dirty, blood-soaked uniform and removed it from his body. She laid fresh, dry towels under his arms and legs and sides. Then, with a clean cloth, she dipped into the water and continued to bathe her husband’s burning body as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

James shifted restlessly in the bed and flailed his arms about as he continued to mumble meaningless sounds—and his temperature kept rising. Only when he finally lay still did she notice how quiet it was outside. She rushed to the open window and listened intently. There was no gunfire.

Was it over? She could hardly believe that. Even if the shooting had stopped, it did not necessarily mean that she and James were out of danger. It was quite possible that Queenston had been taken by the enemy, and that American soldiers were already on their way to take possession of all the houses in town.

The body of General Brock lay in the other bedroom—if American soldiers came to take over the house, there would be no way of hiding the body from them. And she had heard that they did not always treat bodies of leaders with respect. Then she remembered that they would not recognize him, since his uniform had been changed.