The Bully Boys (3 page)

It was still quiet outside. It was also time for me to go. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Piiiiinnnggg!
the bell called out, and I almost jumped out of my shoes . . . my stolen shoes.

The horse was tied to a hitching post at the front of the store. It was a big grey mare. She looked to be in good shape. A dirty blue blanket peeked out beneath the saddle.

“Hello girl,” I said softly. I reached out a hand and rubbed her behind the ear.

She huffed at me but accepted my hand and didn't pull away. I ran my hands down the reins to where they were tied to the post. Darn, he hadn't just looped it over, he'd tied it off. I fumbled with the knot. My hands were shaking and I suddenly felt exposed. What would they do to me if they caught me standing here in stolen shoes—shoes I'd taken from an American soldier I'd knocked on the head with an axe handle—while I was stealing his horse? What did they do to horse thieves? I stopped. I knew exactly what they did—they hanged them!

I was sweating and my heart was pounding so furiously I could feel it throughout my entire body. Between the shaking and the sweat would I ever be able to get the reins
untied? Maybe I should leave the horse. I couldn't just stand there forever . . . and then the knot came free! I almost laughed out loud.

“Come on, girl,” I said as I started to lead the horse away.

Slowly, keeping my head down, walking confidently as if I owned the horse. I started to round the corner of the store. This was going to work. Everything would be all right, I was sure.

“Hey there, boy! What are you doing with that horse!”

CHAPTER TWO

I
FROZE IN PLACE. Slowly I swung my head around toward the voice. An American soldier, leading a horse, had come around the corner half a dozen buildings from where I stood.

“Stay where you are!” he commanded.

It wasn't hard for me to follow his order—my legs had locked in place. I didn't know if I was even capable of moving. I felt like somebody had punched me in the stomach. As I watched, a second, and a third, and then a fourth soldier appeared, all leading horses. They must have been watering their mounts at the trough beside the livery stable.

I shuddered to think what they were going to do to me . . . if they caught me. I felt a surge of energy flow through my body and I threw my foot up into the stirrup and jumped up onto the horse.

“Hey, stop!”

“
Yaaah!
” I screamed as I kicked the horse with both heels and it leaped forward. I spurred it on and we thundered
around the corner of the store chased by the shouts of the soldiers behind me. I didn't want to look back but I could perfectly picture in my mind all of them hurtling into the saddles and spurring their horses forward.

I galloped around the corner and found FitzGibbon standing by his horse, the muskets slung over his shoulder.

“American soldiers!” I screamed.

“How many?”

“Four or more!” I yelled back as I reined the horse to a stop beside him.

To my utter shock, rather than leaping onto his horse he ran back the way I'd come. As he got to the corner he removed the Americans' muskets, throwing them to the ground, and levelled his own rifle. I heard the pounding of hooves and then jumped as the rifle fired and a cloud of smoke rose into the air. Before I could even react he threw the gun to the ground, grabbed a musket, levelled it and fired! Then he tossed that musket to the ground, picked up the last gun and raced toward me and his waiting horse.

Behind FitzGibbon two riderless horses emerged from the end of the alley. Where were the other two soldiers?

Suddenly FitzGibbon dropped to one knee and brought his gun up, levelling it at me! What was he doing! I crouched down, trying to hide behind the horse's neck. There was a flash of flint and an explosion as he fired!

A cry came from behind me, and in a flash I saw a horse crumple to the ground. Its rider, dressed in a blue American uniform, flew through the air, landing only yards away from me and rolling end over end. FitzGibbon rushed forward
and swung his now empty gun, smashing the soldier in the face as he attempted to rise. He dropped his gun, plucked the fallen soldier's weapon from the ground and jumped up onto his horse. I could just make out the last rider, galloping hell-for-leather to round up reinforcements.

“Come on, Tommy, ride!” he screamed as he spurred his horse violently and the animal lunged forward to a path behind the store.

