Billy Green Saves the Day (3 page)

Vincent watched in horror as a thirteen-year-old British soldier was stabbed in the chest and cried for his mother. A few survivors pleaded for help as some drowned in the shallow water. He scanned the dead and dying on the beach before spying thousands of American troops appearing through the smoke and mist.

“I thought we could hold it,” he whispered sadly to himself, sinking to the floor. “I thought they'd attack from across the river.” His glazed stare focused on the British flag flapping in the breeze. Oblivious to the burning fort and terrorized inhabitants, Vincent closed his eyes, trying to block out the screams of men, women, and children and the constant racket of cannons and muskets. He trembled uncontrollably and gritted his teeth while beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. Then he jumped to his feet with new resolve.

“Get word to Colonel Harvey! Sound the retreat! Abandon the fort! Burn the munitions and spike the guns! Do it now! We haven't much time!” He looked through his scope again, training the lens on Winder and Chandler, the two American generals. They were proudly stepping ashore, wearing black cocked hats with gold epaulettes on their coats with silver stars. “We'll meet again, gentlemen,” Vincent muttered, collapsing his eyepiece with an expert slap of his hand before running off.

Sarah Foote, a fresh-faced young teen with blond hair, meandered along a well-worn path leading from her small wooden house. She struggled through some bushes into a clearing and then began to run, her heart pounding, lungs burning. Dry knee-high grass crackled beneath her feet, and she began to slow her pace until she finally halted.

Breathless, Sarah closed her deep blue eyes and sat on a fallen tree. She listened to her heavy breathing and fanned herself with one hand before opening the locket around her neck. Sarah studied the strands of brown hair inside and closed it again upon hearing an owl.

A forced smile broke across her face as hands covered her eyes from behind. “I knew it was you,” she said as Billy Green plopped beside her. “Owls don't hoot in the middle of the day.”

Billy stared at her and edged closer, his lips pursed, but Sarah playfully pushed him off the log. Then she darted away, carrying the hem of her dress as Billy gave chase. “A suitor should court me properly,” she said, laughing.

Pursuing her through the meadow and around some trees, Billy gently tackled her to the ground. They engaged in a soft kiss beneath the heavy canopy of foliage before he leaned on one elbow and caressed her face. “We need to talk.”

Sarah sat up, obviously troubled. “I can't stay long. I have chores to do.”

Annoyed, Billy gathered some stones and threw them aimlessly. “You deserve a life of your own ... away from your father and his beliefs.”

“He needs me.”

“I need you, too. It's been two years, Sarah. I didn't even know my mother.”

Sarah fingered the locket around her neck. “You don't understand. I can still hear her screams ... see her lying there.”

Unnerved, Billy put his arm around her. “I know it must have been horrible.”

Sarah bolted to her feet. “You don't know! I watched her die!”

“Sarah!” a man's voice shouted.

Billy and Sarah quickly turned to discover Samuel Foote standing a few yards away with a pistol in his hand. The stern face and dark eyes of Sarah's father sent a chill down Billy's spine.

“I want you home right now!” Sarah immediately complied and rushed toward her father. “I told you to stay away from her, Green!”

“She's not a child,” Billy retorted.

Samuel raised his gun and pointed it at Billy. “One less Loyalist urchin will make the invasion that much easier!”

Sarah lunged forward and tried to wrestle the weapon away from her father, but he pushed her aside.

Billy advanced toward Foote. “Those threats might work in America, but not here! Like it or not, Canada isn't part of the United States and never will be!”

Sarah stepped between them and tugged at Billy's arm. “Billy please … don't.”

“It's men like you that forced my father to leave New Jersey!” Billy cried.

Samuel moved closer. “Traitor!”

Billy waited, every muscle taut with anticipation as Samuel fired over his head.

“Next time you won't be so lucky!” Foote gripped his daughter's arm and escorted her away as she strained to look back at Billy.

Billy watched them for a few seconds before following a trail to the edge of the Niagara escarpment. He sat on the ground with his feet dangling over the precipice and stared at the tranquil, sparkling water of Lake Ontario. Suddenly, his eyes caught movement below on a ridge. There were flashes of colour through the greenery and the noise of breaking branches. It was a line of British redcoats. He gaped in amazement before scuttling to his feet.

