The Bully Boys (4 page)

“And the rest of your men?”

“There are no more men. That is my full detachment.”

“There are only fifty Green Tigers? But there
must
be more. We're always hearing about you and your men up and down the whole Niagara frontier fighting the Americans.”

“That's good to know. We want everybody to think that I have hundreds and hundreds of men under my command. That's what keeps the Americans penned in at the fort. If they ever learned just how few of us there really are, they might make more ambitious plans.”

“So there isn't anybody to help us?” I asked, confused.

He shook his head. “You have to know that this is a very unequal fight we're engaged in, Tommy. We're outnumbered, out-gunned and short on everything from shoes to sugar. We have to choose our battles carefully. Through stealth and bluff, my men, supported by William Merritt's small group of militia and a band of Indians numbering no more than four hundred, have managed to keep over thirty-five hundred Americans trapped in Fort George. And when they do venture from the fort they stay hemmed close to the river or in large patrols along the major roads.”

We left the woods and I fell in behind FitzGibbon as he started down the narrow trail. I continually looked over my shoulder for the Americans, but I saw nothing except the curves of the little path receding behind us. It was actually less like a path than a thin line where the grass and brush were slightly more worn down. It was hardly a path at all, although I'd walked it myself at times when I was looking for livestock that had broken through our fences or when I was out hunting with Pa. It was just hard to believe that
FitzGibbon would know of this winding trail through the forest and field.

“How are your new shoes?” FitzGibbon called back over his shoulder.

“They're fine . . . they fit fine.”

He started to laugh again. “I was just thinking about those two soldiers. They've probably been untied by now, along with Mr. McCann. Soon enough they'll be going barefoot and weaponless before their commanding officer. And I wonder what tale they'll be telling. Probably how they fought bravely against a band of heavily armed redcoats, but in the end were knocked unconscious and bound with rope.” He paused. “And maybe other American soldiers will be hesitant to go raiding our stores, and a little bit more of our country will be safe from them . . . safe until we drive them out completely. The Americans might have struck the first blow, but in the end it will be our side that strikes the last.”

I chuckled, and FitzGibbon gave me a questioning look.

“It's like my Pa always says: he's never once in his whole life struck a man . . . first.”

FitzGibbon laughed. “Wise words. I would have been content to live side by side with the Americans. We didn't start this fight, but we will end it. Are you hungry, Tommy?”

“A little,” I admitted. My stomach had been rumbling noisily, but that had more to do with fear than famine.

“Then we'll pick up the pace. A good supper will be awaiting us.”

CHAPTER THREE

“ W
HO'S THAT with you?” came a voice from my left.

I jumped slightly in the saddle as I swung around to see who had spoken. I looked around anxiously in all directions but could see no one.

“His name is Thomas. Thomas Roberts!” FitzGibbon called out.

Two men dressed in the same grey uniforms as FitzGibbon came out of the woods, one on each side of the path we were travelling.

“Are all the patrols back?” FitzGibbon asked.

“You're the last. We were starting to worry that you had got yourself into some sort of trouble or mischief,” one soldier answered.

“Me? What sort of trouble could I get in? Especially when I have young Tommy here to help take care of me. Thomas, meet Abraham Brown and Andrew McNeil.”

The two men reached up and we shook hands.

“And Thomas here is joining our ranks?” the one called Abraham Brown asked.

“He won't be joining the Bully Boys, but he will be under our care for a few weeks,” FitzGibbon answered.

“You don't usually come into camp with company, so I assume there is a story here.”

“A small one . . . not particularly interesting or exciting. I'll save it until we're all sitting by the fire tonight,” FitzGibbon offered.

“Looking forward to it,” Andrew McNeil said. “Nothing like one of your stories.”

We started off again leaving the two men behind. I looked over my shoulder and watched as, within a few strides of entering the thick underbrush, they disappeared. Something about those grey uniforms helped make them very hard to see.

