The Ballad of John MacLea Read online

  The Ballad of John MacLea

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Next in Series

  Copyright

  To Mike, for coming up with the idea in the first place, and to Paul, for his constant belief and encouragement.

  Plan of Niagara

  Niagara Frontier

  Province of Canada

  Chapter One

  Another thunderous crash of musketry, very close at hand. Splinters flew from the boles of the oak trees, showering down around the two men as they crouched behind a fallen log. Sergeant Murray rose, sighted briefly down the long barrel of his own musket and pulled the trigger. The weapon boomed and belched smoke. Murray cursed, dodging sideways and rolling over to reload as two more enemy musket balls smacked into the log beside his head.

  ‘Missed,’ he said. ‘How many do you think there are?’

  His companion, Captain John MacLea, sat up and fired, then ducked hastily as half a dozen American muskets roared in response. ‘Twenty or thirty,’ he said, tearing another cartridge open with his teeth and priming the pan of his musket. ‘More than enough. If this is a reconnaissance party, it’s a hell of a big one.’

  ‘The Americans never do things by halves,’ said the sergeant, ramming ball and wadding down the barrel of his musket and sitting up and cocking it. He squinted through drifting smoke into the low morning sun as he searched for a new target. ‘Eventually they must work out that there are only two of us, and then they’ll rush us.’

  ‘Or circle around and take us in the flank,’ said MacLea. He raised his head to see a figure in black shako and grey coatee with white bands of lace across the front dodging from one tree to another, fifty yards away. He crouched, sighting on the tree where the man was hiding. Five seconds passed; the American infantryman darted into the open once more and MacLea squeezed the trigger. The musket roared, recoil banging the wooden stock hard into his shoulder. Smoke obscured his view but he heard the scream of pain as his ball struck home. More enemy musket balls tore the air around him as he crouched down to reload. ‘Where in hell are the rest of the company?’

  They had been roused at dawn in their camp along the Queenston–Niagara road by a young lad almost incoherent with excitement. Looking out from a nearby farm, he had seen men in boats on the Niagara River to the east. What he had probably seen was a British patrol boat, but MacLea had decided to go and check for himself, taking his reliable sergeant along with him. The rest of the company had been told to stand to; if shots were fired, they were to come up quickly in support.

  Ten minutes ago, just as the sun rose, MacLea and Murray had stumbled into an American patrol in thick woodland a hundred yards from the river bank, and the latter had opened fire at once. Now the Americans seemed to be growing in numbers by the minute, and there was still no sign of the rest of the company, the Stormont Rangers.

  ‘They’ve probably all deserted by now,’ said Murray cheerfully, reloading. ‘In all likelihood some of them are out there shooting at us. I don’t mind. There’s one or two of the bastards I’d quite like to plug.’ He fired again at another American infantryman, who threw up his arms and fell forward into the undergrowth forty yards away. ‘They’re getting closer, John.’

  ‘They are,’ said MacLea grimly. ‘We’ll have to run for it. You first.’ He waited until Murray had reloaded, and looked cautiously over the log to see two more American soldiers moving quickly through the woods out to the right, circling around their flank just as he had predicted. Two men had held off thirty for as long as possible; time was running out.

  ‘Go,’ he said softly. Murray needed no second telling, starting like a hare and sprinting through the trees back towards the Queenston Road. A dozen muskets roared, smoke billowing in the morning sunlight, the air now thick with sulphurous haze. MacLea rose up just as another American infantryman, this one in a blue coat, stepped out from behind a tree ten yards away and sighted on the running man’s back. Before he could pull the trigger, MacLea shot him through the chest and he staggered backwards with blood already staining his uniform.

  Then it was MacLea’s turn. He rose and ran through the smoke, dodging between the trees, running at an angle to give the Americans a difficult target, expecting at any moment to feel the impact of a musket ball in his back. Splinters flew from the trees, twigs and leaves fell around him. Once he tripped on a tree root and nearly fell; staggering, he clutched at the tree just as more splinters exploded from the bole on the opposite side. That shot had come from ahead! He looked around the tree to see a dozen more men in a skirmish line ahead of him, moving steadily towards him. Whoever commands this lot is a clever bastard, he thought coldly. He sent a file around our flank right from the start.

  There was no time to think further. His pursuers were crashing through the trees behind him. He drew his sword, gripping his musket in his left hand, and ran. ‘There’s another one!’ came the cry from ahead. ‘Get him, boys! Take him alive!’

  You are welcome to try, thought MacLea. The first blue-coated soldier was in front of him, lunging at him with levelled musket, and MacLea hacked at him with his sword; the man screamed and fell back. MacLea did not stop to see what damage he had caused, for more of the Americans were upon him. He slashed at another, but the man parried the blow with the barrel of his musket and the sword snapped just below the hilt, blade spinning into the undergrowth. MacLea hurled the broken weapon into the soldier’s face and reversed his musket, turning and swinging it like an axe at a third man trying to jump him from behind. The wooden stock hit the other man on the jaw with a sickening crack and he too fell screaming. A fourth man raised his musket, trying to club MacLea. The captain rammed the barrel of his own musket into the midriff of the American, who gave a choking noise and staggered back, dropping his weapon.

