Authors: Eric Walters
“What sort of questions?”
“Things like where they were from and how long they had been away from home,” he answered. “Important things like that.”
“But why are those things important?”
“A man who has come farther and been away longer is most likely to be most unhappy. And an unhappy soldier is not a good soldier. He is more likely to not want to fight when a battle is going against him, more likely to turn and run, maybe even desert.”
“And?”
“And many of these Americans have come from far away. Some from way down south . . . which is good news for us. Once the weather changes, many of these men, unused to and unprepared for a good, hard Niagara winter, will find their minds drifting back to the warmth of the south. Where the mind goes, the body is most likely to follow.”
“Did you learn anything else?” I asked.
“I learned that there are fewer men at the fort than we thought. There are only twenty-eight hundred men stationed there.”
“How did you learn that?” I couldn't imagine him counting them.
“I asked. Their supply officer provided me with the numbers so I could figure out how much butter and milk and meat they would need. I told him I could get everything he required at a cheaper price than he was paying . . . and
hinted that we could split the profit without anybody being the wiser.”
I just shook my head again.
“I had no more than met the man when I realized he was a chap of very little brain, and even less integrity. As soon as I told him I could supply more than just butter, and at a good price, I knew he would let me in on more than he should . . . and he did. What really baited the hook for him was my promise to bring all the supplies right to the fort so he wouldn't have to go outside and try to locate them himself.” He paused. “You see, this supply officer lives in deadly fear of going beyond the walls of the fort. It seems that he has heard rumours about a British officer . . . a man who is reputed to be pure evil . . . a fellow by the name of FitzGibbon. He told me a few tales, and I have to admit that I began to be afraid of this FitzGibbon fellow myself.” The Lieutenant burst out into a loud and boisterous laugh.
“But how could you just sit there with a straight face and listen to stories like that?” I asked.
“Oh, I didn't just listen. I made up a few of my own,” he said softly. “By the time I was through describing some of the things I'd heard about this devil FitzGibbon, I think that poor supply officer wanted to hide under his bed!”
“You didn't!” I exclaimed.
“Of course I did! And more than that, I told him that FitzGibbon was in charge of a force of men numbering over five hundred, and I knew it for a fact because I used to supply them with milk and meat . . . at least until they stopped paying for it. Not only is FitzGibbon the devil himself, but
he doesn't pay his bills! And I told him about the Indians who were all around these parts, and that while I didn't know how many, because they don't buy from me, I figured there must be close to two thousand of them massing and ready . . . ready for an attack on the fort.”
FitzGibbon broke into laughter once more, and I couldn't help but join in as well.
“And then, after I'd listened to the men complain and moan, I left behind my butter and walked out with their money in my pocket. Oh, that reminds me,” he said as he stood up in his stirrups and dug deep into the front pocket of his pants. “This is for your family,” he said, as he reached out to me, dropping coins into my hand. “For your family's butter.”
“My Ma said she didn't want any money for the butter.”
“I know what she said, and I'm smart enough not to argue with your mother . . . so I'm giving you the coins instead!”
“Butâ”
“That's an order! Put them away and keep them. You never know when a few coins might come in handy for your family.”
That had an ominous tone to it, and it reminded me. Maybe it was time to ask for his help in finding my Pa. I took a deep breath, and swallowed hard.
“I was hoping that you'd be able to help meâ”
“Locate your father,” FitzGibbon said.
“Yes! How did you know?”
“If it were my father, I would want the same.”
I nodded my head. “But there's more,” I said softly. “I
promised my brother that I wouldn't just find out about him, but that I'd go to my Pa . . . maybe even try to bring him back if I could.”
“Bringing him back might not be possible, but I do understand your need to see him. Is the day after tomorrow soon enough for you?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful!” I exclaimed.
“Good. We'll leave the day after tomorrow.”
“We? You mean you're coming with me?”
“I have to meet with my commander, and that journey will take me along the road you need to travel. So we'll go together . . . if that's all right with you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“ W
AKE UP, Tommy.”
I sat up. “What's wrong?” It was pitch black and obviously still the middle of the night.
“Nothing is wrong . . . but you have to get up.” I recognized the Lieutenant's voice and was both reassured and unnerved. Why did FitzGibbon want me to get up?
“But . . . it's not morning.”
“We have to leave right now.”
“Leave? Are there Americans coming?” I asked in alarm.
“Nobody is coming. It's time to leave to find your father.”
That was right. My Pa. “But why now? I thought we were leaving in the morning,” I said, as I crawled to the opening of the tent. Because I was just staying for the night I had bunked down in one of the tents rather than in the DeCews' home.
Get your pack and kit and meet me by the horses. Be quick . . . and quiet.”
FitzGibbon turned and disappeared into the dark while I retreated into the tent to retrieve my things. There were five other men inside and I hoped at least some of them were still asleep. It was difficult in the dark to be certain that I had all my things, but I tried my best to stuff my belongings into my pack. I crawled to the opening again, half carrying, half dragging my pack behind me. I got outside, stood up and then bent over to retie the flap of the tent.
“Tommy . . . good luck . . . and I'm sure he'll be just fine,” came Jamison's voice from the tent.
“Thanks,” I replied. I finished the last tie and headed for the horses.
A full moon shone down through a cloudless sky and cast enough light to make the steps ahead of me clearly visible. I closed the distance to the horses and could make out at least twenty figures astride their mounts. How many of us were going? Up ahead, well in front of the animals, stood two men. As I approached, I could see that one was FitzGibbon.
“Thomas, this is Captain Ducharme.”
“Most pleased to meet you,” the other man said with a French accent as he reached out his hand and we shook.
“The Captain and his men are travelling to Burlington Bay and have generously agreed to allow us to accompany them,” FitzGibbon explained.
