Acts of Courage

by Connie Brummel Crook

  After Laura helped prepare the breakfast, she went out the back door of the house and looked up to the Heights. It was still dark, but the rain was falling less heavily now. She could hear rustling sounds. Was there movement between the trees? She shrank back in fear to the side of the house and strained to see.

  A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and, in its pale light, she saw men in the red uniform of the British Army walking up the hill on foot. There was a great clap of thunder and, at the very same moment, the firing of guns.

  Laura ran into the house and up the stairs and took a deep breath outside her daughters’ room. Then she went in and spoke with a quiet firmness that did not reveal her fear. “Harriet, dress quickly, and Charlotte, please get the baby ready.” Laura had trained her children before the crisis, and they knew now that they must do exactly as she said.

  But before they could go down the stairs, they heard men’s voices and a loud banging at the back door. All four froze in fear as Laura called out, “Who is it?”

  The voices were not distinguishable at first. Then they heard James above the noise of the others. “It’s me, Laura.”

  While the children huddled together at the top of the stairs, Laura ran down to the door and pulled up the latch lock.

  James burst into the room with three other men. Their red jackets and white breeches were soaking wet and spattered with mud. The sickening smell of wet wool and blood filled the hallway. The four of them carried a very large man in a gold-trimmed scarlet uniform. Laura held up a candle and, in its flickering light, she saw that the officer’s chest was soaked in blood.

  “Quick, Fan,” Laura whispered as she stared at the wounded man. “Bring water and cloths.”

  Her husband’s face was ashen, for the man they carried was their own General, Isaac Brock. “Up the stairs,” gasped James, his arms under one shoulder of his commander.

  The frightened children scurried back to their room, and Laura handed Charles over to Charlotte. She closed their door tightly behind her as the men climbed the stairs very slowly with their precious burden.

  The door to her bedroom was still open when she left the girls, and she could see the men by the bed, bending over the general. James came out alone to her and closed the door behind him.

  “Laura, General Brock cannot be helped now. Tell Fan not to bring the water. In case the body is found here, we are removing his uniform so he can’t be identified by the enemy. We do not want them to know our leader is dead; nor do we want them to have the body. They’ll not recognize him out of uniform.”

  “What are we to do—the children, James?”

  “Go to the country. There is still some cover of darkness. Go through the village to the north side and then straight west. You’ll be safe there. For now, the Americans want Queenston. The countryside is safe.”

  “But where are they? I thought the fighting would be at the Landing.”

  “We thought so, too. We had it well guarded, but somehow they found a way to the Heights up the sheer cliffs through the fishermen’s pass. Only a few from Niagara know that way. Someone has betrayed us.”

  “Where are the general’s men?”

  “They aren’t here yet. When General Brock heard the cannon, he thought it was a ruse to draw his men away from their stronghold at Fort George so the enemy could attack there. He didn’t believe it was possible for them to find their way, let alone to climb that cliff. He felt the real fighting would come at the Landing, and he knew we were well prepared to hold out there until he could bring his men. So he left his men and came himself to investigate the situation.”

  “It must have been three in the morning when I heard that cannon. Did the sound come from across the river?”

  “No, it was our own cannon stationed halfway up the Heights above Queenston. Our men shot it to warn us, then spiked it, making it useless, and fled down the hill. They never reached the bottom because the warning sound revealed their position and they were shot.”

  “Why didn’t General Brock wait for more men before he attacked?”

  “If he’d waited, he wouldn’t have been able to stop the Americans from marching in and taking Queenston. We held them back, and Colonel Macdonell should be here any minute to lead the next attack. The Americans have retreated for the moment.”

  The solemn-faced soldiers hurried out of the bedroom, and James said, “I must go, Laura. You and the children hurry away. Bob and Fan will help.”

  James and the other men rushed down the stairs and were gone.

  “Come quickly,” Laura called to her children, opening their door. They crowded behind her as they went down the stairs.

  Bob and Fan, who were waiting in the hall, helped put a cape on Charles, and they all hurried outside. The raw, wet wind cut through them as they walked along the street leading away from the Heights.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the north end of town. It had started to rain again when they got there, and they met scores of wet and dirty Canadian and British soldiers marching down the main road toward them. Bob cheered loudly when Captain Runchey’s company of black soldiers came into sight.

  The family turned up a side street, then headed north and west. Before long, they were on the outskirts of Queenston.

  “We’ll cut across country now,” said Laura. She knew that any farm family would take them in, but the farther they went from Queenston, the safer they would be. She decided to head for the Chrysler or Clement farm.

  They walked on in broad daylight now, and the rain had almost stopped. A silly rhyme that her father used to repeat started ringing in Laura’s ears: “If it rains before seven, it’ll stop before eleven.” Barely four months had passed since his death and she thought of him often. But if he were alive now, he would surely be grieved by this war. How torn he would have been, for he had friends on both sides.

  The sound of gunshots echoed from the Heights behind them. Looking back, she could see flashes of gunsmoke. God, please keep James safe, she pleaded silently as she pushed along.

