The Bully Boys (12 page)

“We have a lot of butter,” my Ma answered. “We just made it this morning—but none that you can buy, only what one neighbour can give to another.”

“That's a very generous offer, ma'am, but I'll be needing a fairly large amount.”

“You will? How much?”

“I believe somewhere between twenty and forty pounds.”

“Twenty to forty pounds!” she exclaimed. “That's far more than I can provide. Why in the name of goodness would you be needing twenty pounds of butter?”

“You might say I need it to get me into, and then back out of, a very slippery situation,” FitzGibbon answered with a laugh.

“I don't have nearly that much . . . maybe five, or even seven pounds. But whatever we have you may take, so long as you take it for free.”

“Ma'am, I insist that I pay you for—”

“And I will not hear another word about payment,” my Ma interrupted. “Do I make myself clear?” she said, and that determined look was in her eyes again.

FitzGibbon opened his mouth to argue, but he must have known by her expression that it would be pointless. “Thank you,” he said, bowing gracefully from the waist. “Thank you very much.”

* * *

I PULLED the covers up tightly against my face. It wasn't that I was cold—it was a warm evening—I just liked the smell. It was the blanket off my bed. Ma had found another one for John to use in bed tonight and given me this to take into the hayloft. I'd managed to hollow out a comfortable depression in the hay. An occasional piece of straw still poked through my clothes and into my skin, but it really wasn't that troubling. After all, I was far from drifting off to sleep anytime soon.

My mind was filled with the sights of the farm, talking to my sisters, my brothers, Ma . . . how could everything that I'd known my whole life seem so different after only a few short weeks?

I couldn't get either Sarah or the twins to go any more than a dozen feet away from me throughout the day or
evening. And when I mentioned wanting something more to eat, or a drink, they all jumped up and ran to get it. Usually none of them would get me a glass of water if my hair was on fire.

And Ma. Her shoulders were all stooped over now. She looked older and tuckered out. I guess part of it was worry, both about Pa and me. And part of it was probably all the extra work she'd been doing. John had been working hard and doing lots of things, but I knew she'd taken more than her share of turns behind the plough and harvesting in the fields, as well as doing all the housework.

There was also a difference in her voice, or maybe in the tone of her voice. She asked me for my opinion about things—which crops we should put in next year, where I thought we should try to sink a new well, and about the war. And when I spoke she listened to what I had to say, like I was . . . a grown-up! I couldn't help but smile . . . a smile that was quickly erased as my thoughts turned back to my Pa.

It was strange how nobody had talked much about him today. I wanted to talk more than a few times, but I didn't want to get anybody upset . . . especially when there really wasn't anything we could do anyway. Once the Lieutenant got me back to camp, then I was sure he could get some information about Pa and I'd get that information back to my family and . . . What was that? I heard something moving outside the barn.

I sat up and perked my ears to try and make out the sounds. Maybe it was American soldiers . . . no, that made no sense. They wouldn't be sneaking around on foot; I would
have heard horses. It was probably just some animal skulking around the barn—a raccoon or skunk or even a fox. I was sure the chickens were all locked safely away in the barn here with me so there was nothing to be worried about. Then I heard the big barn door open.

“Tommy!” hissed out a voice, my brother's.

“I'm over here!” I called out.

“Where?”

I stood up. A greyish form moved through the darkness. “I'm here, Johnny.”

He came toward me. I slumped back into my hollow in the hay, and he sat down beside me.

“You okay out here?” John asked.

“I've slept in worse places than this over the past few weeks.” I didn't want to mention I'd also slept in far better . . . that fine room at the DeCew house, for one.

“I bet you have.”

“But you didn't come out to ask me if the barn was okay,” I said.

He didn't answer.

“I'm not letting you have the blanket. You should be grateful you're sleeping in the bed while I'm out here with the chickens and cows.”

“I don't want the blanket . . . I want Pa to be home.”

“Everybody wants him to come home, but—”

“I want to go and bring him home,” John interrupted.

“Go where and bring him home?”

“To Burlington Bay. I'll take our wagon and bring him back.”

“That's a long way off.”

“I've been farther than that.”

“When?”

“To York, by boat. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. You were only five years old and you were just luggage. Pa did everything. This is different. The farthest you've ever been by yourself is a dozen or so miles.”

“I can still do it.”

“It's not that easy. Even Pa couldn't get you to York now, what with the war and all. I doubt the Americans will even let you through their lines.”

“I could sneak around them, or maybe just tell them I'm delivering some hay close by.”

“It isn't that simple,” I said. “Besides, he might not even be there any more.”

“If he's not there then I'll just ask them where he's been moved to.”

“They might not even know. It's all pretty confusing.”

“Then I'd just keep looking until I found him,” my brother argued.

“And then what? Do you think the Americans would just let you take him back through their lines?”

“Why wouldn't they?”

“Because he's the enemy,” I explained.

“But he's wounded.”

“But he still might have some information they want, or maybe he was involved in a battle that they fought and they want vengeance, or maybe they would take him prisoner
because they're afraid his wounds will heal and he'll be able to fight them again. Maybe he's even getting better and is ready to go back into battle again. Had you thought of any of that?” I knew that I hadn't until I'd started arguing with him.

There was no answer, which of course meant he hadn't thought of it either.

“You can't go. Ma needs you here with her. It's bad enough with the two of us gone,” I said.

“But we have to know how he is and to help him if he needs us. We have to!”

“You're right . . . but I'll take care of it.”

“You?”

“That's right. Me.”

There was a pause. He was thinking, and in the darkness I couldn't even try to read his face.