“I don't believe it!” he whispered excitedly.

Billy descended the ridge but froze when several of the flanking soldiers took aim at him. He flung his hands up in surrender. “My name's Billy Green. I'm from Stoney Creek.”

Satisfied, the men lowered their weapons and resumed their painful march as Billy kept pace with the column. He studied the dozen beleaguered warriors, their faces dirty and bloodied from battle. A few lagged behind. Some limped, while others were aided by crutches and fellow soldiers. All were exhausted.

“Where are you going?” Billy asked.

“Burlington Heights,” one of the men mumbled.

“Where was the battle?”

“Fort George has been captured,” one of the men said dully. He had a bloodstained patch over one eye.

Billy grinned enthusiastically. “What was the fight like?”

“Don't ask such a stupid question,” the soldier replied in disgust.

Taken aback, Billy slowed. “I … I want to fight, too.”

Another soldier shoved Billy aside, causing him to fall into the mud. “The British Army doesn't need or want the useless militia,” the man growled. “Go back to your mother!” Several of the other soldiers laughed as they continued on their way.

Humiliated, Billy wiped the dirt from his face and watched as the platoon plodded out of sight.

CHAPTER TWO

A
lamp illuminated the face of a dead young British soldier; his eyes wide, mouth agape. Two American infantrymen picked up the body and lowered it into a trench alongside other fallen redcoats. Dirt was shovelled over the mass grave.

The battle at Fort George was long and bloody, evidenced by the smoke still drifting from the battlefield and billowing in the decimated compound. Mangled bodies were strewn everywhere — British, American, black, and Native. Inside the fort the Yankee forces supped boisterously, huddled around countless campfires outside their tents. Above the fort, in makeshift headquarters, U.S. Generals John Chandler and William Winder relaxed before a roaring fireplace.

“I've had court cases tougher than this battle, John,” Winder declared, slightly inebriated as he slurped directly from a bottle of rum. The stout, ruddyfaced officer laughed stupidly and handed the alcohol to Chandler.

“Your love of drink is exaggerating your confidence,” Chandler said, preferring to pour the libation into a glass.

Winder grinned. “The British are going back to Burlington Heights to lick their wounds like the dogs they are.” He chuckled, kicked off his boots, and plunked his feet on the table. “I'll wager you they give up on the defence of Upper Canada altogether. We've already captured Fort York and burned it to the ground. Their supply lines are virtually cut off.” Winder reached for the bottle clumsily and raised it. “We'll march and sail unabated to Kingston, we'll control the St. Lawrence, and we'll strangle the British navy.”

“We don't control Lakes Ontario and Erie yet, my drunken friend,” Chandler cautioned, corking the bottle.

Winder smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. “Just think of it, our names will be written in the annals of history. It will tell of how we courageously and brilliantly captured an entire country.”

He uncorked the liquor again, then staggered to his feet to fill his colleague's glass but spilled it. The rum spread quickly and soaked Chandler's shirt. Winder pretended to have shot him, and they both laughed heartily until there was a knock at the door. “In!” Winder bellowed.

A junior officer entered and saluted. “Sir, I have the final figures.”

Impatient, Winder waved for him to continue.

The junior officer read from a sheet of paper. “We had thirty-nine killed and one hundred and eleven wounded.”

“Brave boys,” Winder muttered, visibly shaken.

“And the enemy?” Chandler asked.

“Fifty-two killed, forty-four wounded, and two hundred and sixty-two captured,” the officer said, folding the paper.

“All of them ... on both sides were brave boys,”

Chandler said, raising his glass and drinking, much to the chagrin of Winder.

“Bring one of the prisoners in here!” Winder commanded, pulling on his boots. The officer disappeared for a moment as Winder buttoned his uniform jacket.

“What are you doing?” Chandler asked nervously.

