The Bully Boys (14 page)

“But the traveller who is used to moving only by day, now moving in the dark, still focuses his eyes on the distance, where he can see little. Instead he must be trained to look only slightly ahead . . . a few feet . . . two dozen feet . . . where his eyes
can
see.”

“Wouldn't that make it difficult to follow a line, or to know where you're going? You would get lost and—”

“Did we get lost last night as we travelled?” Ducharme asked, interrupting FitzGibbon.

“Of course not, but there was a full moon shining, and—”

“Yes, but the moon was not what guided us. All that was required was the light of the stars. To the natives, the stars in the sky are like signposts on the road.”

“So they use the stars the way a sailor uses them to navigate.”

“Exactly. They navigate by the stars.”

“That all makes sense. Tonight, when we travel, I will try to train my eyes to look no farther than a few dozen feet in front of me,” FitzGibbon said.

“But isn't it dangerous not to see what's farther ahead?” I asked. “If you don't see something coming in time how can you prepare for it, or avoid it?”

“That is a danger, Tommy,” Captain Ducharme agreed. “But you must remember that when you cannot see hazards, they also cannot see you. During the day you need greater vision, but at night, problems float right by without either side even being aware of the passage.”

FitzGibbon let out a laugh. “That is the truth! And when you have two armies speaking the same language, whose militia dress the same, the dark of night can bring both tragic and comic meetings. Up near Niagara there were eight Canadian militiamen who got separated from their company during a battle. They were lost and hungry, but then had the good fortune to wander into the camp of some other militia who were making a meal. They shared conversation and the meal, and then, as they were getting ready to leave, they discovered that these men were Americans! Luckily they left the camp before the enemy discovered who they had invited to dinner!”

Both men started laughing.

“I have a few stories of my own,” Captain Ducharme said. “But they'll have to wait until we travel tonight. Right now, I need some sleep. So, good night . . . or should I say, good day, gentlemen.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“ I
DON'T WANT you to get your hopes too high,” FitzGibbon said. “This is just one of many places where your father could be.”

“I know,” I answered softly. I was too tired after another ride through the night to feel much of anything. Maybe that was good.

As soon as we'd arrived at the camp where his commander was stationed, and the Lieutenant had checked in, we were sent to a location where the rest of my Pa's militia company were supposed to be camped. They weren't there, but we found a rear guard unit that was able to direct us to their company. From there, finding that my Pa wasn't with them, we were sent to the area field hospital.

Riding alone with FitzGibbon was different after our two days of travelling with Captain Ducharme and the Caughnawaga warriors. That had been quite an experience. They'd told us stories and showed us some of the ways they did things—ways known to the natives but new to me, and
to the Lieutenant as well. I'd even made a friend. He was Tachuck's brother's son, Tuska, and he wasn't much older than me. His English was good enough that we could talk. It turned out that he was one of the natives who summer by the stream not far from our farm. He even invited me to come down sometime to visit him—once all the fighting was over. When I told the Lieutenant about the invitation, he told me how honoured I should be, because the Indians don't usually invite whites into their camp. I guess I was. Maybe he would even come back to my place—that would be something! I couldn't help wondering what my brother and sisters would think about having a real live Indian as a guest! I knew my Ma and Pa wouldn't mind.

Talking to the Indians and learning things had kept my mind occupied and I hadn't had much time to think about my Pa. Now, with it being just the two of us again, I had lots of time to think. That was especially true because we were now safely behind our lines and we could move freely without any worry about American soldiers. Enemy soldiers had been in the back of my mind ever since that day I'd met FitzGibbon in the store.

“That's it up ahead,” FitzGibbon said.

At the end of a long lane was a large canvas tent sitting beside a massive red barn. We turned our horses up the lane. Getting closer, I could see the movement of a dozen or more men as they walked between the tent and the barn, while others were simply sitting with their backs against the side of the barn. A few had on the bright-red tunics that identified them as British soldiers, while most were just dressed
in regular clothing—militiamen. No one seemed to pay any attention to our arrival, and we dismounted and hitched our horses to a fence.

