Billy Green Saves the Day (4 page)

Isaac rolled up his sleeve. “Let me tell you something, Billy. War isn't what you want it to be. When I fought at Queenston Heights, well, let's just say I saw men die horrible deaths.” He pointed at an awful scar. “This is what a bayonet can do to a man.”

Billy jumped to his feet. “Do you always have to show me that stupid scar? You've had your turn! This war will be over by the time I see any action!”

Adam stared hard at his younger son. “Watch your tongue! I'm not going to tell you again. Understand?” Billy lowered his head as Adam leaned forward in the chair. “Let's get something straight, Billy. You're not going to fight. That's the way it is and that's the way it's going to stay. This family has suffered enough at the hands of the Americans.”

Billy paced the porch. “You can't have it both ways, Pa. You despise them, but you won't let me fight!”

“The subject is closed,” Adam said, and began rocking again.

Slapping one of the beams holding up the roof of the porch, Billy said, “You're the one who's always telling me how your brother died and how the Yanks stole your land. I want to join the army!”

“Maybe I shouldn't have told you all those things. It was wrong ... I guess. But this much I do know, you're not going to be in this war.” Adam relit his pipe as his eyes drifted off. “I made a promise to your mother. I took an oath on her deathbed that you would be free from the horrors of war, and I intend to keep my word.”

“I'm so tired of being babied by you. It's well within my rights to fight the enemy, for God's sake!”

Adam leaped from the chair and gripped Billy by the collar. He pushed his son to the wall and lifted him off his feet as Levi and Isaac tried to pull him off. “You will not take the Lord's name in vain again. Your mother died from years of child-bearing. You owe it to her to stay alive.”

Billy wrestled free and gasped for air. “She was your wife. You want me to pay a debt I have nothing to do with. I didn't ask to be born!”

The last comment crushed Adam, and he slowly sank into the chair as Isaac and Levi looked away uneasily.

“I'm ... I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't mean that.”

“Are you still seeing Sarah?” Adam asked after a long silence.

“Yes ...” Billy shuffled his feet. “I ... I love her.”

“I forbid you to see that girl.”

“My personal life's none of your business.”

Adam slammed his fist against the chair's arm, causing it to splinter. “She's the daughter of an American sympathizer, Billy!”

“What about you?
You're
an American!”

“I
was
an American, but I'm not anymore. It's bad enough I had to beg the Crown for this three hundred acres of useless land, but to have to endure the likes of her and her father as neighbours — that's unbearable!” Adam got up and started for the door.

“I'm going to marry her whether you like it or not!” Billy cried, scrambling off the porch.

“You do and I'll disown you!” Adam shouted.

Suddenly, Billy halted and turned toward his father. “Then find another son.” After that he disappeared into the darkness.

There was an uncomfortable quiet until Adam glanced at Levi. “I want you to stay over and keep an eye on Billy for a few days. If the Americans get this far, Billy's liable to do something stupid.”

“I ... I got my own family to look after, Pa.”

“This
is
your family,” Adam growled. “Just do it.” He went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

At Burlington Heights, situated between the lake on one side and a marsh on the other, the British Army had turned a farm into a fortress. Earthworks were built and eleven guns were stationed behind them. The fields were cleared, trees were felled, and fences were broken to provide a clear firing range should the Americans attack.

Inside a marquee tent, General Vincent sat at a desk with his head in his hands, staring at a piece of paper reviewing the numbers and names of the men killed, wounded, and captured at Fort George. He shoved the papers away, dipped a quill into an ink jar, and scribbled: “This position, though strong for any large body, is far too extensive for me to hope to make any successful stand against superior force understood to be advancing against me.”

Vincent closed his private journal, retrieved a fresh piece of paper, and began to write his last will and testament, but stopped when there was a disturbance outside the tent. It burst open as a bedraggled, unshaven man in his late forties barged past the sentries.

