The Bully Boys (8 page)

The darkness was split by the explosion of a gunshot, and then a second, and third, and a volley of muskets! In shock I looked first at Mr. McCann and then at the gate to the blockhouse. More shots rang out and a man fell to the ground!

CHAPTER SIX

“ F
OR KING and Country!” Mr. McCann shouted. He rose to his feet, along with men on all sides, and charged out of the forest and into the clearing surrounding the blockhouse. Each man screamed as he ran forward, and their roar was punctuated by the explosion of musket fire. The smell and smoke of the shot filled the air.

The rush of excitement caused me to leap to my feet as well, and I had to fight the urge to run forward with the men. Instead I followed to the edge, to the very last tree, and stopped—I needed to see, but I also needed to keep my word. Spread out before me, at the front and both sides of the blockhouse that I could see, men had closed the open ground from the meadow and were at the walls. The front gate was still open and I could make out redcoats and militia streaming through the gap and into the fortification. I wished I could be there, inside the gate, watching, seeing, knowing all that was happening instead of under cover in
the trees, hiding from the musket fire. Then the sound of the guns suddenly stopped. And the cries of the men ceased as well, leaving nothing but a complete and eerie silence. The smoke clung in the air. The smell was bitter and strong in my nose and mouth.

I ventured out of the forest and into the clearing. The torch was still lying on the ground by the gate. Although its flame had died down, its light still illuminated the entrance and reached almost to where I stood. Half a dozen of our soldiers were standing at the gate, indicating that whatever had happened was done and that our side had been victorious. No one would object if I joined them now.

As I approached, the six men at the gate split off into two groups. Three went up the road toward Lewiston while the others went down the road in the direction of Fort Niagara.

Immediately I knew what was being done: pickets were being sent out to guard the approaches to the blockhouse, to warn of approaching soldiers. There was no telling how far afield the sounds of the battle had travelled.

I braced myself and then peeked through the gate. Other torches had been lit and I could clearly see the ground between the wall and the blockhouse. There were American soldiers, at least twenty, standing in the open, their arms in the air, with a ring of militia and redcoats standing guard, muskets at the ready. There were a few blue-coats lying on the ground beside the others— wounded, I guessed.

I'd seen one of our men go down at the gate. Was it
FitzGibbon, or Merritt, or one of the others? I had to find out.

I stepped in through the gate and stumbled. I looked back. I'd tripped over the legs of a man lying on the ground.

“I'm sorry,” I stammered.

“Save your breath, he won't be hearing you.”

I turned around to face the voice. It was one of our men, Jennings. I didn't understand what he meant until I looked closer at the fallen soldier. He wore a blue American uniform. The front was smeared with the red of blood.

“Is he . . . ?”

“He'd better be dead,” the soldier offered.

I stepped back from the corpse, still staring at his face. His eyes were open, staring blankly up into the night sky. All at once my stomach gave a flip.

“Your first battle, son?” he asked.

I nodded. “The Lieutenant, is he . . . is he . . . ?”

“He's fine. I think bullets bend around that man.”

“But I saw somebody fall.”

“Garrett caught one in the shoulder . . . not serious. Only two wounded, none killed.”

“Where is the Lieutenant?” I asked.

“Inside the blockhouse,” he answered, motioning to the front door of the building. “Go in and see for yourself.”

As I walked I tried not to stare at the American prisoners, but the groaning of one of the men lying on the ground drew my gaze. Another soldier was binding his leg with a blood-stained cloth.

I opened the door and looked inside. It was brightly lit,
with oil lamps positioned all around. Shelves crammed with provisions lined the walls from top to bottom and divided the large room. Barrels and sacks and wooden crates were piled in the aisles. It reminded me of Mr. McCann's store, before the war, except it was bigger, stocked with even more supplies.

“Hold the door!” a soldier called out.

