The Bully Boys (15 page)

I wondered if Mr. Givens was one of those . . . or maybe my Pa.

“How many were wounded in the battle?” I asked.

“I don't know the exact number. My hands were full with the skirmishes before the battle, and then wounded kept pouring in for days after. I know I've tended to over two hundred men.”

“By yourself ?” I asked in amazement.

“With the help of my two nurses. Poor women have slept even less than me. Angels is what they are, blessed angels of mercy. So you didn't find your father,” the doctor said.

I shook my head. “He wasn't in the tent.”

“And not in the barn either?” he asked.

“I didn't know there were any wounded in the barn.”

“There wasn't room in the tent for all of the men so I had to move many into the barn. To tell you the truth, I think it's cleaner and better than the tent anyway. Go on in there and have a look. If you don't locate him then you come back to me and I'll be able to direct you to the other two field hospitals.”

“We appreciate that, Doctor,” FitzGibbon acknowledged.

“It's the least I can do. I'm just sorry that I wasn't able
to give you more information. I know that each man is somebody's father or husband or son, but . . . I'm too busy trying to save lives to keep track of whose life I've been saving.” The doctor stood up. “I think I've been away too long now . . . I'd better get back.” He took a deep breath. “This job makes you appreciate the wondrous smell of fresh air. Good day, gentlemen . . . and may luck be with you.” He walked away and disappeared back into the tent.

FitzGibbon and I sat in silence for awhile. I was thinking about the adventure of battle, about the camaraderie of soldiers that I'd so much envied when I first met the Bully Boys. I'd imagined my father and uncle sitting by a cook fire listening to talks of glory—but I'd never imagined this.

“Well, Tommy, are you ready to have a look in the barn now?”

“Maybe . . . do you think we could just sit here for a couple more minutes before we go into—”

“Tommy!”

I looked up. It was Pa!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ P
A!” I screamed as I ran to him. I threw my arms around my father and tried to stop myself from breaking into tears. I knew they weren't far away.

“Gently, Tommy . . . gently. You practically knocked me over.”

“I didn't mean to.” I released my grip and stepped slightly back. “You're all right?” I said. It was as much a question as it was a comment and a hope. I choked back the tears.

“Of course I'm all right.”

I looked at him hard. His voice was low and soft and his face looked pale and gaunt. He was also leaning on a cane.

“But you were wounded . . .”

He laughed—not his usual laugh, but a hollow, raspy version. “Wounded twice. One shot nicked my side. Right where you were squeezing me.”

“I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—”

“That's okay, you didn't know. And the second musket ball hit me in the leg.”

“Your leg! But they didn't have to . . .” I was thinking about Mr. Givens's arm.

“No, Tommy, I still have my leg,” he said as he reached down and pulled up the cuff of his pants. “See? The shot hit it farther up. Went in one side and out the other. I'll need this cane for a while, but I'll be fine.” He paused and his brow furrowed. “But why are you here? Has something happened?”

“Everybody, everything is fine, Pa . . . honest. It's just, we got a message, from Mr. McGregor, about you being wounded . . .”

His face twisted into a grimace. “I'm sure he was trying to be helpful, but I didn't want any of you to know anything about it. I didn't want to worry you none.”

“We didn't know how bad you were hurt. That's why I had to come.”

“You all must have been worried sick, especially your mother. You know she worries about everything.” His face took on a serious look. “It wasn't safe for you to come all this way across country and through enemy lines.”

“I was fine. It wasn't like I was alone.”

“Who came with you . . . not your brother.”

“He wanted to come, but I made him stay on the farm. I came with Captain Ducharme and close to two hundred Caughnawaga braves, and of course Lieutenant FitzGibbon.”

“FitzGibbon . . . James FitzGibbon, the leader of the Bully Boys?”

“At your service, sir.” FitzGibbon had been hanging
back, but now he stepped forward and they shook hands. I could tell from my Pa's expression he was stunned. Even more stunned and surprised than when he had seen me.

