The Bully Boys (16 page)

We sat silently side by side. I wasn't sure if he was thinking or just needed more time to rest. When he spoke again, there was a fierceness in his words.

“I want you back on the farm as soon as you can get there. Working the fields and staying as far away from all this as you can. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

I wasn't about to say no to my Pa, and I understood what he was trying to say, but I had to wonder if the chance came for me to fight—maybe even with FitzGibbon and his men—would I be able to obey my father's wishes?

“Now let's go and get some food.” He started to get up.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. I've got to get up and walk. Got to.” He pulled himself to his feet, and I stood up beside him. I wanted to
take his arm or help him, but I knew I couldn't. The best I could manage was to stay close enough to catch him if he fell again.

“And do you know why I have to walk?”

“No sir.”

“Because if I can walk again, then I can farm again, and if I can farm I can provide for my family, and I have to provide. No matter what, I have to take care of my family. That's the only reason I'm part of this war . . . to take care of my family. Do you understand, Tommy? Do you?”

I nodded my head. “I understand completely,” I answered truthfully. I knew exactly what he meant. A few short weeks ago, I didn't think I would have.

* * *

“AND THEN I'm planning on deserting and joining the American forces.”

“What did you say?” I exclaimed, turning in my saddle to face FitzGibbon.

“Oh, good, I thought you had fallen asleep in the saddle.”

“But you said you were going to—”

FitzGibbon laughed. “I was just trying to get your attention. You haven't been responding to anything I've said for the last three hours. Being just the two of us on this ride has made for poor conversation.”

“I was just . . . just thinking,” I admitted.

“I hoped you were just lost in thought and hadn't passed away.” He paused. “Your father is going to be fine.”

Of course FitzGibbon was right about what was occupying my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about my Pa. I just hoped he was also right about Pa getting better. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do. Tommy, you know me well enough to know that I never lie . . . well, except when I'm dealing with the Americans. I've seen enough men wounded in battle and I know that it's the first few days that are the most critical. After that they don't die from the wound, but from the infection or disease that sets in. Your father's wound is healing well, he's getting stronger.”

“I guess you're right,” I admitted. He had been stronger the second day, and from what he had told me he was already much, much stronger than he had been the week before.

“And it's not just my opinion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke to the doctor on behalf of you and your mother. He said that your father is making a good recovery.”

“So he'll be able to walk again . . . be as good as before?”

“I didn't say that.”

I knew it, but I was hoping that by saying it I could make it come true.

“There's no way of knowing, although I would suspect, if he's like his son, he'll overcome this. Is he a stubborn man?”

I laughed. “My Ma says he's the second most stubborn person in the entire world . . . after her.”

“Then he'll do well. What we have to arrange is to get word to your mother. To let her and your family know that
he's going to be fine, and to tell them when he's going to be coming home.”

“Coming home? He's coming home?” I exclaimed.

FitzGibbon smiled and nodded his head. “I spoke to both the doctor
and
the area commander, Colonel Breckon. The war is over for your father. His wounds will require rest and time. As soon as he's able he'll be moved back across the American lines to your farm. His recovery and health will be better served among his family. He doesn't need a doctor any more. What he needs is rest, food and the love of his family.”

“When will he be going home?” I asked excitedly.

“A few weeks, perhaps a month, it depends on where the fighting is taking place and whether they can find a safe way through enemy lines.”

“That's . . . that's . . . thank you,” I said.

“Why are you thanking me?” FitzGibbon asked. “I'm nothing more than the bearer of the good news. I did nothing but—”

FitzGibbon stopped mid-sentence as we both heard the neighing of a horse.

“How far are we from the American lines?” I asked quietly.

“We passed into American territory about thirty minutes ago. Let's dismount and have a look.”

FitzGibbon jumped off his horse and I did the same. We walked the horses off the trail and into some bushes, looping our reins lightly over a branch. By now I knew not to tie the horses in case we had to leave quickly: the difference between simply jumping on a horse and riding away instead
of having to first untie it could be the difference between life and death.

