The Bully Boys (17 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“ L
IEUTENANT!” I screamed. He was alive! Suddenly as light as a feather I bounded over fallen trees and crashed through bushes to get to his side.

“You're alive!”

“Very,” he said, in a weak voice. Both hands were holding his chest. He took a deep breath, his chest rose, and he winced in pain. “And the Americans?”

“One's dead and another's badly wounded.”

“Were there only two of them?” FitzGibbon asked.

“No, sir. There was a third. He ran off.”

“Hopefully he'll have to travel some distance to get help.”

“No, there are other Americans close by,” I said.

“You've seen them?” he asked in alarm.

“No . . . but the wounded man . . . he told me.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“And he asked me to give this to his wife,” I said,
showing him the letter I still clutched in my hand.

“Is he badly hurt?”

“The shot hit him in the chest. He's bleeding . . . a lot. He said I should get out of here before they come back.”

“He's right. Let's get to the horses.” FitzGibbon struggled to his feet. He staggered and I grabbed him by the arm to help him stay up.

“Where were you hit?” I asked anxiously. I couldn't see any blood flowing or wound visible on his chest, beneath his hand.

“Right here,” he said, moving his hands to reveal the spot on his chest that he'd been clutching.

“But . . . but . . . there's no . . .”

“No, no wound, but here's what hit me.” he said. He held out a flattened piece of metal and dropped it into my hand. “A musket ball. They flatten when they hit.”

I stood there in wide-eyed, open-mouthed amazement. “It flattened when it hit you?” That couldn't be possible.

“
Before
it hit me. You see that sapling?” he said, pointing to a small tree that had been snapped off about four and a half feet above the ground.

I nodded.

“I think the ball went right through that tree. It cut the top off as it passed through, but the tree slowed the bullet down, flattened it out, and then it hit me . . . right here,” FitzGibbon said.

He pulled out the picture of his fiancée from his pocket. The glass had been shattered and the picture itself looked as though it had been burned.

“The leather behind the picture absorbed the last energy of the shot.”

“Then you're not hurt!”

“I didn't say that. I feel like I've been kicked in the chest by a mule. The force of the blow knocked me backwards and unconscious, but it didn't even break the skin.” He paused and tried to take a deep breath, grimacing in pain. “The Americans might be back at any second. Let's get to the horses.” He looked around on the ground. “Where's my rifle?”

“I had to borrow it. I dropped it back there,” I said, pointing back across the field to where I'd dropped to my knees and vomited. Somehow the letter had remained firmly gripped in my hand even when I let go of both FitzGibbon's rifle and the American's musket.

“And yours?”

“I dropped it after I shot. It's over there somewhere,” I said, motioning to the thick underbrush. “I'll go and look for it.”

FitzGibbon grabbed me by the arm. “We don't have time. We have to get to the horses. It's that way,” he said.

I took off like a shot, but FitzGibbon wasn't with me. I turned around and saw that he had stopped and was bent over. I hurried back to his side.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

He nodded his head. “Just having trouble . . . getting my breath,” he panted. “Can you bring the horses here?”

Pushing through a thick stand of brush I was relieved to see the horses. I grabbed the reins, and started to pull
them back. My mount came willingly, but FitzGibbon's was reluctant to follow and I had to give a solid tug to get him to comply. Getting closer I saw that FitzGibbon was now sitting. His mouth was open and he was holding his chest. He stood at my approach, again staggering and almost falling back to the ground.

“Thanks,” FitzGibbon said as he took the reins of his horse. He placed his foot in the stirrups and with great effort hoisted himself up. I leaped onto my grey.

“Are we heading back to the field hospital?” I asked.

“Of course not. We must go to our camp.”

“But what about your chest? You need to be looked at by the doctor!”

“There's nothing that he can do.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All that he will be able to say is that I'm banged up inside.” He paused and took another deep breath. “Maybe I just need to rest and it will heal by itself, or maybe something inside is hurt badly . . . if that's the case there's nothing he can do anyway.”

