The Ballad of John MacLea Read online

  In many ways they were quite unalike. Physically, they were contrasting specimens of Scottish Highlander; Murray was a big, stocky man with a blunt square visage and a shock of sandy hair, while MacLea was slim and dark with a hard-planed face and green eyes that did not often give much away. Temperamentally they were opposites too. While Murray was gregarious and cheerful, a born story-teller, MacLea was quiet and often remote. But they had farming in common, and military experience too; Murray had been a corporal in the Black Watch before, like MacLea, he had taken a bounty and sought out a more peaceful life in Canada.

  Over the years, their respect for each other had deepened into a warm and genuine friendship. Now MacLea thought that the sight of Alec sitting up and drinking rum was one of the finest things he had ever seen.

  ‘What the deuce happened to you?’ he asked, deliberately keeping his voice light.

  ‘They jumped me,’ said Murray ruefully. ‘There were only about eight of them and I was handling everything quite nicely, but then one sneaked up and clouted me from behind. Damned underhand Yankee trick, I call it.’

  ‘Not very sporting,’ agreed the captain. Their eyes met, and MacLea smiled. ‘Very glad to see you alive, Alec.’

  ‘Likewise, John. What happened?’

  MacLea told him briefly about his flight, the encounter with Gerrard’s men and the counterattack that followed. ‘You were right about the company,’ he added quietly. ‘They’ve cleared out. Every damned one.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Murray, staring at him. ‘Well, good riddance. I suppose.’ He looked worriedly at his commander, who smiled suddenly and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re right. We can win the war without them. Can you walk?’

  Murray tried to stand but wavered, and MacLea pressed him back down. ‘Stay here,’ he said gently. ‘Get a bit of rest. I’m going back to Niagara and will send a wagon to fetch you and the other wounded.’

  ‘It’s not the knock on the head that’s making me dizzy,’ said the other man, handing him the flask. ‘It’s this bloody firewater. Get it away from me, will you? John… God bless you for coming back.’

  MacLea smiled and touched the other man’s shoulder again, then took the flask and went in search of Captain Gerrard, whom he found standing by the water’s edge gazing across the fast-flowing river to the American shore five hundred yards away. The portly man retrieved his flask and took a long swig, swallowing steadily as he consumed several ounces of neat rum in one go, then lowered the flask and hiccuped violently.

  ‘I am in your debt, sir,’ said MacLea quietly. ‘What are your losses?’

  ‘Half a dozen fellows down wounded, no more.’ Another swig, and MacLea waited for the hiccups to end.

  ‘I am curious,’ he said. ‘What brought you and your men out?’

  Gerrard chuckled. He had about him the air of a man coming out of his club after a particularly good dinner. ‘Always march towards the sound of the guns,’ he said. ‘Ain’t that how the saying goes? We were out on patrol from Queenston, coming down past Vrooman’s Point. When we heard shooting, we came on at the double. What did I tell you?’

  He gave MacLea an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘I said these were good lads, good soldiers, hey? They fight like lions, my lads.’ He leant forward, reeking of rum, and added confidentially, ‘They’re all runaway slaves, you know. You should see the scars on some of the poor devils’ backs. They never knew what freedom was until they came to Upper Canada. Now they have work, homes of their own, farms; some of them have wives and children. And if the damned Yankees take over, they will lose everything. They will go back to being slaves, or worse. That’s why they fight so well, you know. The more a man has to lose, the harder he fights.’

  Gerrard nodded slowly. ‘But it also means that when their blood is up, they remember past wrongs. And then sometimes they don’t always behave like gentlemen.’

  MacLea nodded. ‘I would not expect them to,’ he said. His own reaction to the men beating Lieutenant Van Schyven had been automatic, born out of an instinctive revulsion. In MacLea’s mind, there was nothing wrong with fighting opponents who were able to fight back, but violence against those who could not defend themselves was abhorrent. On the other hand, he thought, I have not suffered as some of Gerrard’s men have. ‘Sir, Mr Murray and I are deeply in your debt. With your consent, I shall now go to Fort George and report. Will you be so good as to guard the prisoners until orders come?’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ Gerrard yawned. ‘Might have a little rest too. It’s been a long day, what?’