“You stay by the horses and I'll locate the commander and find out if your father is here.” FitzGibbon walked up to one of the soldiers, who pointed toward the tent in answer to his question. FitzGibbon walked over, opened the flap and ducked his head to enter.

I looked around. There were some cows and a dozen horses grazing in the field in the distance. Chickens pecked at the ground nearby for their feed. The fence where we'd tied our horses was one side of a pen, and inside were a couple of dozen hogs, wallowing in the mud. Aside from the large, grey tent and the few men in their uniforms, everything looked peaceful . . . calm . . . normal. This was a fancy farm—certainly not like ours. But I knew that if we kept on working hard, some day our farm could be as fine as this one.

“Tommy!” FitzGibbon called as he came out the door of the tent. He motioned for me to come.

I hurried over. “Is he here?” I asked anxiously.

“He might be. They don't know for sure. We'll have to look.”

“Sure,” I said, as I went to enter the tent.

FitzGibbon stopped me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Remember, if he isn't here it doesn't mean anything.”

“I know.”

“He could be someplace else, or maybe he's even recovered from his wound and has been reassigned to another company.”

Or maybe he died from his wound,
I thought, but I didn't dare say anything. As long as the words weren't spoken it couldn't be true.

“And Tommy, you have to be prepared. A field hospital is the worst place in any war. Do you understand?”

Although I didn't really know what he meant, I nodded my head. FitzGibbon pulled back the flap of the tent and I entered.

Within two steps I was hit by a wave of foul-smelling air. It was different from anything I'd encountered before. There was a sweet, sickening odour, almost like alcohol, but underneath that was a more powerful smell—like rotting meat.

The tent was crammed full with cots. An aisle was free down the centre, but along both sides were what seemed like hundreds of them, pushed closely together. Each cot was filled with a man, but it would have been easy to overlook them as being nothing more than bedclothing—nobody seemed to be moving. Were they all asleep . . . in the middle of the day?

Part way down the tent a man, trailed by two women, was moving among the patients. As we watched, one of the women came down the aisle toward us. She was carrying a bucket, and as she passed by, we quickly became aware of its contents—the men who were unable to get out of bed had been using it as a toilet. She carried the bucket outside.

We started down the aisle again. I suddenly felt wobbly on my feet. This wasn't what I had expected—not at all. I had to quickly look for my Pa and get back outside.

“Thomas!”

I spun around toward the voice.

“Thomas Roberts, is that you?” a man in one of the beds asked.

“Yes?” I exclaimed, then realizing that it wasn't my father's voice and feeling a rush of disappointment. Who could it be? I walked toward the voice and found a man with the upper part of his head swathed in blood-stained bandages.

“It's so good to see a familiar face,” he said softly before erupting into a loud and furious coughing fit.

I had no idea who this man was, but obviously he knew who I was. My goodness, was it really . . . “Mr. Givens?”

“Do I look that bad?” he asked.

“No . . . no . . . it's just that I was surprised.” He hardly looked like the man I knew. It wasn't just the bandages covering part of his face. He looked a hundred years older, like he was his own father or grandfather.

“What are you doing so far away from home, Thomas?”

“I'm looking for my Pa,” I croaked. “Do you know if he's here?”

He shook his head. “I don't know much. I've lost track of time since I was wounded. I don't even know what day it is. Are you going to be heading back home?”

“Not right away . . . but I will be.”

“Could you do a neighbour a favour?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You're a good boy, you are. Can you give something to my wife . . . a letter?”

“Of course I can do that.”

“Good. Look under the cot. You'll find my pack, and the letter is right up at the top.”

I bent down and reached under the bed, pulling the pack free. I undid the top buckle and pulled out the letter.