“
You
brought my son here?” he asked in disbelief.

“I had to report to the area commander, and I knew how concerned Tommy and your whole family were about your well-being, and as I'm greatly in your son's debt, I—”

“But how did you know of my family's concern?”

“Well . . .” FitzGibbon began. I was sure he was debating what parts to tell and what parts to keep quiet about for now.

I jumped in. In one long sentence I explained how I came to meet the Lieutenant, and how I was helping out at the DeCew farm. I was careful not to mention anything else. My Pa wasn't the only one who didn't want to worry people.

“My good Lord,” my Pa said when I finished. “I'm proud of you, Tommy. But your mother—how is she getting along? Is Johnny doing all the farmwork now? There aren't enough hours in the day for one man, let alone one boy, to get in all the crops we'll need . . . the crops the family will need to live through the winter.”

I explained about the bags of flour I'd earned working at the DeCews' and how I'd brought the food to the family. My Pa put a hand on my shoulder and the look on his face told me how proud he was—prouder I thought than he'd looked after hearing about me saving the Lieutenant.

“Will my son return under your protection as well, Lieutenant?” my Pa asked.

“I will guarantee his safe return. It is a pleasure to travel in his company. He is a fine young man.”

“He is that,” my Pa said.

I looked down at the ground. I felt myself turning red and hoped I was the only one to notice.

“How long can he stay with me, Lieutenant?”

“My duties call for me to be elsewhere for a day. I could pass back this way tomorrow. Would he have a place to stay here overnight?”

“Certainly!”

“In the tent?” I asked anxiously.

“Out in the barn with me.” He paused. “I wouldn't have you stay at all if you had to be lodged in the tent for the night.”

“Then I will take leave and let you spend time with your son. Good day, gentlemen.”

“It was an honour to meet you, Lieutenant. And while you may be in the debt of my son, I am equally in yours. Thank you.”

They shook hands once again and FitzGibbon walked off. We watched as he climbed onto his horse, waved and trotted off. My father wrapped an arm around my shoulder. It felt good.

“Are you hungry?” Pa asked.

“Yeah, sure!”

“It's good that at least one thing about you hasn't changed. Come on and I'll get you some grub.”

“Could that wait a couple of minutes? I have to take care of my horse.”

“You didn't take Bessy, did you?”

Bessy was our plough horse. “No sir. I have my own horse.”

“Your own horse! Where did you go getting yourself a horse?”

“Well, it's sort of my animal. The Lieutenant says it's mine. It belonged to the American soldier, the one I hit on the head. I always ride it. She's right over there,” I said, pointing to my grey tethered to a fence.

“Fine-looking horse. I'll show you where to feed and water her. With the wounded taking the barn, all the animals are being kept out in the back pen.”

My Pa took a few steps, leaning heavily on his cane. I was shocked by the awkwardness of his gait, and I could see that he was fighting against showing me the pain he was feeling. He knew full well that I was watching.

“It isn't as bad as it looks,” he said.

I slowed down my pace to match his stride. Reaching the fence, he gave my grey horse a rub behind the ears.

“Good lines, strong, solid legs,” he said. “Might make a good plough horse.”

“Maybe,” I said, although I'd never thought of her being used that way. She was an army horse, meant for battle. “Is it far to the pens?”

“Just around the back of the barn. Not far.”

Not far for me, but plenty far for my Pa, I thought. There were beads of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the weather but everything to do with the strain of walking even this short distance.

“Do you want to ride her?” I asked, hoping to get him off his feet. “See what a good mount she is?”

“She's your horse, Tommy. You're the only one who
should ride her.” He paused and looked directly into my eyes. “I can walk, Tommy.”

“But it would be easier for me to—”

“Don't go arguing with your Pa. I may not have a switch handy but I'm still man enough to give your backside a swat with this here cane.”