“Promise?” John asked.

“I give you my word,” I said.

Now I had to figure out just how I could keep that promise.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ S
O, HOW was your visit with your family?” Lieutenant FitzGibbon asked as we rode along, side by side.

“It was nice . . . longer than I thought it was going to be, though.”

FitzGibbon hadn't come back that first day, or even the next, as he'd said. Instead he'd arrived after dinner the day after that. On the one hand I was grateful for the extra time, but I'd been worried too—about what might have happened to him, and about what I'd do if the American soldiers did come back looking for me.

That first day home I pretty well stayed out of sight, for that reason. But the second day I got up early and just started in with the chores, as usual. I worked hard—John was in charge and told me what work had to be done—until the Lieutenant just popped out of the forest and told me we had to get going. That didn't leave much time for goodbyes, but that was fine with me. I didn't much like that sort of thing anyway.

Ma hugged me just a bit tighter than she used to, and when I saw the tears in her eyes—and the weary, worried look on her face and John's—I almost wanted to stay. But I knew that would be dangerous, for all of us. The last thing my brother said to me, whispered softly so no one else could hear, was “Remember your promise.”

Of course I remembered. That promise had kept me awake for hours the last two nights. Unfortunately my thinking hadn't brought me any closer to an answer. All the same obstacles that stood in the way of my brother also blocked me.

“Were you delayed because you ran into trouble?” I asked.

“More like an opportunity.”

“And it involved butter?” The only thing that had occupied my thoughts more than worrying about Pa was wondering why FitzGibbon had wanted all that butter.

“Why yes, it did involve butter.” He smiled. “A most delicious and useful thing it is. Useful to get into and out of tight places.”

“What sort of places?”

“Places like Fort George,” he said softly.

“Fort George!”

“Yes, lad. I spent a good part of yesterday at the fort among all those American soldiers. There are nearly three thousand of them stationed there.”

“But how . . . why? Were you captured?”

“If I had been, I would not be here with you today.”

“But . . . how did you get away?”

FitzGibbon let out a loud laugh. “Why I just strolled right out through the front gate. The same way I walked in.” He laughed again. “And when I left I had a tidy sum of their coin jingling in my pocket. After all, I gave them a very good price on the butter I was selling.”

“You went into the fort to sell them butter?”

“I had to. It was the best way I could figure to get into the fort and do a little bit of spying.”

“What if they had discovered it was you? They would have taken you prisoner.”

“I would not have been a prisoner for long, Tommy.”

“You mean you had a plan to escape . . . like a secret passage or something?”

He shook his head. “I would not have been a prisoner for long because they would have hanged me.”

I gasped.

“They take soldiers prisoners. Spies they hang, and as soon as I'd exchanged my uniform for the disguise, I was a spy.”

“Then you shouldn't have gone. You shouldn't have risked it.”

“I had no choice. It was far too dangerous to send anybody else, and we needed to gather information.” He smiled. “Besides, it was a jolly good laugh . . . and I knew it would make for a fine story. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed.

“I got the idea a few days ago. If somebody had the freedom to wander among the Americans, right in the fort, maybe they could find out all sorts of interesting information.
I hoped the Americans would feel safe and free to talk.”

“And did they?”

“They chattered away like magpies!” he exclaimed. “But let's not put the cart before the horse. Let me start this story from the beginning.”

I'd heard FitzGibbon tell enough stories to know that not only was it going to be a wonderful tale, but it would probably fill all the time between here and the camp.

“I bought butter from loyal farmers along the route. I had close to forty pounds in my cart,” he began. “Then, dressed in my disguise, I approached the main gate of the fort.”

“I would have been terrified,” I said. Even thinking about it gave me that same weak feeling in the knees I always got when I looked down from a high place.

“I should hope so! I was so scared that I could almost feel my knees knocking together,” FitzGibbon said.

“You were scared?” I'd imagined there was nothing he was afraid of.

“Of course. Only a fool does not get scared, and only a liar claims not to.”

“I just thought . . . the way you act . . . the things you do . . .”

“That I don't feel afraid?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

“I was once told that the difference between a brave man and a coward is not how he feels, but what he does despite those feelings. I believe that to be true.” He paused. “I don't think I have ever entered a battle without my stomach being
gripped with fear. In fact, I don't believe I would trust a man who did
not
feel afraid.”

Well, FitzGibbon could certainly trust
me
. I felt nervous just
hearing
about him walking into the fort.

“So, picture me as a farmer, pushing my cart, dressed in old clothes, entering through the front gate of the fort.”

“Weren't you concerned that the Americans would just take all your butter without paying?”

“That wasn't a big worry . . . not compared to hanging! I trusted that they would act honourably.”

“Huh! I was there at the general store when they just barged in and were going to take what they wanted without paying. And I've heard about soldiers going to farms and robbing the homesteaders.”

“That's all true, Tommy. All armies, including the British, have their share of liars, thieves and robbers. But most of the Americans aren't any different from our men, and they act honourably. I was counting on that.”

“So they let you just walk into the fort?”

“Actually, it was more like I limped in. I pretended to have a lame leg to explain why I was not in the service of one of the armies. As I pushed my cart I leaned against it to take the weight off my bad leg. And they didn't just let me stroll in. The sentries stopped me and asked all sorts of questions. But once they found out I had butter for sale, and at a good price, they opened the gate.”

I shook my head.

“So I made my way across the parade grounds, looking for the supply officer for the fort. And as I walked I talked to
different men. Just being friendly like, striking up a conversation, asking them questions and such.”