  “Aren’t we ever gonna get there?” Harriet grumbled.

  “How about a ride?” Bob asked, lifting the small girl onto his broad shoulders. From her new perch, Harriet smiled at the others who were still walking.

  “May I carry Charles a piece, Ma’am?” Fan asked.

  “I’ll be all right. He’s asleep, and it’s not far now.” Laura’s arms did ache, though, for Charles was a big baby. Laura turned to look back and saw other groups of women and children coming from the southeast.

  The road was muddy in places, and as they reached the woods near the back of Clements’ farm, she said, “Climb through this rail fence here, and we’ll cut off at least a mile from going on the road.” They all squeezed through between the rails and pushed along a trail through the bush. The grass along the edges was long and very wet, but at least they were free of the mud on the road.

  Finally, they saw the big grey, flat-board barn and the log cabin beyond. As they approached the house, Mrs. Clement swung the door wide open and reached out for the baby. Her usually jolly face was sober as she laid Charles on the bed in the adjoining room.

  Pale-faced, the girls huddled together on the long bench by the hearth. The fire felt good.

  “Will you have some porridge for yourself and the young-uns?” asked Mrs. Clement. “It’ll warm you.”

  “We’ll just rest first, thank you,” Laura said, collapsing into a chair before the fire.

  Mrs. Clement nodded and turned to stir the big pot of oatmeal porridge that she had already prepared for any who might come that day.

  ***

  Much later in the morning, as Laura cut bread for the noon meal and the children played outside, she heard a loud knock at the front door. She went to open it and was not surprised to s
ee Mrs. Law, another woman fleeing from Queenston, along with her eleven-year-old son, John. The Laws lived across town from the Secords, but they had chatted many times in the Secords’ general store.

  “We’ve just come from Queenston,” she said. Her face had lost all of its colour and, glassy-eyed, she mumbled, “The fighting is bad. My husband and older son have been killed in the battle. I fear the Americans will take Queenston.”

  Her red-headed son, John, stared straight ahead, too, and sat down silently on a chair just inside the door. He did not look like his usual self at all, with his face so pale even the freckles were faded. The stubborn expression on his face and his wild-looking hair reminded Laura of someone.

  “Mama, Charles is crying,” Charlotte called from the bedroom. Laura went in to calm the baby and to coax him to eat a little.

  When she came back into the kitchen, Mrs. Clement, Fan, and Charlotte had set the table for all of them. It was a simple meal of bread, turnips, and fried pork, with a glass of milk for each child.

  “I’ll call the others,” Laura said, going to the door. Her children came running to the house, but young John Law was not with them.

  Mrs. Law, who had sat in a numbed state on the kitchen couch since her arrival, suddenly came to life, screaming, “Where’s my son?” She stared wildly about and then rushed out of the house.

  Laura looked at Mrs. Clement, who gave her a knowing glance. The woman had just lost her husband and older boy that morning. No wonder she was panicking. Laura suddenly realized whom young John had reminded her of. He looked just like Red, that unforgettable fugitive from a different battle. But now, she and her children were the fugitives.

  “We must all help her look,” Laura said, breaking off her thoughts. The older children raced outside to hunt while Laura and Mrs. Clement started searching through the house.

  “More than likely he’s crawled into a corner in the barn somewhere. That young’un is havin’ hisself a good cry where no one cin see him,” Mrs. Clement said.

  Laura was looking behind the barrels on the back stoop when she noticed the elderly Mr. Clement heading toward the house.

  “Was he in the barn?” Mrs. Clement asked anxiously, coming up behind Laura.

  “No, but since you’ve not found him, I cin go back and check agin.”

  Mr. Clement turned to go back to the barn, but stopped abruptly at Mrs. Clement’s cry. “Joseph, your musket’s missin’—and your cartridge pouch, too! Don’t you always keep ’em in back of the pantry?”

  ‘Yep, haven’t moved them for weeks.”

  Laura and Mrs. Clement knew they must tell the boy’s mother.

  Mrs. Law came quickly, her eyes red from crying, but she looked hopeful as she searched their eyes for confirmation that her son was found.

  “My husband’s musket and box of cartridges are missing,” Mrs. Clement said slowly. Mrs. Law was silent as her face turned even paler than before.

  The other children rushed up the steps. “We couldn’t find a trace of him,” said Charlotte.

  Mrs. Law groaned weakly and crumpled onto the stoop, holding her head in her hands. “I know my son,” she cried out. “He’s gone to get the men who killed his father and brother. My son, my son…”

  Laura stared at Mrs. Law and then at the Clements. Could such a young boy really have gone to the battlefield? Surely his mother’s grief had turned her head.

  Mr. Clement broke the silence. “You may be right. There’s no other reason for my musket disappearin’. It was there this mornin’.”

  Mrs. Law looked very determined. “I’ll bring him back if I have to drag him with my own two hands. I’ll not lose all my family on the same day.”

  “We’ll go together,” Laura said. “I want to go home to see if there is any news of James. May I leave the children here, Mrs. Clement? Fan and Bob and Charlotte will care for the younger ones. My baby takes milk from a cup now.”

