On the Head of a Pin

by Janet Kellough

  “Morgan, what are you doing here?”

  “The same as you. I’ve come to make myself useful.” He was holding a white basin, the kind used to catch vomit and excrement. “I think under the circumstances, their physical comfort is on a par with their spiritual needs. Otherwise, they seem to go untended.”

  “I agree,” Lewis said, “and I’m glad of your assistance. I had no idea you were in this area.”

  He shrugged. “I was on my rounds when I heard the news. I thought I might as well come here, for no one will answer a knock at the door anymore. They’re all convinced they’re about to be murdered by Yankees. Either that or they’ve packed up and gone somewhere else.”

  Yes, they would have, Lewis thought. Gathered their families and set off to seek the protection of stout walls and stone buildings. He wondered if the Catholic family had done that as soon as they’d laid their boy in the earth.

  “I think we can do more good here, anyway. Some of these lads won’t live through the night.”

  “There will soon be a lot more,” Spicer said. “The steamers have gathered on the river.”

  He had almost forgotten the cause of all this suffering, and had neglected to ask for details of events, grateful only that there had been an end to the arrival of fresh stretcher-loads of bodies that needed cleaning or staunching or cutting.

  As the day wore on, they could hear the muffled rhythm of shell hitting stone as the British fired at the old windmill, hoping that, at best, they could do enough damage to force the Americans to surrender, at worst that they could drive them into the open so that they could be picked off by waiting guns. The ordnance was too light, however, and the solid old stone walls withstood the attack. Several of the outbuildings caught fire, though, and burned unattended, sending clouds of choking smoke into the air.

  “Surely it can’t go on much longer,” Lewis said as they worked to a low murmur of moans from the wounded men. “I doubt the Americans expected a siege. They’ve got to be running low on ammunition.”

  The question on everyone’s mind was whether or not reinforcements would arrive from Ogdensburg across the river — that like-minded Americans, hearing that the invaders were holed up and desperate, would come rushing to their aid.

  “They say that it was Bill Johnston who pulled the ships off the sandbar,” Spicer reported. “Now he’s in Ogdensburg raising another army.”

  It was no surprise to anyone that the pirate was involved, or that he had managed to insert himself into yet another attack on British soil. If he was successful in recruiting more soldiers, the advantage would be with the Americans. There were not enough British and militia troops to hold an army at the river while the first American force used the strategic location of the windmill to pepper their flanks. Others were sure that any reinforcements would be used for another attack on Prescott, while the British were occupied at the mill. If they took Fort Wellington, they would control the river.

  And then, on the third day, three hundred fresh troops arrived from Kingston to bolster the British ranks. Lewis steeled himself for the sight of more stretchers, but the garrison doctor chased him away, “At least for a few hours,” he said. “Find some food and get some sleep. We can manage here tonight, but I’d surely like to see you again tomorrow. I doubt anything will happen until then, as the new troops are still moving into position.”

  Lewis went looking for Spicer, intending to share whatever accommodation he could scare up, but found the boy fast asleep under a table in the cookhouse. He considered crawling under the table to join him, but discarded the notion. He was too old and too weary to sleep on the hard stone floor, and he desperately wanted a breath of air that wasn’t laden with the smell of blood.

  He could scarcely walk as he left the building, he was so tired, and he would have to do some walking yet to find someone willing to give him a bed. He was jostled as he made his way down the muddy street — the taverns were doing a roaring business with those too old or too useless to have joined the militia, and drunks staggered into the streets when their money was gone. He narrowly avoided a roistering group of men who had brought their own whiskey in earthenware jugs, and when he turned, he came face to face with Isaac Simms.

  “Isaac, I thought you would be gone long since.”

  “There’s no point in leaving. No ships can get to the wharf. I’ll have to wait until this nonsense is finished.”

  There was no traffic on the river now, the flow of goods held up by the battle. “And what about you?” Simms asked. “I thought you’d have gone home.”

