The Bully Boys (19 page)

I lowered the field glasses and looked over at FitzGibbon. “Do you really think it could be him?”

FitzGibbon's eyes remained riveted to his field glasses, staring at the clearing. “Him or some other traitor. Men like that turn my stomach. What I have to remember is that for every one like him there are dozens and dozens of others. People of integrity and honour and loyalty, like William Merritt and Mrs. Secord, and your father . . . and you.”

I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Will we have to
wait long?” I stammered, wanting desperately to change the subject.

“Not long. Look for yourself. The first of the American column has entered the clearing.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
PUT THE field glasses back up to my eyes and wildly scanned the distance, trying to see the oncoming Americans. I found the entrance into the clearing. It was marked by a blue stain which was spreading as I watched. Twenty or thirty mounted soldiers had already entered the clearing, two abreast. I had somehow just assumed it would be infantry. How many cavalrymen did they have, and could we get away from them if they came after us? Almost in answer to my unspoken prayer the line of cavalry ended and foot soldiers proceeded into the clearing, four or five of them spread out across the path. I started to count but I stopped after the fifteenth row. What was the point? It was obvious that we were badly outnumbered. I let my eyes wander to the far end of the clearing. There was still a long open space before the cavalry got to the far side, but was there enough space for the entire column of soldiers to enter?

“There's the first of the cannons,” FitzGibbon said.

I scanned back to the opening. A pair of horses was pulling a gun carriage. Directly behind it was a second pair of horses with another cannon. Then the ranks of foot soldiers started again.

“When will we open fire?” I asked.

“If they follow orders they'll wait until the first men in line, the cavalry, get almost to this side of the clearing.”

“But what if the rest of the column hasn't entered in the clearing by then?”

“No matter. Those still on the path will come running to the clearing like the devil is on their tail once the Caughnawagas start whooping and hollering and shooting at them.”

“But won't the cavalry try to break out toward the DeCews'?”

FitzGibbon shook his head. “Not likely. And even if they do they won't get far. We've strung ropes across the path at waist height and strewn rocks and logs all along one section so that no horse will make it through. The soldiers would have to dismount and come under our—”

The retort of a musket called out and then echoed across the clearing, sounding like distant thunder. There was a split second of silence and then an explosion of fire. Shot after shot rang out. The clearing was a rush of motion. The cavalry swung around, back toward the main body of the column. On the ground lay a horse, while half a dozen other horses ran without riders.

Some of the shot had found its mark. The American foot soldiers broke ranks and swarmed around the gun carriages.
A cloud of smoke rose over the clearing and men were dropping to their knees or to the ground. A couple fell as though they'd been shot. The last of a stream of blue uniforms entered the clearing and joined the mass of men who had formed into a circle in the middle, with three gun carriages and two supply wagons at the centre. The cloud of smoke thickened above the clearing, partially obstructing my view of the Americans, as the shooting continued. I saw some flashes from the forest, where our men had fired, but as I scanned the forest I couldn't see anybody. They were lost among the trees and bushes.

All at once a group of American soldiers broke free of the mass and started moving toward the edge of the clearing, trying to make for the cover of the trees. A barrage of fire was directed toward them and I saw the whole front of the line fall to the ground. It surged forward a few more feet, and some of those who had taken the lead fell as well. The column broke and dissolved, and those men still standing ran back to rejoin the main group, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades strewn upon the ground.

I could clearly see the entire battle playing out before me, hear the retorts of the guns, even smell the shot, but somehow none of it seemed real. It was more like a dream, or something I was reading about in an old history book.

“This is the time for action,” FitzGibbon said.

“What do you mean?” I asked anxiously.

“I have to get down to the battlefield.”

“Are you going to allow them to retreat now?”

“Hardly.”

FitzGibbon ran toward our horses. I stood in place. Was I to wait there? Should I follow? I didn't want to go, but I didn't want to stay alone.

I ran after him and got to my horse just in time to see him galloping off down the path. I leaped up onto my grey and gave chase. He was lost from my sight as he rounded the first curve in the twisting, turning path. Then I suddenly remembered what FitzGibbon had said about debris being thrown on the path and ropes strung across it. I reined in my horse, slowing to a canter. Maybe FitzGibbon could go faster because he had some idea where the traps were set, but I couldn't. Besides, why did I need to rush toward the battle? I wasn't even carrying a weapon. I hadn't even held a gun since . . . since that day.

Maybe, I thought, I shouldn't even go. I knew I could just stop, turn my horse around and leave. That thought was warm and reassuring. I could ride away from the battle. I wasn't a soldier. I was just a kid. Nobody would blame me if I went back to the camp. Nobody would think anything of it. Nobody would think that I was . . . was a coward. But at that moment I felt like one. I laughed. FitzGibbon had said I was a hero. He'd compared me to William Merritt and Mrs. Secord and my Pa. I was no hero. I was scared.

And then I remembered something FitzGibbon had said to me. It had been only a few weeks ago, but it seemed as though years had passed: “The difference between a brave man and a coward is not how he feels, but what he does despite those feelings.”

I dug in my heels and spurred my mount forward to the
battle. I galloped around the curve, my horse's hooves throwing up dirt as we ate up the distance. Just beyond the next turn there was a line of horses—the mounts of the regiment. The reins were all attached to one long line held by a single knot. The release of that knot would set all the horses free.

FitzGibbon's horse was there, but he was nowhere to be seen. I jumped off my horse, wrapped the reins once around a branch and ran down the path toward the field of battle. It was at least a good twenty or thirty paces away through thick forest, and I still couldn't see it, but I could hear the sounds of the musket fire and the bitter smell of sulphur hung in the air. I ducked under a rope strung across the path, dodged around some bushes and logs and rounded another corner.