  The way was clear but there were still American soldiers crashing through the woods all around him. MacLea sprinted uphill to the west, hearing the roar of musketry begin again behind him. The Americans seemed to have abandoned the idea of taking a prisoner; now they were shooting wildly, their musket balls snicking through the leaves overhead.

  It was only half a mile to the road, but it was half a mile uphill in the stifling heat of a July morning, and it seemed like an eternity before the trees began to thin ahead of him. MacLea staggered out onto the dusty road where his company were camped and sank to his knees, heart thudding in his chest and lungs shooting with pain as he sucked in great gulps of air. When he pulled off his shako, his black hair was sodden with sweat; his dark green tunic was soaked and grimy.

  He looked around at the camp, which was exactly as he and Murray had left it an hour ago. The tents were still standing, fires still smouldered, there was even a cooking pot sitting beside one fire. Only one thing was different. Of the thirty-two men of the Stormont Rangers who had been encamped here there was now no sign, save for their footprints in the dust heading north towards Niagara.

  ‘The bastards have deserted!’ Rage came down like a red wall. MacLea knelt in the roadway, shaking with anger and humiliation. His entire command had run like rabbits at the first sound of gunfire… Bu
t the moment passed quickly. He could hear his pursuers advancing through the trees, a little more slowly and cautiously now, yelling to each other as they came. He had about a minute, he knew, before they were on top of him once more. Time to deal with the Stormont Rangers later; at the moment, he needed to survive.

  Rising to his feet, he looked swiftly around. There was no sign of Murray, who was most likely dead or a prisoner. He shoved that thought aside; grief too would have to wait. To the north, the road to Niagara ran through open fields towards a farmhouse a mile away; there was no cover there. To the south towards Queenston it passed through a barley field and then another large stand of trees a quarter of a mile away. The green slopes of the steep escarpment above Queenston shimmered in the haze above the trees.

  If I can get in amongst those woods, he thought, I can give them the slip and then get away and find help. There were other outposts along the river, men of the Lincoln and York militia, and an artillery battery further south towards Queenston at Vrooman’s Point. And surely the Americans would not pursue him far, not without knowing what forces opposed them… All of this passed through MacLea’s mind in a flash as he turned and gathered his aching limbs and began to run again, sprinting head down towards the trees.

  He had covered perhaps a hundred and fifty yards when the Americans came running out onto the road by the deserted camp behind him and opened fire. He heard musket balls whirring in the air and shouts of ‘Get him! Kill him!’ and knew they were coming after him. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, he ran down the road past the barley field, more musket balls kicking up dust from the road in front. Reaching the point where the road ran into the woods, he turned and dived into the blessed, welcoming cover of the trees. He tripped again, rolled over in the dead leaves that carpeted the floor of the woodland – and sat up to stare into a round black hole, the muzzle of a musket, six inches from his forehead.

  The face behind the musket was dark brown and grimly set. The other man rose to his feet, still covering MacLea. He was wearing breeches and an old ragged coat and battered hat, and he had the white armband of the Canadian militia tied around one sleeve. More silent dark men were rising from the undergrowth around him, all covering him with their weapons. Too winded to speak, MacLea simply raised his hands.

  ‘Hold fast there!’ someone roared. Another man came into view, this one with a white face – to be strictly accurate, thought MacLea, more of a claret-coloured one – in a faded blue uniform coat that had seen better days and had been tailored when its wearer was of considerably lesser girth. He carried a battered sword in one hand and a flask in the other. The rum on his breath could be smelt a dozen paces away.

  ‘Lower your pieces, lads, lower your pieces,’ he said jovially. ‘Can’t you see he’s one of ours?’ Slowly the muskets facing MacLea were lowered. ‘That’s better,’ said his rescuer. ‘Now then, sir, let us have some introductions, and then let’s hear what these damned knaves are doing on Canadian soil.’

  He gestured towards the Americans, who could be seen advancing more cautiously now, a dozen men spread out in a skirmish line and coming over the barley field towards their position. ‘I’m Captain Gerrard, and these fine chaps are my company, Captain Gerrard’s Coloured Volunteers. The finest soldiers in Upper Canada, mark my words.’

  The volunteers grinned, their earlier grimness quite gone, Gerrard bowed, and MacLea bobbed his head and said, ‘Captain MacLea, Stormont militia.’ Now that they had all deserted, he was damned if he would refer to them by the pompous title of ‘Stormont Rangers’ again. ‘My sergeant and I were out on patrol when we stumbled across a company of American infantry, come across the river. My guess is that they’re scouting for a landing place and looking for prisoners. They’ve either killed or taken my sergeant.’ He hesitated, groping for words as he tried not to think about what might have happened to Murray. ‘I would like to try to get him back.’

  ‘Get him back!’ Gerrard roared in a voice that the advancing Americans could probably have heard. ‘We’ll do more than that! We’ll run those damned Yankee rascals back across the river where they belong! Won’t we, boys?’