“Explain to her that I'm okay. Tell her I'll be home as soon as I can, and apologize to her for me about how messy the writing is. I guess with practice I'll learn to write with my left hand as well as I ever did with my right.”

“But why would you—” I stopped myself and a gasp escaped from my lips. Mr. Givens had shifted himself in the bed to reveal the place where his right arm used to be—now gone from the elbow down. The sleeve of his shirt had been cut off and the remaining jagged edge was pinned to his shirt.

He shook his head slowly. “Many are worse than this. At least I'm alive. Just get the letter to my wife.”

“I will, Mr. Givens . . . it might take me a few weeks, but I'll do it,” I said, the words escaping as a whisper. “I have to go . . . I have to find my Pa.”

“Thank you, Thomas!” he called out after me as I staggered down the aisle and away from him.

“Tommy,” FitzGibbon said as he reached out and grabbed me firmly by the shoulder, stopping me. “You can't rush by anybody. You have to look at each man, carefully. Your father might have his face bandaged, or he might be asleep and turned away from you, or he could look—”

“Different than I remember him,” I said, completing his sentence. I'd passed right by Mr. Givens, a man I'd known my whole life. If he hadn't called out to me I would never
have seen him. What if my Pa was asleep when I passed, or too sick or feverish to see me and couldn't call out to me? I needed to look in the face of every man here . . . every single man.

* * *

I PUSHED out through the flap of the tent and into the bright sunlight and fresh air. When I slumped to the ground the cool, slightly damp ground felt refreshing. I inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the earth and the grass— hoping it would overpower the stench of the hospital tent that still lingered in my nostrils.

It had been hard, maybe the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life, but I'd looked at each man—looked hard at them, even when I wanted to turn away or run. Some had stopped me, even reached out to grab me by the hand. They wanted to talk—needed to talk. And I guess I needed to talk to them as well, just to make sure. Two other wounded men were neighbours I knew. One had been asleep—at least I hoped he was just sleep—and I passed by without him even being aware I had ever been there. The second man, a relative of the Watson family, had greeted me with a hearty hello. His wounds weren't serious and he was eager to rejoin his company. He hadn't seen or heard of my Pa either, which made me think we were wasting our time at this hospital.

Slowly, carefully, I looked at each man, certain that none of them was my Pa. And I now knew he wasn't in there. He wasn't one of the hundred or so men, lying in bed. Some
seemed fine, but most were unmoving, eyes closed. Others had their eyes open but stared unseeing into space. But most disturbing were those who sobbed or quietly moaned, with nobody to hear their cries of pain or anguish. My Pa wasn't there . . . but where was he?

FitzGibbon came out of the tent and sat down on the grass beside me. I heard him take a deep breath, and I saw in his expression that he was upset.

“You never get used to this part . . . at least I never do,” he said, looking over at me. “Are you all right?”

“I guess so . . . I just need some air.”

“I don't know which is worse, the smell or the sight. I imagine you've not seen much of wounded soldiers before.”

I shook my head. “Just the few who were wounded when the blockhouse was stormed.” My mind raced back to that dead American that I'd stumbled over as I walked through the gate. He was the only dead man I had seen.

“I remember my first campaign, that very first battle, and then seeing the wounded men. We're much more ingenious in devising ways to harm or kill our fellow man than we are in our ability to heal.”

“We do our best,” called out a voice.

We turned around. It was the doctor.

“I didn't mean any offence,” FitzGibbon apologized.

“I'm sure you didn't.” He sat down on the grass beside us. “Maybe I should apologize to you. I haven't had more than a few hours' sleep at a time for the past three weeks. My wife says I get cranky if I don't have enough rest. And I guess there's no denying what you said about the ingenuity
of man to kill and maim his fellow man. I look at some of these men and I know I can't do anything.” He shook his head. “But the worst are those whom I could help if I had the time and tools available. Do you know how many limbs I've removed because I didn't have the time to try and save them?”