“Pickets,” FitzGibbon said.

“What are pickets?”

“Advance guards. We have pairs stationed around the camp at possible points of entry.”

Within half a minute we'd passed out of the forest and into a field. Corn, high and ripe and ready for harvest, filled the field, and we picked our way between the tidy rows.

“This is the farm of John DeCew. It's safe here. The Americans are afraid to come this far inland and away from the river and the fort. We stay here often—but never for long.”

I knew of the DeCews—I'd even met Mr. DeCew once, years before, but I doubted he'd remember me. They owned and operated a flour mill, and people from around these parts brought their grain here. Four years before I'd been to their mill with my uncle and my cousins.

Up ahead I saw a big, stone house, two storeys high. Behind it was an even larger barn, and behind that, across a large clearing, the mill sat on the bank of a creek. As we got closer I could see tents pitched in the field. A few men were visible, moving about or sitting together in groups.

We reached the barn and FitzGibbon dismounted. I climbed off my horse . . . well, at least the American soldier's horse.

“Can you bring the horses into the barn? Somebody will be in there to tend to them. Then come on over to find me and I'll get you settled in.”

I took the reins of the two horses and I'd started to lead them off when I turned instead and watched FitzGibbon walk away. He was met by a group of men. They shook hands, slapped him on the back and started to talk loudly and enthusiastically. They all broke into laughter. It was just how I'd imagined it would be: a brave soldier returning from a dangerous mission, having faced death, sharing the experience with his fellow soldiers.

My stomach grumbled. I was hungry, but I'd get something to eat as soon as I got home . . . home. I wasn't going home, at least not now, and not for a while. What had I gotten myself into? All I'd wanted since the war had broken out was to be in on the adventure. Now I just wanted to go
home and see my Ma and my brother and sisters and even my cousins. I suddenly felt very alone.

“Thomas!”

I looked up to see Mr. McCann . . .
young
Mr. McCann, rushing toward me!

“Thomas, what a surprise to see you! What are you doing here?”

“I was brought here—”

“Can you tell me news of my father?” he asked, interrupting me.

“I was at the store today,” I answered.

“And he was fine? He was holding up okay?”

“Yes . . . he was when I left.” I pictured him bound and gagged along with the two American soldiers, but I thought it best to leave that part to FitzGibbon to explain.

“Have you heard anything about
my
Pa?” I asked.

I was hoping that somebody might have heard of him, or that I might actually see him at this camp.

“Not for weeks. But don't be disappointed,” Mr. McCann said, reading my expression. “There isn't much communication between our units and the others, Thomas. Merritt's men are here with FitzGibbon while the rest of the militia are stationed in Stoney Creek. That's where your father will be.” He paused. “But why are
you
here?”

“Lieutenant FitzGibbon brought me. He said it wouldn't be safe after what happened in the store.”

“The store?
My
store?”

I nodded. I knew this wasn't going to be easy to explain, but I couldn't wait for FitzGibbon to do it. I took a deep
breath and in one long sentence I told him everything. I hesitated when I came to the part about his father having to be tied up. To my complete surprise, Mr. McCann broke into laughter.

“That's probably about the only way you could keep my father quiet! I'm just surprised it wasn't him that hit those Americans with his cane!”

“It might have been if I hadn't got there first!”

I went on to describe the escape, the chase, FitzGibbon screaming for the Americans to follow and then getting his hat shot out of his hand.

Mr. McCann shook his head and chuckled. “Lieutenant FitzGibbon has more lives than a cat and is braver than a lion! He gets into more tricky situations than you could imagine, but he always finds a way out, for himself and for any man that follows him.”

“He did do that,” I agreed.

“Have you eaten?” Mr. McCann asked.

“Not since before chores this morning.”

“Let me take the horses and you go over and get something to eat,” he said, pointing to a fire off to the side of the largest tent.