His face was now deathly pale. “Maybe it would be better if I don't talk for a while.”

“You not talk?”

FitzGibbon laughed and then grimaced. “And maybe not laugh, either.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“ H
OW ARE you doing today, Tommy?” FitzGibbon asked as I emerged from my tent.

“I'm fine,” I answered. Fine, but with hardly a wink of sleep the last night . . . or the night before. “How are
you
?”

“Everybody's been very interested in my health these last few days,” FitzGibbon answered.

“And what are you answering today?”

He smiled. “I'm better than I was yesterday, but not as good as I'm planning on being tomorrow. I was just speaking to Matthew Williams.”

Matthew had been sent to tell my family all about my Pa. “Did he speak to my Ma?”

FitzGibbon nodded. “He even dropped off that letter from Mr. Givens on the way to your farm. He told me your family was so happy about your father that they wouldn't let him leave without sharing a meal with him. He said it was a feast!”

“My Ma says food makes good news better, and bad news easier to swallow.” I would have liked to have been there. It wasn't just my family I missed but my Ma's cooking. There was always plenty of food in camp but it seemed that nothing tasted quite as good when they had to cook enough of it to feed fifty or more men.

We were back at the DeCews' farm. FitzGibbon's Bully Boys were once again making their camp there. And I was back at work for Mr. DeCew, this time at the mill.

“I'm feeling so well I'm thinking of taking a little ride today,” FitzGibbon said. “Are you interested in coming along?”

“Where would we be going to?” I asked hesitantly.

“Not near the front . . . just into the countryside. I want to make sure I'm as well as I think I am. A good hard ride will let me know if I've healed sufficiently to get back into action.”

“I'd like to come along . . . if Mr. DeCew can spare me.”

“He says you've worked so hard the last two days you deserve a day off.”

I
had
been working hard. Hard work seemed like the best thing to keep my mind occupied.

FitzGibbon walked away a few steps and took a seat, his back resting against a tree. He motioned for me to join him and I slumped down on the grass.

“Have you been thinking about the men you felled in battle?”

I nodded.

“You know, you're not supposed to just forget about it.”

There was no danger of me ever forgetting about it. It was like FitzGibbon had said to me the first time he'd passed me a rifle—when you shoot a man it changes you forever. At the time I hadn't really understood. Now I did. I had changed.

Whenever I was alone I heard the man's voice, and when I closed my eyes at night I saw his face. Thank goodness the other man's face had been turned to the ground. I couldn't bear the thought of having more than one set of eyes haunting me when I closed mine.

“I remember the first man I killed. I was older than you, nearly twenty-two, fighting in Europe against Napoleon. I shot and I saw him fall, and then I was swept away in the heat of battle,” FitzGibbon said.

“How did you know you'd killed him?”

“When the fighting ended I was one of those assigned to bury the bodies. I helped put him in the ground,” he said quietly.

“So you didn't talk to him.”

FitzGibbon shook his head. “He was dead. Long dead. I didn't even know his name.” FitzGibbon paused. “And I certainly wasn't asked to deliver a letter to his wife.”

The letter was in my breast pocket. I'd thought about how I could get it to the man's wife—I knew it couldn't possibly happen until the war ended. I imagined what it would be like to hand it to her myself . . . to see her, and the children of the man I'd killed. Next to it was the letter I'd started to write, the letter to explain what had happened to him. I'd only written the first line . . . I barely knew what to say.

“I know it's hard, Tommy, but you have to remember not just what you did, but why you did it.”

I nodded.

“You did what was necessary. You didn't take those men's lives by choice, but because you had no alternative. If you hadn't shot them they would have killed both of us. You were merely a soldier doing what he needed to do and—”

“Lieutenant!” shouted a soldier as he came running up.

“What is it?”

“A woman was just brought in by some of Captain Ducharme's Caughnawagas. She's demanding to talk to you!”

“Is she from around these parts?” FitzGibbon asked.

“No sir, she said she's from Queenston.”