  The grins on the faces of the militiamen vanished and a low growl of anticipation ran around their ranks. Captain Gerrard took a long swig of rum, then offered the flask to MacLea, who refused hastily. Gerrard stoppered the flask carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his coat, then pointed his battered sword at the American skirmish line. ‘Come on, lads! Have at ’em!’ he roared. ‘On to glory! Huzza! Huzza!’

  With surprising agility, Gerrard bounded away through the trees, brandishing his sword and hallooing steadily. His company gave a shout of combined rage, defiance and delight and ran after him, dashing out onto the road and opening fire wildly and enthusiastically. ‘Jesus wept,’ said Captain MacLea, but he picked up his musket and ran after them.

  By the time he reached the road, the Americans were fleeing for their lives, the yelling militiamen pursuing them up the road. Back past the empty camp they ran, screaming and shooting, and then down the slope through the trees towards the river and past the bodies of the men MacLea and Murray had killed earlier. The Americans finally turned and made a stand not far from the river bank, and managed to fire one ragged volley before Gerrard’s men piled into them, firing their own muskets and then using the weapons as clubs.

  Within a minute, the American line had broken. The survivors fled towards the shore; the militiamen followed, screaming like banshees as they chased their quarry down onto a narrow beach overhung with trees, where a big flat-bottomed bateau lay pulled up on the shore.

  ‘Quarter!’ came the cry. An American officer in a blue coat with gold epaulettes had tied a white kerchief to his sword and was waving it aloft. His men, some standing knee-deep in the river, began throwing down their arms. The militiamen came forward slowly, muskets levelled in clenched fists and fingers twitching on triggers, herding the prisoners together and snarling at any who failed to move quickly. One American made an angry gesture at his captors and at once fell, his skull fractured by a clubbed musket. MacLea heard a yell of pain from beyond the bateau and turned to see another American officer lying prone at the water’s edge twenty yards away, with two ragged militiamen standing over him kicking him savagely in the ribs.

  ‘Stop!’ MacLea was a soft-spoken man, but he could make his voice cut like a whip when he chose to do so. The two militiamen looked up, their dark faces full of rage and bloodlust, but they fell back before his hard eyes. ‘Get away from him!’ snapped MacLea.

  Sullenly the two turned away, rejoining their comrades. MacLea knelt by the fallen officer. Blood was streaming from a hole in the American’s leg. ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘I owe you a debt, sir. I think they meant to finish me.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed MacLea. He examined the wound, which looked painful but not too serious; it had been caused by a musket shot, but the ball had gone through the fleshy part of the thigh and did not look to have touched either artery or bone. The man had bled heavily, which MacLea knew from experience was a good thing; the blood would help to cleanse the wound. With no other material to hand, he cut away the officer’s trouser leg with his clasp knife and then tore the unbloodied fabric into strips, tying them around the leg as a bandage.

  ‘How bad is it?’ The man was gasping with pain.

  ‘Not too bad. You’ll walk again.’ Unless it became infected and gangrenous, which it all too easily could in this heat, no matter how clean the original wound was. Then the result would be amputation and, most likely, death.

  ‘A wagon will be sent from Fort George to collect you and the other wounded,’ said MacLea. ‘You will be well cared for.’

  ‘My thanks again.’ The officer looked at him, and despite his pain and narrow escape there was a decidedly cocky air about him. ‘I don’t expect I will be your guest for very long.’

  ‘No,’ said MacLea evenly. ‘You will probably be released as soon as there is an exchange of prisoners. May
I have your name, sir?’

  ‘Lieutenant Van Schyven, 13th United States Infantry.’

  ‘MacLea, Stormont militia. You were scouting for a landing place, sir?’

  ‘I do not have to tell you that,’ said the other man sharply.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said MacLea, adding quietly to himself: but you just did.

  He heard a shout, and another of the militiamen came running through the trees. ‘Sir! Come quick, come quick! We found your sergeant!’

  MacLea rose quickly. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Just as much as you and me, sir! He’s had a knock on the head, but he’s all right.’ The messenger, a dark, ragged young man of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was smiling broadly, clearly pleased to be the bearer of good news. He pointed up the hill. ‘He’s up there in the trees, sir.’

  ‘What’s your name, laddie?’

  ‘Crabbe, sir. Moses Crabbe.’

  ‘Mr Crabbe, I’ll trouble you to look after this officer and make certain no harm comes to him until the hospital wagon arrives. Give him some water if he needs it.’ Crabbe sketched a rough salute and took up a position to guard the wounded man, and MacLea walked quickly along the bank and into the trees.

  Alec Murray was sitting up against the bole of a beech tree, drinking rum from Captain Gerrard’s flask. MacLea knelt down beside him, conscious that he was shaking a little with relief. Murray was his closest friend; indeed, if MacLea was honest with himself, one of his very few friends. Alec had arrived in Stormont County about a year after MacLea and bought the plot of land next to his own. He had come over soon after to borrow tools; later, MacLea had given him a hand felling trees and building a log farmhouse. After that they had often worked together, clearing land, gathering firewood, planting and harvesting crops, looking after cattle, helping each other to forge a living in Upper Canada’s sweltering summer heat and winter blizzards and ice.