  “I’m just trying to make myself useful with the wounded, but I’m that tired that I can hardly see. I’ve had only a few snatches of sleep and if I’m going to be of any more use, I need a night’s rest.”

  He could see Simms hesitating, and then he remembered their last parting. It seemed to Lewis that their disagreement over the dying Catholic boy had taken place months ago, although when he stopped and counted up, he realized that it had been only a few days. He wondered if he could prevail upon the man to share whatever arrangements he had in his peddler’s wagon, but when the offer was not forthcoming, he decided to let the moment pass. He’d find somewhere else.

  “You don’t happen to know any of the local Methodist families?” he asked.

  Simms shook his head. “Not my line of business, to ask the convictions of those I sell to, I’m afraid.”

  “Is there a tavern nearby, do you know, that sells something besides beer and whiskey?” He was becoming aware that it had been a long time since he’d eaten anything hot, and he had a sudden craving for a bowl of stew, beef maybe, or even lamb, although it was his least favourite meat. Or a pot pie with potatoes and onions, redolent with gravy and covered with a golden pastry. He avoided taverns as a rule because of the rowdy nature of their patrons, but he was willing to make an exception for one that served reasonable fare.

  “You won’t find much at the taverns. They’re doing too brisk a business with liquor. There is an inn down the way, though. You might do better there.”

  Simms seemed willing, at least, to walk along with him.

  “You’ll be on your way as soon as shipments arrive again, then?” Lewis asked as they walked, more to make conversation than anything else — an attempt to dispel the awkwardness that lay between them.

  “Yes, my brother-in-law arranged to have a bale of cotton goods sent down from Montreal. But for the battle, I’d have picked it up and left long since. I hope this nonsense is over soon.”

  They had reached a large house that had been converted into a combination hotel and tavern.

  “I think you’ll find something here,” Simms said, “and at not too bad a price. Take care, Lewis.” And with that, the peddler tipped his hat and strode away.

  “Stew? My goodness me, no. We ain’t seen anything as fan–cy as stew in many a day. All I’ve got is pork and pritters.”

  Salt pork and mealy potatoes — but at least it was served up piping hot along with the landlady’s apologies.

  “It’s just that hard to get anything to cook just now,” she said. “If I could get it, I could sell it, though. There are so many who have come into town in case the Americans break out of the windmill and go tearing through the countryside.”

  He nodded, only half listening to her as she prattled on.

  “They say Bill Johnston organized the whole thing, but now I’ve heard that he’s given it up as a bad cause and skedaddled back across the river. Mark my words, they’ll never take that one in, he’s too canny.”

  Lewis gulped down his poor meal, and knew that he must will his weary body to get up off the chair and walk some more. He had still to find a bed for the night, either that or go back to the garrison and crawl under the table with Spicer. The landlady noticed his distress.

  “Have you a place for the night, Preacher?” she asked, and when he indicated that he didn’t, she furrowed her brow. “Well, now, I’m pretty full, but I do have one pallet in
a corner of one of the rooms. You’d have to share, but I won’t charge you for it, seeing as how you’re a man of the cloth and you’ve been helping the wounded and all. What do you say?”

  He gratefully accepted her offer. The room turned out to be over the tavern part of the building, and there was a ferocious noise from the drunks down below, but it was reasonably clean, and there was a layer of blankets piled in the corner. It was better than Lewis had had for many days and he sank gratefully into them and slept. Lewis was awakened by heavy-booted men who reeled drunkenly into the room and collapsed three across into the two feather beds that were crammed into the small space. There were two other pallets as well, and their occupants joined the snoring and moaning of the others. His hips and knees were stiff and sore, the result of his long days of tending the wounded and long years of riding a horse in all weathers. He knew he needed to get up and shift around in order to get them loosened again. Gingerly he raised himself, not bothering to smother the moan that came with movement. There was no need; the other sleepers were insensible and would never hear. Several of them had not bothered to remove their boots before they collapsed into bed. He wondered how on earth the landlady managed to keep her rooms so clean.