  “Certainly they cin stay here. I wouldn’t want the young-uns goin’ back to Queenston, though I don’t rightly think you should be goin’ back there yourself, Laura.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “What good cin you do? Better to stay away.” Then she looked at Mrs. Law. “Still, May here could use the company…but, like as not, dear, you’ll find John halfway there, shootin’ at a rabbit.”

  “No, I won’t. I know my son.”

  SIXTEEN

  A strange stillness had settled over the town of Queenston. The streets were deserted and the pungent smell of sulphur hung thick in the damp air.

  The women tramped down the empty street toward Laura’s home at the foot of the Heights. As they reached the Secord yard, they heard the gunfire start again and, before Laura could stop her, Mrs. Law rushed toward the Heights.

  “John…John!” she was screaming.

  A musketball tore through her petticoat and grazed her leg. She fell instantly to the ground. Then, with blood soaking through her stocking from just above her ankle, she struggled to her feet. Unsteadily, she limped in and out among the men as she asked, “Have you seen a young boy?”

  Laura stood still at the edge of her own dooryard, unable to do anything to help. Then a bareheaded soldier came limping toward Laura. She recognized him at once. It was Josh’s young brother Elijah. Laura grabbed him just before he fell against her. With her support, he reached the house.

  Inside, he slumped onto the couch in the hallway. “It’s just my leg,” he said. “There’s others worse off.”

  “Have you seen James?”

  “Not since early this morning. He was leading his men into the fighting.”

  “If you’re all right, I’m going to look for my friend and her young son,” Laura said. He nodded.

  She rushed back to the edge of the lawn. Then she saw them. Mrs. Law was dragging her son, who was screaming and kicking at her. She walked with a bad limp, and her stocking was soaked in blood. Laura ran to them and took one of John’s hands. With their combined effort, they pulled the hysterical boy into the house.

  Inside, Laura poured water into a bowl to bathe the wounds. John had stopped fighting his mother now and was standing beside her, looking down with surprise at the blood on her torn petticoat and leg.

  Laura worked rapidly, propping the woman’s leg onto a kitchen bench, and the bleeding started to ease. “It’s good it bled like that,” Laura said. “It cleans the wound.”

  Mrs. Law showed no evidence of the pain she was enduring. Her thoughts were only for her son. “Don’t let John get out again,” she begged. “I’m afraid the boy’s gone a bit daft.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Laura promised. She had been watching him out of the corner of her eye as she worked on his mother’s wound. He was sitting quietly on a footstool by the kitchen window, staring straight ahead.

  Laura approached the boy and stood beside him for a moment before she spoke. He looked up at her sullenly. “Your mother is going to need your help to get back to the Clements’ farm, John,” Laura said in a quiet but firm voice. He looked at her again and said nothing. Laura waited.

  “I’ve used up all my ammunition, anyway,” John answered finally, “but I got some of ’em.”

  Laura turned away and walked to the bake table to tear strips of linen to bind Elijah’s wound. He was wincing with pain now. She could hear John talking to his mother in the background.

  “I hope your leg doesn’t hurt too much to walk, Mother. I figure I should be taking back Mr. Clement’s musket. I wouldn’t want him to think I stole it. I figure I can work to pay him back for the cartridges.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout it, son. I’ll pay for them. We’d best be going now, but I’m going to need you to hang onto.”

  Before Laura could tend to Elijah again, she heard the door opening,
and in stumbled half a dozen red-coated Queenston men.

  “We’ve pushed them back up the Heights, but they’ve still got possession of the top,” said Joe Pine, one of the Lincoln militia.

  “They’re on the defensive. They’re not attacking Queenston anymore.”

  “The Yanks are in control of the Heights and down around the cannon, but it’s not working. Our men took care of that.”

  “Are you going back to attack?” Laura asked.

  “Not now. We’ll hold Queenston if they attack us, but we’re waiting for Major General Sheaffe to come up from Fort George, and the Mohawks from Chippawa.”

  “Have many men been killed?”

  “I don’t know. But General Brock…General Brock…”

  “I know.”

  “And Macdonell fell, too, but he’s still breathing.”

  “The doctor says he’ll not make it,” said Joe.

  “Have you seen James?” she asked.

  The men hesitated then, and Joe looked down. She realized that he knew about her husband. “Please, tell me,” she said.

  “He’s alive, but he’s wounded and behind enemy lines. He fell just left of the cannon.”

  “How long before Sheaffe’s men are expected?”

  “Two or three hours, at least.”

  “…and James will be lying helplessly in the middle of a battle!”

  “I’m afraid so, Laura.”

  Laura looked down then and spoke quietly to the men. She knew what she must do. “Help yourselves to anything in the kitchen—bread, cheese, milk,” she said. They did not need urging, for they needed to keep up their strength. As they went into the kitchen, Laura slipped unnoticed out the back door.

  At the foot of the Heights, she broke her run and walked briskly to the left, in the direction of the cannon.

  “Where are you going, Laura? The enemy have control of the Heights,” called a local volunteer soldier who was standing guard.