I dug my heels in and my horse galloped forward in pursuit of the other steed.

“Go, go, go!” I screamed. I slapped my hand against the horse's rump, coaxing it to catch up to FitzGibbon, until I was riding just behind the flank of his horse. I looked over my shoulder repeatedly. The only thing following us was the dust thrown up by our horses' hooves.

“This way!” FitzGibbon yelled.

He raced off through an opening in a rail fence surrounding an apple orchard. I knew the orchard. My brother and I had helped pick apples there the fall before. FitzGibbon charged between two rows of trees. Just before following I looked over my shoulder. Nobody was following . . . at least nobody I could see. I entered the protection of the trees and reined my horse to a stop. FitzGibbon had dismounted and was leading his mount. Some of the branches of the trees were so low that a rider couldn't get beneath them without being knocked off, especially if he was going at a full gallop.

“We have to move slowly now, Tommy.”

“But we have to get away. Shouldn't we stay on the road?”

“Slow is better. Right now every American soldier who heard those shots is coming toward the town as fast as their mounts or their legs will carry them. And as we stroll through here, unseen and letting our horses rest, all around us we're being passed by those trying to—”

He stopped talking as we heard the approach of horses. It sounded like a lot of horses, moving at a fast pace. FitzGibbon motioned for me to come to him.

“Loop the reins, don't tie it off,” he said as he wrapped his around a branch. I imitated his actions.

“Come,” he said, and he started to go back in the direction we had just come. I moved as he did, bent over, and we both flopped down on our stomachs when we came within sight of the road.

I saw the horsemen rush by. They weren't following us, but they were rushing down the road toward the village . . . just as FitzGibbon had said. If we hadn't left the road we would have run smack into them!

I started counting after the first few riders had passed our location: eight, ten . . . eleven, twelve . . . and then three more, for a total of fifteen cavalrymen.

“Now we should be moving,” FitzGibbon said.

“But what if there's another patrol still to come?”

“If there is, it'll be coming by the road. We won't be going back on that road again.”

“We won't?”

He shook his head. “Never take a main road when there's a smaller road. Leave a smaller road behind when there's a country lane. Abandon a country lane when a farmer's path
exists, and that same farmer's path when a forest trail crosses your path.”

FitzGibbon took the reins of his horse and started to lead it, weaving through the trees.

“Are we taking the path that leads toward Chippawa?” I asked.

“Yes. You know it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I was born and raised here.”

“That is one of our advantages around these parts. The Americans haven't got to know the area as well as we have. Of course, some of our enemies aren't from the other side of the river.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men like Dr. Chapin.” He said the name as though it left a foul taste in his mouth. “Have you heard of the illustrious Dr. Cyrenius Chapin?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“That would be a great disappointment to him. He's a Canadian, born and raised on this side of the border, who has thrown his lot in with the Americans. He leads a brigade of similar traitors who ride with the American invaders.”

“I'd heard there were sympathizers.”

“That there are. Many settlers here have roots or relatives in the States.”

“We have cousins, on my Pa's side, who live outside of Lewiston, New York. My Pa said he didn't know for certain but he figured he could find himself facing family on the other side of a musket.”

“I've seen that happen. It's tragic. But I'm not talking
about divided loyalties but outright traitors. Chapin and his men have swooped down and taken prisoners, plundered property, and even put the torch to farms. He's done as much damage as any American invader, and it's a greater evil to do it to your own people!”

FitzGibbon stopped and turned to face me. His expression was hard, and I looked away from his fearsome gaze.

“But his time will come, and I'll be there to witness his end . . . believe me, I will.”

We came to edge of the orchard and found a section of the fence where the rails had been removed and were lying on the ground.

“Did you come in this way?” I asked.

He laughed. “You're a smart lad.”

We led our horses through the gap and onto the Indian path. FitzGibbon let go of the reins of his horse and went back to the fence rails. He picked up one of the rails and put it back in place. I wanted to help but I was afraid to let go of the reins of my horse in case it bolted back to its owner. FitzGibbon replaced the second and third rails, erasing the opening that marked our passage.