“Vincent!” Richard Beasley shouted as the general quickly hid his journal. “These are the damages I expect the Crown to pay for.” The man withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and slapped it on the desk. “You've done so much damage here to my farm that you're driving me into the poorhouse.”

Vincent sat back and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “There is a war on, sir, and we need all the help we can get.”

“At my expense! Your army has taken most of my crops and livestock. Well, let me tell you something, General, I ain't going to provision you no more because I don't trust you. I don't trust anybody's army. I even heard the Yanks wrecked a tavern down by the lake and stole all the goods. It don't matter which army comes around — you're all a bunch of crooks!”

“Your point is well taken,” Vincent said wearily.

“And I'm not the only one, you know. Most of the families around here are driving their livestock into the woods and hiding their valuables.” Beasley leaned closer to the general. “So what are you going to do about it?”

The general vaulted to his feet, secured Beasley by the neck, and dragged him to the tent flap. “Take a good look!”

Reluctantly, Beasley surveyed the grim situation — an organized military city of injured and dying soldiers with refugees in tents scattered across the fields.

“I only have eighteen hundred men left, and I'm running out of ammunition,” Vincent muttered. “I couldn't even spare the artillery to mark the king's birthday.” The general released Beasley, then presented a map to him. “Upper and Lower Canada are about to be captured, and all you can do is whine about your business losses.” Vincent threw the damage estimate at the shamed man. “I suggest you take up arms to defend your family and property. Now get out!”

Beasley fled the tent as Colonel Harvey entered. The slim, young officer with jet-black hair watched his superior gaze outside again.

“The war is lost,” Vincent announced grimly.

Harvey eyed the map on the desk. “Sir, if I may, the Indians have more to lose than anybody. They won't give up without a fight, and neither should we.”

Vincent rested his head against one of the tent poles. “John, we're surrounded and outnumbered. “Do you want more of these young men to die?”

“You're our last hope ... the country's last hope.”

“I've made my decision. We have to surrender. Now please leave.” The general went back to his desk and picked up his will.

Harvey turned to exit but hesitated. “Permission to speak frankly, sir.”

Vincent nodded.

“Do you think you're the only one in this?” he asked, causing the general to look up. Nervous, Harvey continued. “Everyone's equal. There's nothing more I'd like than to be back with my Elizabeth, but this is more important. I believe God is on our side.”

“You're the son of a clergyman, so it's not surprising you'd say that. Besides, I don't think God takes anybody's side in a war. He would just be disgusted at what men do to each other.”

“Well, before you do anything, sir, I think you should ask yourself how you would like to be remembered in history. The future of a nation hinges on your decision.” Harvey saluted.

Vincent returned the salute. “You're a talented, hard-working officer, John, but you don't know when you're beaten.”

“We shouldn't be intimidated, sir. You've fought in Denmark and the West Indies, and I've seen action in Europe, Asia, and Africa.” Harvey gestured outside. “You have men out there who are aching to get even for what happened to them at Fort George. They won't let you down.” Harvey waited for a response, but the general just stared into space, so the colonel made his exit quietly.

Vincent resumed writing his will, but suddenly stopped and took a stroll outside his tent. The general watched as the black regiment practised marching under their leader, Captain Robert Runchey. He saw the green-coated Glengarrys, known as the Green Tigers, from the St. Lawrence River, and the infantrymen from Newfoundland, who had left the Rock to escape its poverty, but more important, to help their Mother Country in its fight with the Yankees. There were militiamen from different parts of the British North American colonies, men who had left their homes and family to serve. Finally, Vincent surveyed the numerous Indians, camped according to their tribes, but all working together for a common purpose — to drive the Americans out of their land.

“By God, if it's a fight those Yanks want, then we'll give it to them,” Vincent whispered, returning to his tent. He grabbed his will, balled the paper, and tossed it into a nearby fire where it quickly curled and turned to ash.

