The Bully Boys (10 page)

“Here,” Jamison said handing me a feedbag.

“We're going to feed the horses now?” I asked in
amazement. If we were discovered, we wouldn't want to waste time taking off the feedbags before we made a run for it.

“Best time in the world. A horse wearing a feedbag around its muzzle isn't about to snort or make noises that might give us away,” he explained.

I put the bag on my grey while he did the same with the pack horse. I'd just finished when FitzGibbon motioned for me to come over.

“I'm sure you've fired a gun many a time, Tommy.”

“Sure, I used to go hunting all the time.”

“Good. Here you go,” he said as he pulled a rifle from a holster on the side of his horse. “You might need this.” FitzGibbon shook his head ruefully. “I was just telling you how I wanted to keep you safe and now I'm handing you a weapon. I'd better be careful what I say to you in the future.”

I took the rifle from him. I was a good shot, and I liked having a gun in my hands.

“What sort of things have you shot before?” he asked.

“Rabbits. I've been shooting rabbits since I was seven years old. And I've bagged a few deer, I once got a ten-pointer buck, and raccoons, and—”

“You've never shot at a man before, have you?” FitzGibbon asked, cutting me off.

“Of course not!”

“It's no different than shooting at any other animal, at least until you hit it. You shoot an animal and you change the animal's life. You shoot a man and you change the lives of two men—the man you shot, and you.” He paused. “Don't
shoot unless I do. I hope we won't have to, but if we do, you take aim straight at the chest, hold her steady so she doesn't jump up on you, and then you fire. Can you do that, Tommy?”

I nodded my head. Despite the coolness of our surroundings I felt a sudden rush of sweat. My hands, holding onto the rifle, were wet. I wiped first one, and then the other, on my pants.

Suddenly, we heard the sound of hoofbeats above our heads.

“Tommy,” FitzGibbon whispered, “you said there are caves as well?”

“Lots of them,” I whispered back.

“And you said they weren't big enough for the horses, but some are big enough for a man or two, aren't they?”

“Some aren't that wide but they go on for a long way. We could all fit in one of the big ones. There's one that goes all the way from the top down to the side of the cliff,” I answered.

“So you're saying it has two openings,” FitzGibbon whispered.

There was a slight echo to his whisper. I knew that his voice wouldn't travel far—not to the Americans at the top of the cliff—but still it made me nervous.

Silently I nodded my head in response.

A smile crossed his face. “I have an idea,” FitzGibbon said. “Tie up the horses.”

The five steeds were secured to the exposed tree roots that poked through the back of the overhang. I wondered
what he had in mind. FitzGibbon put a finger to his lips to show he wanted silence. He then motioned for us to follow as he first poked his head out and then exited through the vine curtain. Jamison followed right behind, then me, and then McAdam.

I looked up. The overhang still masked us sufficiently that we weren't visible to anybody at the top. FitzGibbon moved slowly, his back to the rock face, glancing forward and then overhead to make sure he still had cover. He was moving toward the very top of the cliff, to where the American soldiers were waiting.

I could picture them up there, either still atop their horses or standing beside them. They would be looking down on the surrounding countryside, searching for British soldiers. It was a good view from the top and they'd be able to see a long way. I could understand why they went up there. What I couldn't understand was why we were going there now. Wasn't the whole idea to hide from them?

I stumbled and a couple of small rocks rolled noisily down the slope. FitzGibbon and Jamison turned around abruptly. Jamison shot me a dirty look and FitzGibbon put a finger to his lips again to signal silence. I shrugged my shoulders by way of apology. I had to keep my mind on my feet instead of trying to figure out what we were going to do. Actually there was no point in even wasting any more thought on that. It was obvious what we were going to do. We were going to attack the Americans.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
FROZE IN my steps as I heard the whinnying of a horse. If I could hear it, maybe the Americans could hear it too and they'd discover us, and—and then I realized it wasn't one of
our
horses I was hearing. It had to be one of
their
animals. The sound was coming from the top of the cliff. That removed the small doubt I had that they were still up there. In my heart I'd hoped they had simply ridden up, looked out, turned around and were now gone.