  He hobbled to the window and looked out on the moonlit street below. Even at this hour there were still many people about: drinkers who had not yet left off drinking; vagrants who had no place to go; cutpurses, he had no doubt, who would take advantage of a drinker’s befuddlement to relieve him of whatever monies he hadn’t poured away.

  Across the street there was a figure huddled into the lee of a porch, asleep. Poor soul, he thought to himself. That’s a sad place to spend a night. But whether he was destitute because he had no money in the first place, or whether he had no money because he had drunk it all, there was no way of knowing. Perhaps he was just too drunk to realize where he had ended up. The figure shifted, uneasy in the cold, and Lewis looked closer. From so far away it was hard to make out the features, but something about the man reminded him of another moonlit night when he had watched a figure scuttle around the side of a building. Could it be Francis Renwell shivering in the street? Drat the failing eyesight of old age. As a younger man his eyesight had been keen, and he would have been able to tell. Even as he squinted, he doubted himself.

  What would Francis Renwell be doing in Prescott? And then the horror of murder came rushing back at him; the marks on the neck, the obscene slashes, the pins. Sarah, Rachel, the woman in the clearing not far from here.

  He stumbled back to his pallet, looking for his boots, wishing he had followed the odious custom of his roommates and left them on. He eased his feet into the stiff leather and crept down the stairs. His room had been at the back of the inn and it took him a moment to orient himself, to discover where, in relation to the window, the figure was sleeping. But by the time he got there, Renwell was gone.

  V

  Near the end of the fifth day the stalemate at the windmill was broken.

  Steamers with heavier ordnance had arrived from Kingston, along with more detachments of both British regulars and militia. The ships had moved within range of the windmill and begun their bombardment late in the afternoon. This had a far better effect than the previous attempts, shaking the tower and setting what was left of the outbuildings on fire once more. Then, as the sky darkened, a force of a thousand British soldiers began their attack.

  Lewis had continued his round of cleaning and comforting, his ears alert to the rhythm of the battle — the pounding of the artillery, the volleys of musket fire. The Americans were no doubt desperate, their men exhausted, hungry, and without ammunition. They had never expected to be anything but instantaneously victorious. How could they withstand such an assault?

  He had been changing the bandages on the raw stump of a soldier whose left hand had been shattered when the man suddenly shifted his head to one side. “Listen,” he said. “It’s stopped.”

  “What does it mean?” Lewis asked. “Is it over?”

  “Aye, I would say so. They can’t have held out against all that.”

  Lewis and the others braced themselves for more wounded.

  Soon they were elbow-deep in blood again as the casualties of both sides were carried into the makeshift hospital. The Americans were separated from the British and Canadians, who received medical attention first. It was bedlam as the doctor shouted instructions and the soldiers screamed. Lewis stayed out of the way as much as he could and tended to the neglected Americans instead, bandaging the bleeding and praying with the dying.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said to Morgan Spicer when asked what he was doing, “but I’m not sure I feel any partiality for any of them, British, Canadian, or American. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all of one creation, and their blood has soaked the ground together.”

  Spicer looked taken aback. “Why, they’d have made us all Americans. Our men fought for the glory of Britain, and they deserve commendation and all the care we can give them. These others can wait forever as far as I’m concerned.”

  “The only glory worth fighting for is the glory of the Lord,” Lewis responded. “Anything else is vanity. Look at these soldiers, Morgan. They’re nothing but boys, lured in with the false promise of worldly renown. Now they’ll go home with their grievous wounds and regret the day they offered to fight.”

  He might have saved his breath, for Spicer only looked confused and vaguely affronted. Still, Lewis thought, I suppose he deserves credit for all the help he’s given here. It would not be enough to get him the appointment he craved, but it should certainly count as a mark toward his character, which he would be happy to attest to if he should ever be asked.

