The Bully Boys (9 page)

If being on the farm was hard before, it was doubly difficult now. Before, I could only imagine what it was like to be in the saddle or in the field fighting the Americans. Now I knew. I'd had a taste of honey and knew how sweet it was.

“Are you interested in a little ride?” FitzGibbon asked.

I had to fight the urge to shout out ‘Yes!'

“Where?” I asked instead, as casually as I could.

“I'm leading a small party of men. We're heading south toward the Falls. I think our route might just pass to the west of Queenston.”

“You're going by my home, by my farm?” I couldn't even pretend not to be excited.

“Do you think you can tear yourself away from the harvest long enough to come with me?”

I tossed the ear of corn I was holding into the basket. “Let me just go up to the house and tell Mrs. DeCew and—”

“All done. Your steed awaits,” FitzGibbon said, bowing gracefully from the waist.

I looked past him, beyond the edge of the field. Two of his men—McAdams and Jamison—were standing there along with five horses. One of the horses was my grey, and I was happy to see her. They hadn't left her here when I was dropped off. I was told it was far too risky to have her in the
barn on the off chance that an American patrol might come this far and find her and demand to know how she got there. I'd woken up in the middle of the night more than once thinking about being hanged as a horse thief—a double horse thief ! Of course the second steed, the one I'd ridden away from the American blockhouse, had been left with the prisoners when we boarded the boats back for Canada. I can't say that I was sorry to see the end of that horse. He was bad-tempered and tried to throw me more than once as we'd thundered along the road to catch up with Merritt and the men. Maybe the horse had simply been shaken and spooked by the explosion, but I knew I preferred my grey.

Of course, the other image that kept me from going to sleep some nights was of that American soldier lying there on the ground, dead, his eyes open and staring. I wondered who he was, where he was from. Was he somebody's husband, or brother? Maybe he was even a father, although he was so young that if he'd had any children they would have just been babies. How awful to have your Pa die before you even really knew him . . . to not have any memories of him except for what people told you. At least I was old enough to remember my Pa if . . . I stopped myself. There was no point in going there again and again. Did that American's family even know yet what had happened to him? How long would it be before we knew if something had happened to Pa . . . I had to stop myself again.

We walked up and the two men offered a wave and greetings. We all climbed up onto our horses. I reached down and gave the grey a scratch behind the ears. I'd
thought about naming her—I'd had a lot of time to think about such things as I was picking corn—but she really wasn't mine to name.

“Out in front about a hundred paces . . . no more than two turns in the road ahead,” FitzGibbon ordered his men.

“Yes, sir,” one of them replied and they started off ahead of us.

“I want you to lead the pack horse,” the Lieutenant said to me.

I looked at the horse. It was heavily loaded down with sacks.

“How long are we going for?” I asked. It looked as though we had enough supplies to last a month.

“Not long. We're dropping these off along the way. That's why you're leading the pack animal. Most of what's strapped to the horse belongs to you.”

“Me?” Now I was even more confused.

“Flour. Three bags. It's your payment for working in the fields for Mr. DeCew. We're going to be leaving the bags at your farm.”

I smiled, then I knew how much it would mean to my Ma. I wondered if my family would be happier to see me or the supplies. I was pretty certain which they needed the most.

FitzGibbon gave his horse a gentle kick and started off. I leaned back and grabbed the reins of the second horse, urging both on to catch up to the Lieutenant. I slowed my horse as I reached his side.

We rode along, side by side in silence. Occasionally, when the trail reached a long straight stretch, I could see
the other two men up ahead of us, but for the most part they were out of sight. I knew they were up front as scouts to warn us of any approaching danger.

“You must be missing your mother,” FitzGibbon said.

“A lot. And my sisters. I've even been missing my brother . . . and I didn't think that would be possible.”

“It's hard to be away from people you love.” He paused. “I know about that.” FitzGibbon reached a hand into an inside pocket and pulled something out. “Here,” he said handing it to me.

It was a small portrait of a woman . . . a very pretty woman. The picture was behind a piece of glass and the backing was a thick strip of leather.

“Her name is Mary. Mary Haley.”

“She's very . . .” I stopped. Maybe I shouldn't be saying anything.

“Yes, she is very beautiful. And she has agreed to become my wife.”

“Congratulations.”

Carefully I handed him back the portrait. He looked at it again before tucking it back into his jacket. I noticed this time that he had placed it in a pocket over his heart. I had to smile.

* * *

WE TRAVELLED through the better part of the morning before we stopped for lunch, a quick bite grabbed off to the side of the trail. We'd seen nothing all day except birds in
the sky and the back end of two deer disappearing among the trees.

“This must be looking familiar to you,” FitzGibbon said. I nodded.

“I know the area pretty well. I helped out with a barn raising at a farm not far from here.”

“What was the name of the people?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Watson.”

“Robert and Edna Watson?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Yes, that's them. Do you know them?”

“Not them, but I know the farm . . . or what's left of the farm.”

“I don't understand.”

“The house and the barn were burned down.”

“Who would—”

“Dr. Cyrenius Chapin,” he said, spitting the words as though they were poison. “He and his men. They're far worse than any American. In fact, even the Americans dislike him. I understand they call his men ‘The Forty Thieves.'”

“But why would he do that to the Watsons?” I was remembering what nice people they were, and that day, almost two years ago, when my family and every family from all around had worked to raise that building.

“Chapin hardly needs a reason to plunder or take prisoners or burn homes. He would claim that the Watsons were providing aid, but that would be nothing more than an excuse to be a—”

He stopped talking as both of us noticed our scouts coming back toward us down the path. They were moving fast.

“Sir, American cavalry,” one of them exclaimed excitedly as he brought his steed to a halt right in front of us.

“At least ten men,” the other added.