“It is both our pleasure and honour to have your company,” Captain Ducharme replied.
“Then we are ready, Captain.”
“I'll get my men set while you two take to your mounts.”
He turned and walked away into the distance to join the column of shadowy figures.
“Come, Tommy, our horses are this way.”
Our horses, his big black and my grey, were tethered to a shrub. We untied them and mounted. My horse seemed nervous and fidgety as I settled into the saddle, and I understood how she was feeling.
“Why are we travelling at night?” I asked as I brought my horse up beside the Lieutenant's. I'd done it rarely, and I felt uneasy.
“Best time to travel unobserved.”
“Best time to get lost or fall off the edge of a cliff as well,” I said.
“Not if you have an Indian guide,” FitzGibbon answered.
“Captain Ducharme has an Indian guide?”
FitzGibbon laughed. “All the Captain has is Indian guides. He's in charge of close to two hundred members of the Caughnawaga tribe. Look around,” FitzGibbon said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm.
I glanced at the long line of figures in front of us. They were now close enough that I could make out their individual features. In both directions, as far as I could see before the darkness closed in, were Indians! Some were astride their horses while others, in little clusters, stood beside their mounts.
“Don't worry, Tommy. You know not to believe all the stories you've been told,” FitzGibbon said quietly.
“I don't . . . I just . . .”
“They're good and honest people. We are going to ride
with Captain Ducharme. You can learn much from him about our native allies.”
Falling in behind FitzGibbon I moved alongside the column of Indians. I picked up smatterings of muted conversation as I passedâsoftly spoken and with only an occasional word I could hear, in a language I didn't understand. A few times FitzGibbon called out a greeting to somebody he recognized. One Indian, mounted on his horse, came up beside FitzGibbon and they loudly greeted each other and then clasped hands.
“Tommy, this is somebody I want you to meet!” FitzGibbon announced.
I brought my horse forward.
“This is Tachuck,” he said.
The Indian nodded his head at me and I nodded back. He was a large man, and his expression was serious.
“Tachuck and I rode together at the start of the war. I hope we'll all be able to share a meal together some time during the trip.”
The hint of a smile broke on Tachuck's face. He nodded his head again, and then moved away. FitzGibbon moved his mount forward and I fell in behind him. We stopped when we reached Captain Ducharme.
The Captain yelled out an order, in words I didn't understand, and the men directly in front of him started into motion along the trail. Behind me, I could hear rustlings as men vanished into the bush on both sides.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“When we move it isn't just in a thin column of men.
Scouts move throughout the forest . . . like a wave, flowing forward . . . seeing things . . . seeing everything. For us it is safe at the centre of that wave. Come, it is time for us to move.”
Ducharme led. FitzGibbon gestured for me to follow, and then he fell in behind me on the narrow path. I soon realized, as we moved along in silence, that this was going to be a long night unbroken by conversation. I settled into the saddle and tried not to think too much.
* * *
THE MOONLIGHT had slowly given way to the weak, thin, morning light. I couldn't be certain but I figured we had ridden for almost four hours. All the shadows and shades of grey and black were being replaced by colours, which became more varied and vivid as the day became brighter.
“There's our camp up ahead,” Captain Ducharme announced.
I looked past him and saw a small cluster of tents hidden among the trees. I could also see a large fire. Getting closer, I noticed a big pot hanging from a spit above the roaring blaze. But despite the size of the fire there was no smoke rising into the air to mark its existence . . . or our location.
Captain Ducharme dismounted and I did the same. There appeared to be only a half dozen men and horses clustered in the immediate vicinity of the fire. Where were the rest of the Indians?
“Smells like oatmeal,” FitzGibbon said.
“It is,” Captain Ducharme confirmed. “The Indians say it's the closest thing we have to cornmeal so they have it at least once a day . . . sometimes twice. Personally, I've eaten so much oatmeal I feel as though I'm going to turn into a Scot.” He ladled out a bowlful. “Here, have some. Even if you don't like the taste it helps to drive away the night's chill.”
I took the bowl. I didn't see any utensils. “Um. . . spoons?”
“You brought what you need with you,” the Captain said.
“I did?” I hadn't packed anything like that in my pack. Was I supposed to?
The Captain dipped his fingers into a second bowl of oatmeal and scooped it up into his mouth. “We have to travel light. Just one of the things my Indian brothers have taught me.”
“Where are the rest of the Indians?” I asked. I could see no more than a dozen around us.
“There are little clusters and groups spread out all around us.”
“Natives are able to just fade into the forest,” FitzGibbon explained. “Hundreds of men can be only dozens of feet away but invisible . . . until they want to be seen.”
“He's right, Tommy. I've learned a great deal over the past months. Not just how to move through or hide in the forest, but how to live off the land. We require less than a quarter of the food and supplies needed by the regular British soldiers,” Captain Ducharme explained.
“What interests me most are the native techniques of warfare,” FitzGibbon added.
The Captain agreed. “Those big battles, like two bulls
butting their heads together, might work on open plains, but not in the wilds of Canada.” He paused. “But look who I'm talking to! You and your Bully Boys use many techniques borrowed from the natives.”
“Yes, like taking forest trails instead of roads, using speed and stealth. But I have also heard tales about night fighting.”
“Those tales are true. The Indians are very skilled in fighting in the dark of the night,” Ducharme confirmed.
FitzGibbon nodded his head. “Is it true that they possess better night vision than whites?”
“The trick, I believe,” Ducharme answered, “isn't how well they can see, but instead in knowing where to look. When travelling during the day, the eye of the traveller is most often looking ahead . . . far ahead. Wouldn't you agree?”
FitzGibbon nodded his head.
“At night, you cannot see very far ahead because there is not enough light in the sky.”
That seemed pretty obvious, even to me.