Then, as soon as we were both back on our horses, we made for the forest trail.

“Tell me about your family, Tommy,” FitzGibbon asked as we rode.

I shrugged. “I don't know what's to tell. It's my parents, my brother Johnny, he's thirteen, my sister Sarah, she's ten, and the twins.”

“A double blessing,” FitzGibbon said.

“Or double trouble. They're almost four now, Elizabeth and Margaret.”

“And where is your family from originally?” FitzGibbon asked.

“My grandfather came up from the States.”

“Was he a Loyalist?”

“Yes, a lot of the families in these parts are. He was loyal to the King and so he left his land and came up here after the American Revolution. My Pa said it was good Gramps didn't live to see the day those Americans would follow him across the border. He hated the Americans.”

“Many of the Loyalists do, and that hatred has fuelled their fight. The Americans thought they could just march north with a few thousand men and capture the whole country. We've made them pay for each foot of soil they've captured.”

I was about to answer when I looked past FitzGibbon and saw two mounted American soldiers appear around the distant curve of the path. I tried to speak, but my mouth dried up as I saw two more right behind them. I raised my hand and pointed. FitzGibbon turned and looked down the path. As we watched, more mounted soldiers appeared. Strolling along, side by side, I'd almost forgotten the reason I was here. We had to run!

FitzGibbon turned back to face me. “We're going to head for that small gap there to the right of the largest of the pine trees. When you reach the path, go to the right.”

“Wouldn't it be better if you led?”

“I'll be right behind you, but first I have something to do.”

“What?”

“Slowly move to the gap as I ordered. Stay shielded behind me and my mount.”

Stay shielded? Why weren't we fleeing?

“Hey! Here we are! Come and get us!” FitzGibbon yelled at the top of his lungs. He had removed his hat and was waving it wildly above his head.

I practically fell off my horse in shock. What was he doing?

“Come and get me! Come on!” he yelled.

Why was he calling to them? Why weren't we running? I angled in my saddle so I could see the charging Americans . . . but they weren't charging. Instead they were fanning out across the path and levelling their guns at us! I ducked down low against my horse just a split second before I heard the loud, angry retort of guns. I heard the shots whizzing past us and through the trees.

A second volley of shot sounded and the hat FitzGibbon held was blown from his hand. FitzGibbon looked down to his hat lying on the ground, and then to me. “Get moving, Tommy!” he yelled.

I didn't need to be told again. I dug in both heels and smacked my horse on the rump for good measure. The horse balked as we neared the gap and I fought to bring it back under control. FitzGibbon and his mount surged past me into the opening and I followed.

No sooner had we found the protection of the trees than FitzGibbon slowed his horse to a trot.

“Why are we slowing down?” I demanded.

“Rough ground . . . we have to go slowly,” he answered. “Besides, they won't be following us through the gap for a while.”

“They won't?” I asked anxiously.

“Not likely. First they'll want to reload, and even then they'll be hesitant to follow us.”

“They will?” That made no sense.

“You weren't the only one wondering what I was doing out there yelling and screaming for them to follow us. Did you think I'd taken leave of my senses?”

“No! I just . . . just . . .”

“Don't worry, lad, my actions were meant to be confusing. Those American soldiers are standing out there scratching their heads trying to figure out why I would do such a thing. A few probably think I'm crazy, but the rest might figure that I want them to follow us, that I have men waiting and I'm leading them into a trap, an ambush.”

“You have men waiting?” I asked, hopefully.

“Not a one.”

“But then . . . why?”

“Having them believe I have soldiers waiting is almost as good as actually having them. It's what the Americans
believe
that matters.”

“Where are your men?”

“Most are camped by DeCew's Falls. That's where we're heading. A few are out in the countryside as I was, scouting the enemy's position. By nightfall there will be fifty members of the Bully Boys there.”