A lantern swinging from one hand, Billy made his way through the bush, a musket in his other hand. As he approached the edge of the escarpment, he glanced at the indigo sky brimming with stars whose brilliance shimmered off the lake below. His eyes followed the shoreline and spotted numerous fires burning miles apart. “British beacons of retreat,” he whispered sadly.

Suddenly, a branch snapped behind Billy, and he doused the lamp. Turning quickly, he discovered six silhouetted men on horseback descending upon him. Billy dropped the lantern and fled into the bushes.
Americans!
he thought, darting through the thick evergreens, feet scrambling over the uneven earth as the sound of galloping horses came ever closer.

When he dropped his musket, he fell to all fours and searched frantically for it. Finding it, Billy continued to bull his way through the thickets, thorns ripping his clothes and tearing his flesh. When he came to a rock outcropping, he slipped behind it and laboured to catch his breath. Blinking, he scanned the murky blackness for movement, his ears picking up the creaking of tree branches caused by the gusting wind.

Mustering courage, Billy stood slowly as an arrow pierced the stump beside him. Out of the shadows, a half-dozen Six Nations warriors materialized with muskets and bows poised. “My ... my name's Billy Green.

I'm a Loyalist. A militiaman!”

One of the Natives stepped forward and offered his hand. “I am Major John Norton, a chief of the Mohawks.” The muscular man assisted Billy to his feet. “A true militiaman would not have allowed so many to surprise him.”

Embarrassed, Billy dusted off his britches. “I was watching for the enemy.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “If you're an Indian, how come you speak English so good?”

Norton smiled. “My mother was Scottish, but my father was Cherokee. We have to fight to preserve our heritage.” He gestured at his colleagues.

“I wish I could fight,” Billy said as Norton pushed Billy's musket aside. Embarrassed, Billy realized his carelessness and grinned stupidly. “All I get to do is work for my father and ... and dream, I guess.”

“You should be thankful,” Norton said.

“That's what my pa says.”

“He sounds like a wise man. You should listen to him.”

Billy shifted uncomfortably on his feet and glanced at the chief. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Avoiding eye contact, Billy said, “A lot of people — not me, though — are saying the Indians will fight for whichever side is winning. They say we're starting to lose this war and that you and your kind will turn on us.”

Norton took a few moments to contemplate his answer, then motioned at his compatriots. “As you can see, we of the Six Nations are made up of different tribes. The truth is, all of this land once belonged to us, including adjacent land in the United States. I have no doubt that one day we will lose most of it to the white man because we can't stop their advance. The best we can hope for is that we are treated fairly in our own land.”

“But which side has treated you better so far?”

Norton chuckled. “For such a young man you have very political questions on your mind. We don't fight for the British. We fight to keep what we have. Many men from both countries have made us promises. England has kept her word more often. But the winds of change can happen quickly.”

“Does that mean you might fight us someday ... fight me?”

“If your generation keeps its word and is as intelligent as you are, that will never happen. Put yourself in our position. What if we took your home and lands and then someone else came along and tried to take what you still had left and what you had lost in the first place? There are some who will fight for the side that will give the most of what was theirs to start with, no matter who it is.”

“So it's true. You could change sides.”

“One must live in the present. It's our belief the British will help us the most, and I intend to remain their ally. I gave them my word, and a man's word is his soul and his conscience. The best we can hope for is that the British value their word as much as we do.”

Just then a pistol was fired, and everyone wheeled around to discover Samuel Foote standing at the top of a low hill, a gun in each hand.

“Drop your weapons!” Foote ordered. Reluctantly, the Natives complied after Norton nodded at them. Foote drew nearer. “You're trespassing on my land. As for you, Green, if I catch you one more time with my daughter, I'll put a bullet through your skull!”

“You know him?” Norton asked Billy without taking his eyes off Foote.

“His name's Samuel Foote,” Billy said. “He moved here from the United States after his wife was killed.”