FitzGibbon slipped his rifle off of the horse's saddle and I did the same. Crouched over, he headed back toward the path and I followed. I was painfully aware of the sound of a twig snapping under my foot as we moved forward. We stopped right beside the path and hid behind some thick bushes amid a smattering of small trees and saplings.

“Do you see anything?” I whispered.

“Nothing. You?”

“Nothing. Maybe it just sounded like a horse,” I said hopefully.

“It was a horse, but there's no telling how far away it was. It could even have been one of our men, or maybe even a stray horse that lost its rider.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“The hardest thing a soldier has to do. Wait. Keep your ears and eyes open. I'm just going to—”

There was an explosion of musket fire and I ducked as I heard a shot whistle by my ear. I turned to FitzGibbon. He had toppled over backwards and lay on the ground, unmoving, a crumpled heap. I froze in fear.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

H
E WAS SHOT! He wasn't moving. Was he? The sound of another shot exploded and I jumped off to the side. I saw the puff of smoke rise into the air to signal the location of the shooters. There were three of them, in bright-blue American uniforms, huddled close together. Two were frantically reloading their muskets and the third, who had just fired the last shot, started to do the same. I had to run . . . get away before any of them had time to reload . . . I had only seconds to escape! But what about FitzGibbon? I couldn't just leave him there. There was only one thing to do.

I brought my rifle up to my eye. I sighted the first man, the one who had just shot, and then changed my mind—he wouldn't be able to shoot at me for another thirty seconds. I aimed for one of the others. One of the men had finished reloading his weapon and was training his gun in my direction, getting ready to fire. I knew I had an advantage, because my rifle was much more accurate than his musket.
Calmly I sighted his chest and fired. A split second after the recoil of the weapon against my shoulder and the explosion of the shot, I saw him thrown backwards. I'd hit him!

The second American aimed his musket and I threw myself to the ground just an instant before I heard the retort of his gun. Just off to the side was FitzGibbon's rifle. I rolled over, grabbed it and brought it up, ready to shoot. The third American had now reloaded while the other still standing started reloading again. I steadied the rifle against a fallen tree and aimed squarely at the chest of the soldier ready to fire. Was he the one who had killed FitzGibbon? I shot and he fell to the ground!

The third American, the only one left, jumped back in panic at the sight of the second soldier falling, and his musket fell to the side. He scrambled to pick it up. He hadn't finished loading. I could get away now. Or maybe he'd run . . . run to get more men. There was another choice: Could I get to him before he had a chance to reload?

“aaaaaaaaahhhh!” I screamed as I jumped over the fallen log and ran toward him. I closed the short gap between us, smashing through the bushes and saplings, the branches stinging as they snapped against my face. He struggled to get the charge in the gun, fumbled it, and again the musket fell to the ground. He looked up at me and then ran, leaving his weapon behind. He vanished into the thick underbrush and I knew there was no way I could catch him. And what would I have done if I had? That thought left me stunned. My rifle wasn't even loaded. Was I planning to catch him and kill him with my bare hands? The only thing more
shocking than that thought was the realization that if he had stopped and stood his ground I would certainly have killed him . . . unless he'd killed me first.

I stopped, right at the point where he'd been struggling to reload. My heart was pounding and every part of my body tingled. Was it from fear or excitement? I picked up his weapon and turned to start back. I had to go to the Lieutenant. Maybe he was still alive. I could get him onto his horse and get him back to the field hospital. It was only four or five hours away and—

I heard a low groan. I spun around toward the sound. I didn't see anything.

I trained the rifle all around, looking. My eyes stopped momentarily on the one American soldier. He lay on his front, face down, a gaping hole exposed in the middle of his back—the place where a bullet,
my
bullet, had passed out of his body.