  * * *

  It was then about nine o’clock in the morning of the 29th of July in the year 1812, and Canada had been at war for a little over a month. John MacLea walked north along the dusty road towards Fort George some five miles away, brooding over the loss of his company.

  He had been rather proud of the Stormont Rangers. Properly speaking, they were – had been – the flank company of the militia regiment of Stormont County. Unlike ordinary militiamen, who turned out once a year for assemblies, drank a great deal of rum, swapped obscene stories and did a little half-hearted drill, flank companies turned out six times annually and were supposed to be more professional. In practice, this meant that they drank somewhat more rum but also did a great deal more drill. MacLea had worked his reluctant militiamen until they could march in step and load and fire a musket in about thirty seconds – not as fast as regulars, but fast enough – and at least look like soldiers.

  Unlike most militia, they had also been provided with rifle green uniforms, the largesse of old Colonel Mackintosh, the commander of the Stormont militia. It was the colonel who had christened the flank company the Stormont Rangers in honour of Butler’s Rangers, the famous unit of scouts with which he had served during the American Revolution.

  But the men had complained about coming to Niagara, maintaining that their terms of service meant they were not obliged to serve outside of Stormont County – MacLea had never been able to determine whether this was true – and the first desertions had begun within a week of arrival. At least one man, he was fairly certain, had swum the river to join the Americans. Now the rest had simply slipped away and were heading back to their homes.

  Captain Gerrard was right, MacLea reflected as he walked on through the rising heat. The more a man had to lose, the harder he would fight. Gerrard’s black militiamen would scrap like terriers because they had everything to lose. But for the ordinary Canadian, life under American rule would likely go on much as before. Many of them had been born in the former American colonies and then emigrated north; they had friends and family south of the border. Many probably had more in common with the Americans than they did with their British overlords. The Stormont Rangers were a case in point. Half its members were American émigrés, some arriving in Upper Canada only a few years ago.

  His company were farmers, not soldiers. It was nearly harvest time; their homes and fields and families called to them, and that call had proved stronger than the call of duty. He could understand this; he had a farm himself. But that did not excuse the fact that men he knew and trusted, some of them his own neighbours, had run away and abandoned him and Alec Murray in the face of the enemy. It would be a long time before he could forgive that.

  And now, too, he had to tell his own superior officers that he had lost his entire first command. He swore, bitterly and freely, and walked on towards Fort George wishing that a hole would open before his feet and swallow him up in the earth.

  Chapter Two

  Fort George stood on a low hill overlooking the Niagara River where it emptied into Lake Ontario. The fort itself was an unremarkable collection of log buildings with a stone powder magazine surrounded by a rectangular wooden stockade. Bastions made of cut logs and rammed earth reinforced the walls at each corner. A gate in one end of the stockade stood open, the Union flag fluttering limply above it in the gentle wind. It was hard to believe that this was one of the most important fortified posts in Upper Canada.

  Three quarters of a mile away across the rippling water stood another fort, its buildings low and dark in the blinding light of the sun reflecting off the river, the Stars and Stripes flying over its gate. This was Fort Niagara, citadel of the enemy. It was within easy artillery range of Fort George; at any moment its guns could lash out and blow the flimsy stockade and wooden buildings to pieces. MacLea, walking up the hill towards the gate, wondered why they had not already done so.

  A sentry box, a hut protected by a little rampart of its own, stood just outside the main gate. A heavy guard had been posted here, men of the 49th Foot in scarlet coats with dark green facings, white cross belts and black shakos. With them were a dozen men of the Lincoln militia, leaning on their muskets and gossiping about corn prices. The militia sergeant, James Secord, a cheerful man in a broadcloth coat with a white armband, looked up as MacLea approached.

  ‘Hullo, John. You look like you’ve been through the wars.’

  ‘I have,’ said MacLea directly. ‘Half a company of American infantry landed on the west bank early this morning.’

