The Bully Boys (2 page)

“Drop your weapon!” the grey-coat yelled.

His own rifle was slung across his back. He held the American's musket firm with one hand, reached out with his other hand and struck the soldier across the face. The American fell to the floor but maintained his grip on the weapon.

“Surrender and you won't be harmed!” yelled the man.

“What in God's name?”

It was the other American soldier, who must have heard the commotion! Before he could get his weapon off of his back, the man in grey, still holding the first soldier's musket in one hand, reached over and took hold of the second weapon with his other hand pulling them close! The heavy-set soldier pulled frantically to free his gun while the first, still slumped to the floor, held firm with both hands on his musket.

“Don't fire!” the taller man yelled to the other. “Your gun is aimed at me!”

“I demand that you both surrender immediately!” the
grey-coat called out. His voice was remarkably calm and commanding, as if he refused to recognize that he was outnumbered.

“Are you insane?” the heavy-set man shouted.

“How dare you say such a thing!” the grey-coat declared. He struck out with a foot, kicking the man in the knee. The American groaned loudly but held tight to his weapon.

“The village is filled with soldiers. They'll come running and you'll have no choice!” screamed the soldier who'd been struck.

Of course he was right. If the grey-coat had fired his own rifle, he'd have alerted every American soldier in the village. But even if no one else arrived, he couldn't possibly hold these two off for much longer. I didn't know who this man was, but I knew he was the enemy of the Americans. That put him on our side, and he needed help.

Slowly I stood up. My knees buckled slightly. The three men were locked in struggle and nobody saw me. I slipped an axe handle out of the barrel and stole along the length of the shelf, invisible to them. I brought the handle up high above my head, leaped around the corner of the shelf and ran toward the men.

“Look out!” screamed the man on the floor, and he struggled to his feet.

The other soldier turned his head in alarm. I saw his eyes widen in shock and I hesitated for a split second before I brought the axe handle down. He turned slightly out of the way and the handle struck the side of his head, glancing down and hitting his shoulder solidly with a sickening thud.
He crumpled to the floor! Blood flowed freely from his head. He was unconscious . . . or was he dead? I felt a shiver run the length of my body.

Almost immediately the grey-coat spun around and with his free hand, landed a thunderous punch to the face of the remaining American! The soldier staggered and lost his hold on the musket. The grey-coat swung the weapon and it struck the man's face. He collapsed again to the ground.

“Oh, my good Lord!” old man McCann called out. In the commotion I hadn't noticed him return from the storeroom.

“Are you loyal to the King?” the soldier demanded as he spun the gun around, pointing it at the old shopkeeper.

“To King and country,” Mr. McCann sputtered. “My son is in the service of His Majesty.”

“With what regiment?” the grey-coat asked.

“He's in the militia under the command of William Merritt.”

“With Merritt,” he said, nodding his head and lowering the gun. “What is your son's name?”

“The same as mine, Jonathan McCann.”

“Jonathan McCann! I know your son! He is a good man, and it is an honour to meet his father!” The grey-coat came forward with an outstretched hand and the two men shook.

“My name is FitzGibbon. Lieutenant James FitzGibbon.”

“You're FitzGibbon?” I said in amazement.

He turned to me. “I am most grateful for your actions. Without them I am not sure how long I could have held those two at bay. What is your name, son?”

“Thomas Roberts, sir,” I answered nervously.

I could hardly believe it. I was standing face to face with James FitzGibbon! Everybody on the whole Niagara frontier, both Americans and Canadians, knew of him. He was the leader of the Green Tigers, a band they called “The Bully Boys,” a group of British army regulars, mounted men who were feared by the Americans. Everybody had heard tales of their bold and brave deeds. They were the only soldiers loyal to the King still fighting in this part of the Niagara.

“I am most pleased to meet you, Thomas Roberts.” FitzGibbon took my hand and we shook. He was a large man, with reddish hair, wide in the shoulders, and at well over six feet he was even taller than my Pa.