“Yes sir,” I said. I climbed up on my horse. Pa started walking, slowly, limping away, and I followed, reining in the horse to try to walk at as slow a pace as he did. I looked down at him as we moved—me sitting effortlessly in the saddle and him struggling and straining to earn every foot of ground. I trailed behind as we circled around the barn and started up a slope that led to the back of the building. There was a large fenced pen and more than two dozen horses moved inside. Pa stopped.

“Here we are.”

I climbed off, quickly unbuckled the saddle, pulled it off and propped it over the top rail of the fence where some other saddles were sitting. I slipped the gate open, led the grey inside and closed the gate after us. Next I removed the bridle and reins. There was a full trough of water and a couple of bales of hay broken open in the pen.

“There you go, girl,” I said as I gave her a gentle tap on the side. She trotted off and went straight to the water.

“So where is that food you were talking—” I stopped short. Pa looked as white as a sheet and was leaning heavily against the top rail of the fence, like it was the only thing keeping him from tumbling right down. I rushed over, scared and breathless, and my head was filled with a terrible
scramble of ideas. Had I found him, just to watch him die?

“Pa!” I held onto his arm. He leaned over even more and I strained unsuccessfully to keep him up. He slumped down to the ground.

“I'm okay. . . just a little weak. . . I guess I pushed too hard.” He took a deep breath. Sweat was just pouring off his face.

“Do you want me to go and get the doctor?”

He shook his head. “He's got more important things, more badly hurt men to tend to. People worse off than me. There's nothing more he can do anyway. He just tells me to rest . . . so let me rest for a while.” He closed his eyes and took a number of deep breaths. “I was a fool to push myself like this. My pride got in the way of my common sense. But it's like the Good Book says, pride goes before a fall. Or in this case, pride went before a seat on the grass.”

He smiled and I smiled back. He was all right. I sat down on the grass beside him and watched him out of the corner of my eye, so he couldn't tell I was looking. He'd lost some weight—not as much as Mr. Givens, but he was definitely thinner. And I was sure that he was shaking as he sat there beside me.

“It's a shame about Mr. Givens,” I said.

“Yeah, it is. He's going to have some trouble taking care of his farm. But he's a stubborn man, and I imagine he'll get by.”

“It'll be hard,” I said.

“You know that's probably the thing men fear almost as much as death . . . being cut up like that . . . losing an arm or a leg.”

I didn't know what to say so I just stayed silent.

“There's things I've seen and heard that I'll never forget as long as I live. Sights and sounds and even smells of the battlefield. Awful . . .”

I shuddered.

“But there is one thing even worse.”

“What?” I couldn't imagine.

“Dying on the field of battle and then being denied a Christian burial, your family never knowing what happened in the end.”

“That would never happen!”

“Sometimes there are just so many bodies that there isn't time. Something has to be done before they start to spread disease. Disease has killed more soldiers than bullets. You can't let concern for the dead be more important than the fate of the living. That's one of the prices of losing a battle,” he continued. “The enemy takes over the ground where the battle took place and then has to dispose of the corpses. Usually they're too busy caring for their own people to worry much for the remains of the enemy. They put them to the flame as soon as they can.”

“What do you mean?”

“They toss the bodies onto a gigantic fire. All that's left is ashes . . . nothing more . . . nothing to say who once was.” Pa got a far away look in his eyes. “Nothing left.” He shook his head and then turned to me.

Again I didn't know what to say, but I'd certainly lost some of my appetite.

“There's so much of this I wish I could change, Thomas.”

It was always serious when he called me by my full name.

“I know you wanted to come with me and your uncle. Be part of things. And I guess if I was your age I would have felt the same. But it isn't some game.”

“I know that, Pa.”

“I was hoping you did. I wish I had no part of this war.”

“You mean you didn't want to fight?” I asked. I couldn't imagine my father ever backing away from a fight.

He shook his head. “What man in his right mind would want to be part of killing or being killed? I only fought because we had no choice.” He paused. “I had no quarrel with the Americans . . . at least not until they invaded our country.”