  Sensation; the militiamen stood up straight and stopped talking shop, and the British officer of the guard put down the newspaper he had been reading by the door of the sentry box and stood up. ‘At Queenston?’ said Secord, his face going pale. His house and business were in Queenston, and his wife and children were there now.

  ‘No, Jim, a bit south of Brown’s Point, about five miles from here. Rest easy; we rounded them all up, and seized their boat for good measure. Laura will be safe. But I need to report. Is the general here, or Colonel Macdonell?’

  ‘They’ve both gone into the town,’ said the British officer. He was a tough-looking lieutenant in his early thirties, about MacLea’s own age; MacLea recalled his name was FitzGibbon. ‘Did you say you had taken prisoners?’

  ‘About thirty. Captain Gerrard’s men are guarding them and my sergeant is there too. They have wounded as well, so they’ll need a wagon for transport.’

  ‘I’ll see to it. You’d better get along, Mr MacLea. The general will want to hear about this. You’ll find him at the inn in Niagara. Do you know the way?’

  * * *

  Unlike Fort Niagara, which lay on the American shore, the town of Niagara was on the Canadian side of the river, a little over a mile from Fort George and looking out over the shimmering blue waters of Lake Ontario. The town was even closer to the enemy than Fort George; looking across the river, it was possible to see the tiny figures of American sentries standing on the walls.

  Hot and aching and tired, MacLea walked to Niagara, crossing a dry stream bed and climbing up past the church and burial ground. The town beyond was a grid of streets running at right angles to each other, fronted by a haphazard collection of houses. Some were brick-built and substantial, others more modest white clapboard buildings; still others were built of unadorned square-cut logs. One of the brick buildings was a Masonic lodge, another housed the courthouse, yet another contained a library. All the requisite elements of civilisation, he thought drily.

  Despite the war and the enemy guns hard by, there were plenty of people in the streets, most on foot but a few of the more prosperous on horseback, and a steady traffic of wagons loaded with timber and stone. Building work seemed to be going on everywhere. Workmen in rough coats strode past carrying saws and hammers; they glanced at him, but there was no particular friendliness in their faces. Women in dark gowns and plain bonnets looked at MacLea severely, some drawing in their skirts and walking on quickly as he bowed to them. The people of Niagara did not want to be at war, and it seemed they were doing their best to pretend that the war did not exist.

  Following FitzGibbon’s directions, MacLea found the inn, another substantial building of white-painted clapboard with a handsome veranda on the front. Several men in civilian coats sat on the veranda discussing shipping rates and drinking beer; they looked at MacLea once and then ignored him. The captain turned towards the inn door, and nearly collided with someone hurrying out of it.

  The other man was tall and lean, and wore the red coat and gold epaulettes of a British staff officer. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling, ‘it’s John MacLea, looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. What the deuce happened to you?’

  ‘A brush with some Yankee infantry up the river this morning,’ said MacLea.

  Lieutenant Colonel John Macdonell, lawyer, advocate general of Upper Canada and aide-de-camp to the lieutenant governor, opened his eyes wide and pulled him quickly inside, moving to avoid the other people going in and out of the inn. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  He listened intently while MacLea told his story. At the end, Macdonell swore, quietly but with some force. ‘So the Yankees are snooping around looking for landing places along the Niagara,’ he said. ‘Just when we are about to throw every man we have at the western frontier. The timing couldn’t be worse… Look, old chap, I’m sorry about your company.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘I’ll start enquiries, of course, and find out whether they came this way or cut across towards Burlington and York. But you realise there is nothing to be done. If we punished every militiaman who deserted, we would have a revolt on our hands.’

  ‘I know. Let them go,’ MacLea said tiredly. He was sick of thinking about the Stormont Rangers. ‘At least Alec Murray is still with me.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Macdonell paused. ‘Are you game to carry on?’

  ‘Without a command? What use can I be?’