I heard a louder groan, followed by the sound of vomiting, and I spun to the side. It was the other American. He was propped up on one elbow. His eyes were closed. I froze, my rifle pointing at him.

Then his eyes opened, and he was staring directly at me. He pushed himself up so he was almost in a sitting position. I thought about pulling the trigger, shooting him, killing him. Taking revenge for what he had done to FitzGibbon and to my Pa and Mr. Givens . . . but the gun wasn't loaded. I slowly lowered the rifle and looked at him, but not through the sights of the weapon. He was harmless, lying there, bleeding. He was no threat to me. If the gun had been loaded,
though, could I at that second have stopped myself from pulling the trigger? A shudder ran through my entire body.

There was a growing patch of red staining the blue of his uniform which was tattered and torn around his left shoulder, the place where the rifle shot had entered his body. His musket lay just off to the side. Had he loaded it before he was shot? Would he reach out now and get it when I turned my back to leave? I had no choice. I had to go closer and take his weapon or at least move it farther away from him so he couldn't use it against me.

Still holding my rifle in front of me, like a shield, I moved forward. He had moved slightly so his back was now propped against a small tree. His eyes were closed. Was he dead? I inched toward him, stopped, bent over and reached out to take his weapon from the ground.

“Was it you?”

I jumped back, his musket in my hand. He was looking at me.

“Was it you?” he rasped softly. “Was it you who shot me?”

Numbly I nodded my head.

“And my friend, Samuel . . . is he dead?” he asked, gesturing to the other fallen soldier.

Again I nodded. “I think so.”

“How old are you, son?”

“Fourteen, sir,” I said.

He coughed loudly, and his whole body suddenly shuddered, his face contorted in pain. “I have a son who will be thirteen on his next birthday . . . in October . . .”

His body started to shake violently and he threw up again. Bright yellow bile dripped from the edges of his mouth.

“What's . . . what's your name?” he asked haltingly.

I hesitated.

“I have the right to know . . . the name of the man who . . . who killed me.”

“You're not . . . you're not . . .”

He coughed loudly and I could see the pain on his face. The stain of blood on his uniform seemed much larger now. “I'm dead . . . I know that. Tell me your name.”

“It's Tommy, um, Thomas, Thomas Roberts.”

“Thomas Roberts, will you do me a favour?”

“What sort of favour?”

He motioned with his hand for me to come closer. I froze in place.

“Don't be afraid, Thomas . . . you have nothing to fear from me . . . not now.”

I stepped forward and bent down.

Slowly and with great effort he used his good hand to reach into a pocket. He pulled out an envelope. “Make sure this gets to my wife,” he said in a whisper as he pressed it into my hand. “Her name . . . our farm . . . it's all there on the envelope. Can you do that, Thomas?”

I nodded my head dumbly. This was the second letter I'd been given to deliver.

“Good man. And can you tell her . . . maybe write it down . . . do you write, Thomas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Write her. Tell her I died in battle . . . and tell her . . . tell her and tell . . . my children . . . that I loved them. Can you do that, Thomas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Thomas. Now go . . . quickly. There's more of us not far from here and they'll be back soon. Go . . . there's been enough death today.”

I clutched the letter tightly in my hand, turned and started away. I stumbled, tripped, almost fell over, regained my balance and stumbled again. My feet felt like lead . . . I couldn't seem to pick them up. I had to get away. I couldn't be there when he died.

I had to find FitzGibbon. My head was spinning and I couldn't tell one direction from the other. Where were the horses? I had to find them. I had to think . . . calm down . . . think this through . . . not panic. All at once my stomach churned violently and I threw up. I dropped to my knees as my stomach heaved again. My eyes blurred and I was afraid I was going to pass out. This was like some sort of terrible nightmare. What was I going to do? I brought a hand up and rubbed my eyes. And then I saw FitzGibbon . . . sitting with his back against a tree, rubbing his chest!