  One of the Americans had overheard their conversation. “Are you a preacher?” he asked, and when Lewis replied in the affirmative the boy lifted the blanket that covered him. His left leg was a shattered mess of bone and sinew. He had been hit well above the knee, and the upper part of his thigh was little more than a clotting stew of singed flesh. “I know it’s gone,” the boy said. “I just don’t know how much they’ll take.”

  This was the fear with leg wounds — how far up the surgeon would go. Would it be only the leg or would it be necessary to amputate into the groin and destroy not only the means of ambulation but that of reproduction, as well? For a boy of sixteen, which is what Lewis judged this boy to be, it was a tormenting question.

  “Would you stay with me during it?” the boy asked. “They say the surgeon is quick and that’s a good thing, but I don’t know what I can stand. It would help if you were there with a prayer, wouldn’t it?”

  When the British and Canadians had finally been dealt with, the doctor turned his attention to the enemy wounded, tending to the most serious first. Lewis kept an eye on the blanket in the corner, and when two soldiers joined the doctor to hold the boy down, Lewis moved to his side.

  “I’m here,” he said, and grasped the boy’s hand. “I’ll pray.” This he did quietly, in a low monotone. The doctor’s scalpel had been stained red from all the cutting and he found it hard to follow its course as the boy’s blood stained it even more. The rumour had been true — the surgeon was very fast and took no more than a minute or two to saw through the bone above the wound. The boy moaned and screamed once, but it was soon over, the leg removed, and this time, everything else left intact. Lewis stayed as long as he could, murmuring his prayers, but there were too many others who needed attention, and he finally left the boy whimpering on the blood-stained blanket.

  Worse was to come. Once all the wounded had been stitched and cut, bandaged and bound, if not comfortable then at least comforted, Lewis and Spicer were asked to go out onto the battlefield with a company of soldiers to help in the retrieval of the dead. Spicer was excited about getting so close to where the action had taken place, but Lewis faced the prospect with dread. He knew what they would find; he had seen the aftermath of battle before.

  The field was littered with bodies, just as
he had expected, some frozen as white as the snow that gently drifted down on them. He noted with disgust that they were naked. It was always the same after a battle — the indigent and the opportunistic move in, sometimes even as the fighting continues, and strip the bodies of any useful articles. The pigs that wandered at large in the nearby forests had been drawn by the smell of blood and were already feasting on the corpses. Lewis tried to chase them away, but they were belligerent and vicious, unwilling to give up their meal. The soldiers had to shoot them so they could get to the bodies.

  The remains of the wooden buildings around the windmill were full of the dead, some of the corpses burnt black. Lewis and Spicer heaved countless bodies up onto the wagons, some almost unrecognizable as human. Spicer had vomited a couple of times early in the day when they had found a particularly fouled body, but they both soon became inured to the sights and smells of death. At last the field was cleared and they wearily followed the creaking wagons back to Fort Wellington.

  The days of fighting had left nearly fifty dead and another ninety grievously wounded. The leader of the Patriot Hunters, a Captain Von Schulz, had surrendered when it appeared the cause was lost, and many American soldiers had laid down their arms with him. Others had escaped the battlefield, and it could only be hoped that they had found their way back across the river to the United States, and were not roaming the surrounding countryside.

  Bill Johnston was nowhere to be seen. The rumour had been correct that he had had a hand in the affair, but as soon as it became clear that the Hunters would never get any farther than the windmill, he had sailed back across the river to Ogdensburg where, instead of raising reinforcements, he had spent the rest of the battle in the taverns. It would take more than a small invasion to bring the wily old pirate down.

  Once the captured Americans had been marched to Kingston to await their disposition at Fort Henry, the town returned to something approaching normalcy. The families who had fled to the safety of the fort wandered home again, and Lewis was finally able to get the attention of the local constable. Patiently, he outlined the series of events that had led him to Prescott.