  ‘Rather a lot, I should think. We’re bloody short of reliable officers. If you’re looking for employment, I don’t think you’ll need to look very far. In fact…’

  Macdonell paused again and looked at him. The lawyer had business connections in New Johnstown, Stormont’s main town, and over the past ten years he had become another of MacLea’s small circle of friends. He had an unfailing zest for life that MacLea admired. Macdonell had recently become engaged to a young woman whom MacLea privately considered to be a regrettable choice, but there was no doubt that he had even more of a spring in his step than usual.

  ‘Well, let’s see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘First we need to get you to General Brock. Come along and I’ll present you.’

  A little puzzled, MacLea followed Macdonell through the foyer and into the big common room of the inn. This had been transformed for the day into an office, with a long wooden table at one end serving as a desk and people coming and going in a steady stream, some in red coats or blue, others in civilian clothes.

  Behind the table, writing steadily with a quill pen, was a big man in a scarlet coat with gold epaulettes. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, well over six feet tall. He had sandy hair that needed cutting, curling over his collar at the back, and a pleasant, open smiling face; he looked like a man who had a sense of humour, and who made sure it got plenty of exercise. As well as writing, he was also listening to another man, a fair, thickset, beefy-faced British officer whose two salient features were a beautifully cut red coat made by an expensive Montreal tailor, and an extremely loud and carrying voice.

  ‘I am not happy, General,’ he was saying as MacLea and Macdonell entered the room. ‘I am not happy at all. No, sir, I am not. I regard this policy as short-sighted, foolhardy and dangerous. Dangerous, sir, do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you very clearly, sir,’ said Major General Isaac Brock, lieutenant governor of Upper Canada and commander-in-chief of the King’s forces in that province. ‘Indeed, I can think of very little that would prevent me from hearing you, Colonel Lawrence. You believe my proposed course of action to be dangerous.’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir! You are giving arms and ammunition to Tecumseh and the Shawnee. You mark my words, sir. The savages may use those arms against the Americans today – or they may not. We have no way of knowing if they will keep their word. But in five years, or three years, or a year, they will use them against our own folk. I do not think the women and children of Essex and Kent counties will thank you, sir, for putting their lives at hazard. If the savages turn against us and attack the western districts, all hell will be visited upon us, just as it has been breaking loose north of the Ohio these past twenty years.’

  ‘The Indians already have their hands full fighting the Americans,’ said Brock. ‘They’ll be too busy to fight us as well.’

  He picked up the letter he had been writing and handed it to an aide, who quickly dusted it with sand. ‘Fetch me something to drink, Johnson, will you? Good chap. Colonel Lawrence, your objection is noted, but we do have an Indian Department that sees to these things and works to keep the Indians on our side. And right now, I need Tecumseh. General Hull has two thousand men on Canadian soil at Sandwich and is preparing to march on Amherstburg. You will agree, I am certain, that the fall of Amherstburg would be a major blow. If that happens, we might as well write to President Madison and offer our surrender. But if Tecumseh can rally the tribes to our cause once again, we can protect Amherstburg and perhaps even think about retaking Sandwich. That is the position, plain and simple. Now, sir, will you forgive me? I fear I have a good many people to see today before I return to York this evening, and I have given you ample of my time already.’

  Colonel Lawrence saluted and turned on his heel, his slabby face beet red. He strode towards the door, nearly barging into MacLea as he did so. ‘Get out of the way!’ he snapped, glaring at the captain. ‘Bloody provincials!’

  He stormed out, shouting for a groom to bring his horse. MacLea pursed his lips but said nothing. Macdonell clapped MacLea on the shoulder and walked towards the general, who looked up and greeted him with a smile of relief. The two men began to talk quietly and quickly. Another man, a militia officer in a handsome green coat and fawn breeches, looked at MacLea and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Colonel Lawrence,’ he observed, ‘really is the living definition of the word “buffoon”. Do you know him? He commands one of the new fencible regiments, the Royal Americans. Raised it at his own expense, jolly patriotic of him and all that. Unfortunately, that does not make him any less of an oaf. My name’s Boydell, by the way, James Boydell. I’m with the York militia.’