FitzGibbon was standing in the middle of the path. Around him were five members of his company. I slowed to a walk. He was holding a pole, and on the top of the pole was a large, white flag. What was he up to?

I moved close enough to hear them talking.

“I want every man to be in position, loaded, and have a man targeted as I head out,” FitzGibbon said.

“Don't move out until they stop shooting,” McWilliams said.

“And when they start coming you make sure you don't walk too fast or too far,” Jamison added.

“I'll be walking as slowly as I can,” FitzGibbon said.

It was now obvious to me what was happening—he was going to walk into the clearing under a flag of truce. What
I still didn't know was what he planned to talk about, but knowing FitzGibbon it might have been almost anything.

“Get to your positions. Make sure everybody holds their fire. All I
don't
need when I'm out there is for somebody to open fire so that I get caught in the middle of a hail of shot.”

The men all rushed off to their positions and I walked to FitzGibbon's side. I wanted an answer to my question.

“Hold this for a second, would you?” FitzGibbon said as he handed me the pole. I took it from him and watched as he removed his jacket and pulled on one that had been on the ground by his feet. It had a Captain's insignia on the sleeve!

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This is what they call a field promotion.”

“You've become a captain?” I asked in amazement.

“Not yet, but I thought a captain would make a better impression. A captain is in charge of more men, and I want them to think they're up against a sizeable force. That will buy us more time. Perhaps enough to allow William Merritt's militia and more natives to arrive. We might also find out just how determined our adversary is.”

“You mean, sort of like you did with the militia unit across the river?”

“Exactly. My old granny always said, you have two ears and one mouth because you're to listen twice as much as you talk. I want to hear what they have to say. I'd better get going. Give me the flag,” he said, reaching out to take it from me.

I held on. “Shouldn't a high-ranking officer like a captain have somebody else holding the flag of truce?”

“You?”

I nodded. “I'm already holding it.”

“I could always get somebody else,” he suggested.

“Everybody else is holding a gun. Wouldn't it be best not to sacrifice any marksmen?”

FitzGibbon nodded his head slowly. “Are you sure you want to come with me? You don't have to.”

“I know. Let's go . . . before I change my mind.”

We walked down the path, stepping around the rocks and logs. From this distance the sound of the gunshots was much louder, but I noticed that it was no longer a solid barrage. I could now make out individual shots. I caught sight of movement off to the side. Looking over, I saw two Bully Boys moving through the bush toward the edge of the clearing. We came to a stop just before the cover ended. The path entered into the clearing on an angle so I couldn't see the Americans . . . and they couldn't see me.

“Wait for the bugler to sound cease fire,” FitzGibbon said.

“We have a bugler?”

FitzGibbon chuckled. “Same as the captain's jacket. Just another trick to convince the enemy we are more than meets the eye.”

Almost immediately the sound of the bugle blared out, echoing through the trees. The blasts of gunfire lessened, dropped to a few shots and then stopped altogether.

“When we step out, you have to hold the flag over your head as high as you can and wave it in the air.”

“I can do that.”

“And if they direct any shot at us, you drop the flag and
crawl, flat on your belly, and don't stop crawling until you've passed a dozen feet into the trees. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then let's go.”

FitzGibbon started to walk out into the open and I reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “The flag has to lead,” I said.

“You do like to be in the middle of things,” FitzGibbon observed.

“Only when I have to be.”

I walked to the very edge of the clearing. With the flag held high and out in front of me I stepped into the meadow. I held the pole at the very end, hoisting it even higher and waving it more wildly. This seemed almost crazy—trying to draw the attention of hundreds of armed Americans!

Men were holding their fire. Silence. FitzGibbon stepped out beside me.

“Do we start walking toward them?” I asked.

“No. We just stay here and wait until we see their flag of truce. Then we move forward at the same time they come to us. We want to meet close to the middle.”

I nodded. Stretched out in front of us was the entire mass of Americans. One of the cannons was aimed almost right where we stood.

“That big gun could get us here easily, couldn't it?” I said.

“Cut us in two practically. But we're also within musket range. Probably five or six soldiers have each of us in their sights, waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I asked in alarm.

“Waiting for somebody to start shooting. If we shoot their messengers, then they shoot us. And here they come.”

Two men were coming forward. One was waving a white handkerchief tied to a sword held high above his head. We started walking toward them. I felt a wave of uncertainty as we left the cover of the forest behind. Now if the firing started I couldn't simply throw myself to the ground and crawl a few feet into the trees. We stopped, as did the Americans, with a dozen feet between us.

“You requested a truce,” one of the Americans said. “What do you wish to say?”

“There are things to discuss,” FitzGibbon said, “but I am not prepared to discuss anything with a junior officer!”

“I am a lieutenant, and—”

“And I am a captain!” FitzGibbon snapped. “Are you able to make decisions and speak with authority for your side?”

“No, the Colonel is the one who would make those—”

“I will not discuss things with a subordinate officer with no authority! You are dismissed, Lieutenant! You may return to your ranks and we will also retreat. No discussion will take place!”

FitzGibbon turned and started to walk away.

“Wait!” the American officer called out.

FitzGibbon stopped and turned around.

“I will get my superior.”

“Good. We will retreat and await your response.”

The Americans started back to their ranks and we started to walk toward the trees.

“Slow down,” FitzGibbon said.

I lessened my pace. I knew I'd been hurrying. I didn't want to leave my back exposed to the Americans for any longer than necessary.

“Why wouldn't you talk to him?” I asked.

“It's no use talking to people who can't make decisions. Besides, by doing this I've bought us some more time. Time is on our side.”

Finally we reached the cover of the trees and I breathed a sigh of relief. I lowered the flag of truce to the ground. I flexed my fingers. Two members of the Bully Boys rushed up to us.