“I am in your debt, sir,” he said as he bowed from the waist.

I didn't know what to say . . . James FitzGibbon was in my debt!

“You saved me from an act of foolishness, Thomas. I never would have entered the store if I had realized there was more than one soldier here. I saw one horse tied to the hitching post and assumed there would be only one rider inside. I almost paid for that mistake with my freedom, possibly my—”

His speech was cut off by the sound of horses moving along the road just outside the store. FitzGibbon raced over and peeked out through the curtains.

“There are near a dozen of them . . . American cavalry. They haven't been alerted yet.” He paused. “Mr. McCann, do you have rope?”

“A few coils in the back.”

“Get them, please,” FitzGibbon said. “I can't take these men prisoner so I'll have to restrain them.”

If they had to be tied up, that meant they were still alive. Thank goodness . . . !

Mr. McCann hobbled away, but moved much more quickly than I ever remembered seeing him go before.

“Can you give me a hand, Thomas . . . do you go by Thomas?”

“Most people call me Tom, but my Pa calls me Tommy.”

“And how old are you, Tommy?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

He nodded his head. “I thought you were older.”

“I wish I were,” I told him. “Then I could be fighting beside my father.”

“And where is your father?” he asked. As he spoke he took a knife from his belt and cut the ammunition bag and powder horn off one of the men.

“He's with the militia.”

“With William Merritt?”

“No sir, with the Niagara brigade.”

He cut away the second soldier's ammunition as well.

“Take off their shoes, Tommy.”

“Their shoes?”

“Aye. There are men in the militia who have neither shoes nor shirt. I think this war is going to be decided more on proper footwear than on the accuracy of our attacks.”

I looked at the shoes of the first man and then at my own bare and dusty feet. I had a pair of shoes but they were at
home, safely put away. There was no point in wasting them in a walk to the village.

“Here's the rope,” Mr. McCann said, handing it to FitzGibbon.

“Good!” In one powerful motion FitzGibbon grabbed the man and flipped him onto his front, pulled his hands behind him and looped the rope around his wrists.

Carefully I started to remove the shoes from the first man. I tried to be gentle . . . which suddenly struck me as strange. Just a few minutes ago I'd crowned this man with an axe handle. The side of his head was swollen and blood was still dripping from the side of his face. I could have killed him. I saw his chest rise as he took in a breath, and I took a deep breath myself in relief.

I proceeded to take the shoes from the second man. Mr. McCann was helping the Lieutenant tie up the first soldier.

“Do you live far from Queenston, Tommy?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Not far. A few miles.”

“Not good,” he said quietly.

Why wasn't it good? It was better than having to trudge miles through the woods to get to the general store.

“I'll be needing some rags for gags,” FitzGibbon said.

“That we surely have,” Mr. McCann answered.

“I'll be needing three,” the lieutenant said softly.

“Three? Why do you need three?” Mr. McCann asked.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but the third one is for you.”

“Me?” Mr. McCann said, in a shocked tone that mirrored my thoughts.

“Yes. When these men are discovered they will assume that you were party to their capture, unless you too are a captive,” FitzGibbon explained. “I could take you with me, but that would simply convince them that you were in league with me, and your store would surely be burned to the ground.”

“They wouldn't do that, would they?” I asked.

“They would and they have,” FitzGibbon said. “I've seen and heard of many things since the invasion. Houses burned, homes plundered, old men dragged from their houses and taken prisoner.”

Mr. McCann shook his head slowly. “I've worked too long and hard for this store. I'll get the rags,” he said, and he started to walk away.

“And Mr. McCann?”

He stopped and turned around.

“Is there anybody else in the store . . . in the back?”

Mr. McCann shook his head. “My daughter-in-law and the children have gone to spend time with her mother up by Chippawa. We thought it would be better if she were farther afield from the fort.”

FitzGibbon nodded. “And you, Tommy. Did these soldiers see your face?”