I pulled it wide open and he exited the building carrying a half dozen muskets. No sooner had he passed than two more men came with similar loads. I found a broom and wedged it in against the door so it would remain open. Two more men came, carrying between them a wooden crate. Judging from the strained looks on their faces it must have been very heavy. Glancing around at the abundance I quickly realized there was no possible way that we could make off with all of these supplies.

In the corner, hovering over a desk, stood FitzGibbon and Merritt and another soldier. As I got closer I realized there was also a fourth man, dressed in a blue American uniform, who was sitting at the desk. Together the four of them were going through a large book. I moved closer— close enough to see and hear without being right there on top of them.

It quickly became apparent that the American was the supply officer for the blockhouse. He knew all of the contents of the building and where they were stored. FitzGibbon and Merritt were politely asking him questions and he was giving them answers. FitzGibbon would then have soldiers sent to those locations to remove the supplies.
Mainly he was asking about weapons and ammunition and powder. When those had been found, FitzGibbon's inquiries turned to food items: flour, salt, whisky and tobacco. More soldiers were sent and more barrels and bags and crates were moved through the doors and outside.

“Thank you, sir, you have been both an officer and a gentleman,” FitzGibbon said.

“And what will become of my men? Are you taking us back as prisoners?”

“That is not my intent. I am prepared to offer a proposal. We require assistance to transport these provisions back to our boats. Any man who carries his weight and acts with integrity will be released once we reach our vessels,” FitzGibbon said. “You have my word.”

The American rose to his feet. “And the wounded?”

“They will be allowed to remain. Do you have somebody who can tend to them?”

The American nodded. “I agree to your terms.” He reached out his hand, FitzGibbon offered his, and they shook.

As they continued to stand there, making polite conversation, I was struck by the strangeness of the whole situation. This American officer was offering them assistance to take his supplies. Just a few minutes ago, they'd been trying to kill each other!

There was one other thing that struck me as odd. These two men, one dressed in a red uniform and the other in blue, could just as easily have been two old friends talking over the rail fence separating their properties—even two
brothers, like my Pa and uncle. And yet the colour of their uniforms meant that in battle they were mortal enemies, each sworn to try to take the life of the other.

“May I be excused to tend to my men and inform them of your offer?” the American officer asked.

“Certainly.”

They exchanged salutes and the officer was led away by two of our soldiers.

“It's a shame, isn't it, Tommy?” FitzGibbon said.

“What is?” I asked, surprised that he'd directed a question to me.

“All these supplies and we can't take all of them back across the river. There's much here that would help us and the families of the men along the Niagara.”

“But we can take a lot.”

“Quite a bit. Some provisions, weapons and ammunition. If we had more time, or more than one wagon—”

“There's a wagon?” I interrupted.

“Yes, and horses to pull it.”

“But the wagon will never make it through that path,” I said.

“You're right about that. We're going to travel along the main road back toward Lewiston as far as we can. If our advance guard meets no opposition we'll travel right to the sight of our first encounter with the militia. We'll pass the supplies from one man to the next along the trail down the cliff and to the boats. I just wish I had a second wagon so I could have taken away the two twelve-pound cannons and a six-pounder we found. I suppose it has to be enough to know
that we've spiked them, ruined them so they'll never be capable of firing a shot.”

“Ready to go, James,” Merritt announced from the far end of the room. “The prisoners have been assembled, their wounded moved outside the walls, and the wagon is loaded with supplies and our wounded.”

“Have you recalled the pickets from the road to Fort Niagara?” FitzGibbon asked.

“Being recalled now.”

“Good. Would you please take the main party and proceed down the road? Leave me three men and four horses and we'll set out once we've completed our work here. I have no doubt we'll overtake you long before you reach the boats.”

“If you don't, I'll be back looking for you,” Merritt said.

“Could I stay with you?” I asked FitzGibbon.

“It would be safer if you were with the main party.”

“I'll stay out of the way,” I pleaded.

FitzGibbon didn't answer immediately.

“Well, James?” Merritt asked. “Is he staying with you or coming with me?”

FitzGibbon smiled. “Leave a fifth horse behind.”

“Thank you!” I cried. “Thank you!”