McAdams came up from behind and tapped me on the shoulder, indicating that I should move on. I started climbing again and soon was right behind Jamison. There were plenty of handholds and the rocks were solid—no loose stones to trip on or kick noisily down the slope. It was awkward to climb with the rifle on my back, and the barrel grazed against the rock as I lifted myself over the lip of a small overhang.

FitzGibbon and Jamison were sheltered inside the mouth of a cave. Looking higher, beyond them, I saw the
very peak of the cliff. If one of the Americans had looked down just then I'd have been seen. I quickly moved to the shelter of the cave alongside the others. Within seconds McAdams was with us as well.

A horse cried out again, and then I heard voices. Laughter. We were that close.

“Do you know this cave?” FitzGibbon asked me in a whisper.

I shrugged. It had been years since I'd been there.

“There's fresh air blowing out of the entrance,” he said. “It must lead somewhere.”

Then I remembered. “I've been in this cave before. This is the one that twists around until it comes out just below the top.”

“Show me,” FitzGibbon said.

I started to climb out of the cave but he grabbed me by the arm. “No, show me this way,” he said pointing toward the darkness.

I didn't want to get any closer to the Americans than I already was. “It's very tight. I don't know if we can get through with our guns.”

“We'll leave the weapons here.”

“But . . .” If getting closer to them was something I didn't want to do, getting closer and leaving our weapons behind seemed like an even worse idea.

FitzGibbon handed Jamison his rifle and reluctantly I passed mine to McAdams.

I ventured farther into the cave. Almost instantly I had to duck down to get beneath a rock jutting down from the
roof. The cave took a sharp twist to the right and then started to climb. As soon as I made the turn, the light coming in from the entrance was blocked and it became dim, almost dark.

As I started to climb the steep incline I remembered how black it had got the time I'd been through the cave before; how the walls had closed in around me in the growing darkness and how much I'd wished I'd had a candle with me. I sure wanted one now.

As I continued the slow climb, the cave grew steadily darker, but my eyes seemed to grow accustomed to the change. In truth, there wasn't much to look at but the walls, and they were only inches away in all directions. At least this time I didn't have to worry about getting stuck. I'd made it through before so I knew I could get through again . . . so long as I hadn't grown so much over the past years that I was now too big to fit . . . A cold sweat started trickling down my sides and I stopped. But as hard as it had been to climb up, I knew it would be almost impossible to back down.

“Keep moving,” FitzGibbon said softly, reaching up and tapping me on the bottom of my left shoe.

I pressed forward. My fear of getting trapped was growing, but it was still less than my fear of disappointing FitzGibbon. Another twist . . . I didn't want to go up or around any farther . . . but wait, there was more light now. I could see things more clearly. We were nearing the opening at the top. I climbed up and crawled around the bend. It was suddenly much brighter. Looking up, I saw the end of the
cave and the blue sky beyond it. With renewed energy I scrambled the rest of the way. The space became much wider and it was easier to move. I stopped a dozen feet short of the opening. FitzGibbon came up beside me and then moved past me. He, too, stopped just short of the entrance.

Carefully I moved up beside him. I opened my mouth to say something but stopped; I could clearly hear voices and laughter flowing into the mouth of the cave. FitzGibbon poked his head out. He grabbed onto a jagged piece of rock and leaned forward, twisting his head so he could see up. If anybody at the top, just a couple of feet away, had looked down they couldn't have helped but see him. How fast could we get back down to the other end? I was sure I could move a whole lot faster knowing there were men with guns after me, but maybe not fast enough. And even if I could get to the other end, they'd still be up top, looking down, ready to fire as I tried to run to the overhang.