“How far? How fast?” FitzGibbon asked.

“A few hundred paces . . . moving slowly.”

“We have to get back to the path we just crossed,” FitzGibbon ordered. “Tommy, take the lead. If we move quickly we can still avoid being detected. Now go!”

I spun my horse and dragged the second one behind me. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, relieved to see only the three familiar faces and nothing else behind them on the path. We rounded two quick corners and came to the path, and I brought my horse to a stop. Directly in front of us was the longest and most open stretch of the trail we'd travelled along. If we rode hard we could probably get to cover on the other side before the Americans got to this side of the clearing. Off to the right the path led to Queenston and Fort George beyond it. To the left were the cliffs of the escarpment. I knew this area well.

“Everybody to the left,” FitzGibbon ordered.

“But that's a dead-end,” I objected. “There's no way to get a horse down from there except by turning back down the path again. There's only one way in or out.”

“If need be, could we get down the escarpment without the horses?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Sure, there are spots we could climb down,” I assured him.

“Good. Let's proceed up the path then. I'm gambling that the Americans are going back to the town or to the
Fort, and the one way they won't go is farther up the escarpment.”

“And if they do?” I asked.

“Then we make a stand. At least we'll have the high ground. And if we have to, we abandon the horses.”

He made sense, I thought.

“Tommy, you know the way.”

I turned my horse up the much narrower path, and the pack horse followed. I wanted to move quickly but the path was both rough and rutted in places where the fast run-off after countless storms had washed away parts of the trail, leaving behind a mixture of loose rocks and stones. I ducked down to get underneath some low-hanging branches. I didn't remember the path being so enclosed by trees, but then again I'd only ever travelled it on foot.

In fact, I'd only been up this path a half dozen times in my life—the last time three years before—but I remembered it well. It was fairly short, overgrown and then opened up to a wider spot at the top to offer a view for a long way in all directions. The last time I'd gone to the top was with my cousin, Susan. She'd practically leaned over the edge of the rocks while I hung back. I didn't like heights, but I didn't want my cousin—my younger, female cousin—to know I was afraid of something she wasn't. Instead, I convinced her that I wanted to explore the caves that riddled the cliffs of the escarpment.

This time we would all have to make a point of staying away from the edge. No only could you
see
a long way from up there, you could
be seen
from a great distance as well.

“We can't go any farther,” I said, bringing the two horses to a stop. “We'll run out of cover soon.”

FitzGibbon reined in his horse as did Jamison, who was leading McAdam's mount. McAdams was nowhere to be seen. The two men dismounted and I did the same.

“Join McAdams,” FitzGibbon ordered, and Jamison walked back down the trail.

“What do we do if they do come up this path?” I asked.

He shrugged. “What we have to do. You're sure there's no other way down from here for the horses?”

“None, it's pretty steep, even for a climber, and there are a couple of caves—”

“Caves?”

“Lots of them,” I answered.

“Are any big enough to hide five horses?”

“Not even close. Some of them are so small that I'd have to hold my breath to get through the tight spots.” I paused. “But there is an overhang.”

“Where?”

“Right by the top.”

“And could we get the horses down there?” FitzGibbon asked.

“I . . . I don't know . . . maybe . . . I think there's a side trail, but . . .”

I stopped as Jamison and McAdams came running back up the path. I swallowed hard and said a silent prayer that they were just rushing back with the good news that it was safe for us to return—but from their hurried pace I knew that wasn't likely.

“They've turned up the trail,” Jamison said, panting for breath.

“You'd better show us that overhang, Tommy,” FitzGibbon said.

I nodded my head in agreement and started to lead my horses away quickly. The men followed closely behind me. We broke through the last of the trees and the path opened up to brush and bare rock. If we couldn't get down to the overhang we'd at least have to get back down the path far enough to reach cover again—not with the hope of remaining unseen, but in order to take shelter when the shooting began.

I felt that same feeling in the pit of my stomach I'd felt the night we crossed the Niagara, standing in the dark, waiting. Part of me wanted desperately to be someplace else, and another part wouldn't have me anywhere else in the whole wide world.

I came close to the edge and couldn't help but look down the side of the cliff. I leaned away from the edge and then climbed down from my horse. I trusted my own feet more than I trusted the horses'. I led the horses over to the rough path leading down the side to the overhang. It was steeper and rougher than I recalled. I could get down, but could the horses?

I started down and a small shower of rocks skidded down before me. I slowed my pace. If I tripped it would be one thing, but if either of the horses slipped they would fall right on top of me. I heard rocks sliding behind me but didn't dare look back. The path flattened out. We were still well above the bottom of the cliff.

Right ahead, jutting out from the rock face, was the overhang. Covering it like a curtain were vines growing down from above, almost to the ground. This made for better cover but meant I couldn't see into it. Was it really big enough to hide four men and five horses? I remembered it as being large, but that was three years ago, and things I'd always thought were large had gotten smaller and smaller since I'd grown.

Holding the reins and the lead for the pack horse in one hand, I reached out with the other and swept the covering away. With a sense of relief I realized that the space was just large enough for us to fit into. I stepped forward, pushing aside the vines. My horse balked at the entrance and I had to coax her forward. Once she'd come completely through, I let go of her reins and went back, moving the vines aside once more to create an opening for the pack horse to follow in behind. Within less than a minute all the men and their horses had also taken refuge. When the last horse entered I felt a release, as though a weight that had been sitting on my chest had suddenly been lifted.

It was a lot cooler there than on the path, exposed to the sun. Above our heads was solid rock, close enough in places that I could reach up and touch it. The ground was mainly rock and mud, with a few small puddles in places. My horse lapped up a drink from one of the puddles. While the vines had looked like a solid curtain from the outside there were actually lots of gaps and spaces that I could look through.