I could picture the widening eyes of the one soldier before I struck him. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded his head slowly. “Once these two recover their senses they will be assigned to patrols that will search the local houses and homesteads . . . for you.”

“For me!” I exclaimed in shock.

“I had hoped your farm was some distance from here, but it is close enough for them to visit. And if they were to find you they might harm you, or make you a prisoner or burn down your barn and house.”

“I could hide.”

“You have to come with me, Tommy.”

“Come with you! You want me to join the Green Tigers?” I felt a rush of fear and excitement.

He shook his head and chuckled. I felt stupid. Of course he didn't want me to join his men. But what?

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “You've shown that you are brave, and would be a fine member of my regiment, but I must respect your parents' wishes.”

I gave him a questioning look.

“If they had wanted you to be in uniform you would not still be on the farm. I just wish to have you be elsewhere for a while . . . maybe a month or so.”

“I can't just go away!”

Mr. McCann, who had returned with the rags, placed a hand on my shoulder. “He makes sense, Tom. You have to go with him.”

“But I'm needed on the farm, and my Ma needs to know what—”

“I'll get word to her,” Mr. McCann said. “At least, once I'm untied.”

“Please take great care in doing so,” FitzGibbon warned. “The Americans will question you about your knowledge of the boy. If they believe you're not offering the truth it won't just be your store that is burned down.”

Mr. McCann stood a little straighter. “Whether they take me prisoner or leave nothing standing but the charred remains of my store and my home, they shan't be finding anything from me.” He smiled. “After all, I'm just an addled old man . . . so old he hardly knows his own name.” He started to laugh, and somehow that freed us all up to chuckle along with him.

“I'll just tell 'em he was one of those beggar boys that have been wandering around since the war. That'll fool 'em.”

“You have to come with me, Tommy. There's no choice. For you to stay would endanger both you—”

“I'm not afraid! I don't want to run!” I said defiantly.

“—And your family,” FitzGibbon said, continuing the sentence I'd interrupted.

He was right, of course. I couldn't take a chance. I couldn't put my family in jeopardy.

“Do either of those pairs of shoes look like they might fit you?” FitzGibbon asked.

“They're both about the right size.”

“Slip on a pair.”

While I put on the shoes he started to tie up Mr. McCann. The shoes were a little tight in the toes, but they fit as well as my own shoes did. I tied up the laces.

“Thomas, you be careful out there,” Mr. McCann said. His hands were now secured behind his back. “God save the King,” he added, just before the Lieutenant slipped the gag into his mouth.

FitzGibbon gave Mr. McCann a pat on the back and then rose to his feet.

“This is the first time I've had to tie up a loyal subject of His Majesty. What I've learned is that sometimes it is better to be sly than skilled or strong. Come along now,” he said, as he moved over to the window and carefully looked out. “It looks clear.”

I looked too. All I could see was Mrs. Brown, a dozen buildings distant, sweeping the porch of her store. But I wondered how far away was that detachment of American cavalry who had just ridden through town.

“My horse is hitched round back. I'm going to take their guns and ammunition and go there. You must go out front, unhitch the American's horse and lead him around the side.”

“Me?”

“It can't be me. It was chance enough that I came through the front door in the first place. Just move slowly, but with confidence, as though the horse actually belongs to you.”

“What if somebody on the street sees me?”

“Keep your face to the horse so you can't be further identified.”

“But what if it's an American soldier who sees me?”

“Keep moving to where I'll be waiting. If he follows you that far . . . he won't be following you any farther,” he said, holding up the two captured guns. “Count to thirty and then go for the horse. Remember, slowly and with confidence.”

FitzGibbon turned and walked to the back of the store. He stopped for an instant, reached out and placed a hand on Mr. McCann's shoulder and then disappeared through the curtain.

I had just started counting in my head when my attention was caught by the sound of a deep groan. I looked back at the three men, Mr. McCann and the two soldiers, bound and gagged by the back of the store. One of the soldiers was coming to. His eyes were still closed but he was tossing his head and moaning. I turned away and fixed my gaze back on the street.