My ears perked up at the mention of the village I knew better than any other place in the world. Who could it be?

“It must be important. That's a long ride,” FitzGibbon said.

“She didn't ride . . . she walked.”

“From Queenston? That's over twenty miles!” FitzGibbon said in amazement.

“That's what she said, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“She's up at the DeCews' home.”

FitzGibbon turned to me. “You must know practically everybody who lives in Queenston.”

“Everybody.”

“Good. Come along with me.”

I gladly trailed behind the Lieutenant as he hurried up
to the farmhouse. He pulled open the kitchen door, holding it for me, and I entered ahead of him. Mrs. DeCew was standing beside a woman who was sitting at the table. The woman's back was to me, but she turned around as she heard us enter.

“Thomas!” she cried as she stood up and came toward me.

Of course I recognized her instantly. It was Mrs. Secord. She and her husband and children, one of whom had been in the same form as me in school, lived just on the edge of town, not more than a ten-minute walk from our farm.

“Mrs. Secord, what are you doing here?”

“I had to come and give warning!” she exclaimed.

Her hair was wild and unkempt. There were smudges of dirt on her face, and I noticed her dress was both muddy and torn along the bottom.

“I have to speak to Lieutenant FitzGibbon!” she continued.

“At your service,” the Lieutenant said as he nodded his head.

“Thank goodness I've found you! You have to leave!”

“Leave? But I just got here,” he said playfully.

“No, no, you don't understand, you have to leave here! You and your men! The Americans are plotting to capture you!”

“The Americans are always trying to capture me,” he said matter-of-factly.

“But they have a plan . . . they're coming
here
,” she said.

“Here?” He shook his head. “The Americans never
venture this far afield. Besides, how would they even know where to look?”

“I overheard the Americans making their plans. That's how
I
knew where to look,” she said.

FitzGibbon nodded solemnly. Certainly what she had said made perfect sense.

“Mrs. Secord, I want you to sit down, have a sip of that tea that Mrs. DeCew has just set down at the table, and I'll join you.”

“Certainly . . . I would love a cup of tea . . . I haven't had more than a mouthful of water or food since first light yesterday morning.”

She went to sit down and FitzGibbon turned around to the two soldiers who were standing by the door. “Ask Captain Ducharme to send out scouting parties of Indians, especially along the routes to Fort George,” he said quietly. “And I want pickets to be doubled, with a second set stationed farther afield.”

“Yes, sir,” one soldier responded, and they both headed out the door.

“Mrs. DeCew, could you bring two more cups—one for myself and a second for Tommy? And I think all three of us would be most grateful for a small plate of your wonderful bread and marmalade as well.”

Mrs. DeCew smiled and turned to get the food while the two of us took seats at the table beside Mrs. Secord.

“So tell me, Mrs. Secord, how is it that you came to know of the plans of the Americans?”

“I overheard them. In my home, over dinner. There were
four of them talking about their plans. How they were going to come here to this farm and capture or kill you, Lieutenant FitzGibbon.”

“You had American soldiers as your dinner guests?” I asked in amazement. I'd heard of settlers betraying the Crown and aiding the Americans, but I would never have suspected the Secords.

“Oh, goodness no!” Mrs. Secord exclaimed. “They were far from my guests! We were forced to take in American soldiers . . . feed them . . . let them use our homes for a few days as though it were some sort of hotel and we were their servants!”

“How terrible to have to entertain the enemy,” FitzGibbon said.

“And after what they did to my husband . . .” Mrs. Secord said.

“Your husband?”

“He was wounded at the battle of Queenston Heights.”

“Many fine men fell there,” FitzGibbon said solemnly.

I knew a few of those men, but I was sure who FitzGibbon was thinking about—General Brock. He'd fallen leading a charge to the top of the Heights when Queenston was taken. The Lieutenant always talked about the General. He called him the bravest man he'd ever had the honour to meet. For my part, I couldn't even imagine a man more brave than FitzGibbon.