FitzGibbon swung back into the cave—thank God.

“No good,” he whispered. “I could hear them but they weren't saying anything worth listening to.”

“Maybe we should get back down before they hear us,” I whispered back.

He nodded. “Yes we should—” Then he stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. Had he heard something that I hadn't?

“Or maybe they
should
hear us,” FitzGibbon said. “How loud can you yell?”

“What?”

“Come,” he whispered as he grabbed me by the arm and led me to the very edge of the cave.

I leaned slightly back and away from the drop, the long drop, from the cave down to the bottom of the cliff.

“When I start yelling, you yell too,” FitzGibbon whispered.

“But—”

“Just do what I say,” he interrupted.

I started to nod my head in agreement when FitzGibbon suddenly shrieked and whooped at the top of his lungs. I jumped as the sound echoed through and out of the cave. It was an incredible noise. It didn't sound like one man, or two, or even ten—it sounded like an entire tribe of Indians right there surrounding me! I added my voice and suddenly two entire tribes of natives were yelling and screaming and shrieking.

FitzGibbon abruptly stopped yelling and put a hand over my mouth to silence me. There was no sound. No voices. Not the neighing of horses or laughter or even the sound of birds singing. Silence.

Slowly FitzGibbon inched to the mouth of the cave. He leaned out and looked up. Then he started to climb out and up. I rushed forward to the entrance just in time to see him above me, first peeking over the top and then climbing right up and out of sight. His head soon reappeared over the edge.

“It's all right, Tommy,” he said, laughing. “Come on up.”

Carefully, making sure I had secure foot- and handholds, I climbed up the few feet separating me from the top. FitzGibbon stood alone. In his hand was a canteen.

“This is all that's left of those Americans. Probably dropped it as they bumped into each other trying to get away.”

He opened the lid, turned the canteen upside down and poured out the contents. It was obvious from the strong smell that it had held whisky and not water. The pungent smell of the alcohol took me back to the blockhouse across the Niagara.

“That was quite amusing,” FitzGibbon said. “You have a pretty good Indian war cry.”

“I do?”

“You have to remember that the Americans are terrified of the natives, just terrified. Are you afraid of Indians?” he asked.

“I don't know . . . maybe a little, I guess,” I admitted reluctantly. I really hadn't had much to do with the Indians. I knew there was a group who camped each summer on the stream not far from our house, but I'd never even seen them, let alone talked to any of them.

“Most of the Americans are more than just a little scared. They're downright terrified. They think they're going to be scalped or tortured. They tell stories, but most of that is just make-believe. So, can you get us back down to the others without going back through the cave? I really don't fancy tight little spaces like that.”

“Sure, we can go this way,” I said.

“Lead away.”

We started down from the top. I was looking for the place where we'd originally gone down with the horses.

“Do you know who started the practice of scalping the dead?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Not really.”

“White settlers.”

“You mean Indians don't scalp people?” I asked.

“I didn't say that. Some tribes do it, but it wasn't a practice that was invented by the natives. I think the real reason the Americans fear the natives so much is because of all the terrible things they've done to them. One of the greatest men I ever met was Tecumseh. He's a man of integrity, honesty and intelligence. In fact, most of the ignorant savages I've met speak the King's English, are as white as cream and were born in the Old World. When we get back to camp I'll arrange to take you one night to the camp of one of our allies. Maybe the Caughnawagas.”

“Will we have to travel far to get there?”

He chuckled. “No more than a few miles. They usually camp close by our site.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Always. We work together. Captain Dominique Ducharme has one hundred and eighty Caughnawagas under his command, while Captain William Kerr has some two hundred tribesmen from the Six Nations. Without them this war would have been settled long ago, and not in our favour.”

“I didn't even know there were that many Indians around here,” I said.

“There are many, but our ranks have been swelled by our native brothers from throughout Upper Canada as well as the northern States.”

“Even Indians from the United States are on our side?” I questioned.