“I can end this war even faster,” Winder said as a scared young British soldier was hauled into the room. “Sit down,” Winder ordered, motioning to a chair. The trembling teen took a seat, and Chandler offered him the bottle, but Winder swiped it away, smashing it to the floor. “How many forces do you have at Burlington Heights?” Winder demanded.

“I ... I don't know, sir.”

In an instant Winder withdrew his sword and held it to the boy's throat.

Chandler looked on, thoroughly alarmed.

“I don't ... I don't know,” the lad said, fighting back tears.

“Liar! I swear to God I'll run you through!” Winder said, pushing the sword harder and causing the skin to break as a tiny line of blood trickled. Beneath the soldier's chair a growing pool of urine began to puddle.

“Perhaps the prisoner can recollect if he has food in his stomach and his body has slept,” Chandler said, gently pulling the sword away. He smiled warmly at the young man before gesturing to the American officer to lead him away.

Once they were gone, Winder slammed the door and wheeled toward Chandler. “You should have filled him with buckshot!”

“Prisoners require fair treatment, William! As a lawyer, you should be familiar with that concept!” Chandler yanked the sword away from him. “We're all tired. I know what the stress of war can do to all of us.”

Winder collapsed into his chair again, drank loudly from the bottle, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Full of disdain, he eyed Chandler from head to toe. “You don't belong here.”

“And you do?”

Winder broke into an evil simper. “Look at you. You're a tavern keeper. Once penniless and illiterate, I might add.” He drained the bottle, burped, and waved the container in Chandler's face. “Serving up liquor is all you're good for.”

“Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouth. But if you'd like, I'd be happy to tell our commanding officer about your treatment of the enemy.”

Winder snickered. “Ah, yes, General Dearborn. If it weren't for him lending you four hundred dollars to buy your two hundred acres, you'd still be begging in the streets of Maine. You got rich because of that old man. It's nice to have friends in high places, isn't it?”

“You should know,” Chandler said, marching for the door, which opened before he got there.

Haggard and ill, General Dearborn limped inside. Winder and Chandler immediately stood at attention and saluted. The sixtyish officer coughed and patted his forehead with a cloth. “Gentlemen, I have your orders.” He wheezed and handed Chandler a piece of paper. Dearborn spied the empty liquor bottle and watched as Winder tilted. “General Chandler, you'll be in charge. I'm too sick to join you.” He coughed hard again. “I suggest you sober up, gentlemen, and get some rest. You're going to need it.” Slowly, Dearborn turned for the door as Winder and Chandler saluted.

After Dearborn was gone, Winder chuckled and slapped Chandler on the back. “High places, eh?”

The modest Green homestead basked in the glow of a full moon, and the sound of crickets filled the night air, along with the frequent call of an owl. Adam Green stepped onto the porch, lit his pipe, and relaxed into a rocking chair. Levi Green, Billy's twenty-five-year-old brother, soon appeared with their brother-in-law, Isaac Corman.

“Thanks for dinner, Adam,” Isaac said, leaning against the wooden railing.

“It was Keziah's cooking, not mine,” Adam said, rubbing his stomach.

“I'm not so sure you should thank my father, Isaac,” Levi said, slapping his brother-in-law in the gut. “It's his daughter who's fattening you up.” The two of them playfully exchanged punches, and Isaac put him in a headlock.

“You're not exactly starving yourself,” Isaac said, poking Levi in the stomach.

Billy strolled onto the porch and sat on the steps, lost in thought.

Isaac leaned over and felt Billy's arm. “You could use a little more meat on your bones, boy.”

Billy pushed Isaac's hand away. “I'm not a boy!”

Mocking Billy's attitude, Isaac said in a high voice, “All right,
sir
, I surrender.”

Levi laughed.

“Shut your mouth!” Billy snapped at his brother.

“Mind your tongue, Billy,” Adam said sternly. “We don't speak like that around here. Apologize.”

“Sorry,” Billy mumbled.

“You hardly touched your supper,” Isaac said, lightly tapping Billy with his foot. “Your sister's cooking isn't that bad, is it?”

Levi grinned, pretending to shoot a musket. “He's just mad because he can't fight the Americans.”

“That's enough out of you, too,” Adam said sharply to Levi.