“I should really help with the—”

“Not another word,” he interrupted. “Get some food and let me take care of the horses.”

I hesitated. Partly because I thought I should take care of the animals myself, and partly because I was anxious about going off alone.

“Go!” he ordered, shooing me with his hands.

As Mr. McCann and the horses disappeared into the barn I slowly made my way toward the food. Over the fire, suspended on stakes, rested a large pot. Off to the side was a table that held metal plates and cups and spoons. I inhaled deeply. Whatever was cooking smelled awfully good. But that probably said more about how hungry I was than how good the food really was.

I wanted to ask somebody about eating—it just didn't seem right to help myself—but there didn't seem to be anybody to ask. Sure, there were men all around—talking, sitting and eating—but nobody seemed to be in charge. I picked up a plate and spoon and walked over to the pot. It was more than half filled with a thick, bubbly stew. It actually did look good! Not as good as my Ma's, but good enough for right now. I reached for the ladle hanging from the spit and spooned out a heaping serving. I picked a spot over by a tree and sat down by myself to eat.

* * *

BETWEEN THE men under FitzGibbon and those in William Merritt's command there were over one hundred soldiers at the DeCews'. I counted over eighty men all sitting and standing around the fire that night as FitzGibbon told the story of our adventure. People roared with laughter and yelled out comments and encouragement as he recounted the details. He was a great storyteller! At times I got so lost in the story that I had to remind myself that he was actually talking about something that had happened to me!

He concluded the tale and there was a round of boisterous applause.

“I'd like everyone to raise their cup!” FitzGibbon called above the noise.

Men called out and grumbled and talked as their cups were refilled—some with ale and some with stronger drink.

“I propose a toast!” he called out. “To a person who risked life and limb for King and country—somebody who reminds me of myself as a lad—and if not for his bravery I would not be here tonight . . . to Thomas Roberts!”

To me!

“Hear, hear!” called out many voices as the men raised their cups. A number of them then came over and shook my hand or slapped me on the back, offering congratulations or praise.

“Come on up to the house with me, Tommy,” FitzGibbon said.

He ushered me through the crowd of men. They all seemed so happy and carefree, it was more being at a barn raising than fighting a war. This was the sort of fellowship and adventure I was sure my Pa and uncle were having, and now I was part of it too. But FitzGibbon had other ideas.

“I want you to meet Mr. and Mrs. DeCew. You'll be staying with them until you hear from me again.”

“Hear from you? I don't understand.”

“We'll be breaking camp at sunrise. Two nights in a row at one camp is often one night too many,” he explained.

“But why can't I go with you?” I asked.

“That's not possible, Tommy. I brought you here to keep you out of harm's way, not to put you in any greater danger.”

“But I wouldn't be in the way. I could even help,” I pleaded.

“You
will
be helping, but that help will be here. With so many men away in the militia there isn't enough help to bring in the crops.”

“You mean I'll be working here . . . on this farm?” I couldn't believe it.

“That is correct. Part of the crop, ground into flour, will go back to you and your family as your wages. And part will go to other families in the area. Families that might go hungry this winter without the aid of Mr. DeCew. There's not much point in winning this war if our crops are lost and our people starve, is there? Our farms are what we'll have when it's all over. So working here will help, won't it?”

“Yes, sir . . . it will,” I acknowledged. And I couldn't help thinking then of my Ma and the rest of my family, trying to work two farms with no men at home, not even me. What was I doing, dreaming of adventure, when they needed me so much? Part of me wanted to go back, but another part of me wanted to try my luck with the Bully Boys.

“You don't look happy,” FitzGibbon observed.

“It's just . . . just that I . . .”

“You want to be part of our expedition.”

I nodded.

“I remember how eager I was at your age. All I wanted was to leave behind my sleepy little village and find adventure. I enlisted when I was only two years older than you.”

It sounded so exciting, and I wanted to be part of it all. Hadn't I proved something back there in the store?