“Make good speed, William. I'll be done in thirty minutes and be by your side in less than forty.”

Merritt left and we were alone again.

“Let's get started,” FitzGibbon said. “Tommy, I want you to pick up an axe and smash open all those barrels in the back. Be careful, though, they're filled with whisky.”

“But wouldn't it be better to destroy other things . . . food and clothing and blankets?” I suggested, gesturing to the still crammed shelves.

“That we are, Tommy,” he answered. “The whisky is just the best available fuel for the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yes, we're burning this blockhouse to the ground.”

* * *

FITZGIBBON, myself and two soldiers flew through the stores, smashing open the barrels of whisky. The air stank with the pungent smell of the alcohol. More than once one of the soldiers commented on the waste we were perpetrating. At first, I thought he meant setting fire to all the supplies, but really he meant the whisky spilling all over the floor.

At the edges of the spilled whisky we placed black gunpowder, the bags torn open to allow the powder to spill out. Next, scraps of paper and clothing, ripped into shreds, were thrown around the room.

“Well, here we go,” FitzGibbon said.

He picked up one of the oil lamps and threw it toward a pile of alcohol-soaked cloth. The glass smashed noisily and the flames flashed free, catching the scraps instantly. A line of flames ran across the floor, seeking the spilled liquid. Although we were clear across the room, the resulting
whoosh
and rush of hot air shot back at us. I watched with fascination as the veins of fire raced around the room.

“It's caught. We'd better get outside before any of the powder ignites,” FitzGibbon suggested.

I'd forgotten all about that. The four of us rushed out the door and to the soldier who was waiting, musket in hand, watching both the horses and the roadway in both directions. We all climbed on the mounts and moved to the gate. I couldn't help but think that this was the second time I'd stolen an American horse. I guess they couldn't hang me more than once anyway.

Looking back at the blockhouse there was nothing to see except a dim light shining through the one window facing our way.

“Are you sure it caught?” one of the men asked.

“Oh, it caught for sure,” another answered. “It'll just take a few—”

His words were cut off by a massive explosion! My horse cried out and reared up on its hind legs. As I struggled to regain control there was a second explosion, louder than the first, followed almost immediately by what felt like a shower of hail. The force of the explosion had hurled debris into the air. My horse bucked again and rocketed forward through the gate, galloping wildly for a few seconds before I finally reined it in and it came to a halt.

I turned back toward the blockhouse. The entire roof was gone, blown up, and monstrous flames shot up into the sky. It was an amazing sight! The closest thing I could even imagine was the description of Hell's fires I'd heard from the minister's pulpit in church.

“What a glorious explosion!” FitzGibbon yelled from
atop his horse. “That would have been heard from the Falls all the way to Fort George and beyond! Now we have to make haste. I'd prefer not to be here when they come to see what happened.”

I brought my horse over to where he and the other men waited and together we charged down the road, to catch the rest of the men, find the boats and get back to Canada.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“ S
O HOW are you doing, Tommy?”

I recognized FitzGibbon's voice and quickly spun around. He was standing at the edge of the field—the field I'd spent the better part of three days harvesting.

“I'm doing fine,” I answered. “Fine . . . and you?”

“I'm well. Mr. DeCew informs me that you've been working very hard.”

I nodded my head slightly but didn't answer. I had been working hard. Almost as hard as Mr. DeCew, who was working well into the night to grind grain at the mill. I understood that the plan all along had been for me to stay at the DeCews' and work in the fields until it was safe for me to return home, but somehow, after the expedition across the river to the States, I thought that I'd proven something— that maybe I belonged with the Bully Boys. But the morning after we returned to Canadian soil, FitzGibbon had arranged to have me brought back to the DeCew farm. That was two
weeks ago. Since then I'd worked hard, eaten well, slept solidly through the nights and spent a lot of time wondering about things. What was happening back at my farm? What was my Ma thinking? How was she managing? Where was Pa? And what adventure was FitzGibbon undertaking now—without me.