Acts of Courage

by Connie Brummel Crook

  “And where’s your other friend? There were three of you last time.”

  The young soldier looked down. “You were right about the six feet of earth, Missus.”

  The third man had been killed at Newark.

  NINETEEN

  I’ve come for some of your baking, Missus,” the old woman spoke in a squeaky voice that did not seem quite real.

  Laura stared at the large, bent figure standing at her kitchen door. A close-knit woollen shawl covered her head and crossed over her short gown. The front of a beribboned mob cap poked out over her forehead. Her heavy petticoat hung well over her shoes as she waited on the back stoop, holding her empty round basket.

  Laura did not hesitate to welcome the old woman, for she had never forgotten her outburst against the three young American soldiers. Now she kept food prepared and ready to serve to anyone who passed her way. Most often it was the enemy. Praise for Laura Secord’s apple pie and candied maple sugar spread through the lines as more and more American soldiers received her hospitality. So Laura was not surprised to see this woman at her door.

  “What would you like?” Laura said in a pleasant voice. The coarse-featured old lady shifted from one foot to the other. It was late at night, and Laura could see that she was tired. James and the children were already in bed, and the servants, Bob and Fan, had retired to their quarters.

  “I’d pay for a bite to eat, Missus,” the woman continued in a squeaky voice. The woman looked down and shifted uncomfortably again.

  Laura looked sadly at the bent figure and said, “Come in, please. If you wish, you may rest in the kitchen while I prepare you a bite.” The woman stepped forward and hurried inside.

  She sat down heavily in the rocking chair by the window, and Laura began to warm potatoes and cook eggs in an iron frying pan over a low fire in the hearth. This war had made her unduly suspicious, she decided, for she couldn’t help wondering about the old woman. Why was she far from home? They were at war.

  When Laura turned from stirring her potatoes, the woman said, “Do you have extra butter? I supply butter regularly to the troops stationed out of town, and I have none left.”

  “And where is your home?” Laura asked.

  “Eh?” the woman asked. She cupped one hand around her ear as she looked up at Laura.

  “Your home? Where are you from?”

  “Near Stoney Creek. Have you any butter for sale?”

  “I’ll get a few bowlfuls from the fruit cellar later. You are a long way from home.”

  Laura hurried about the room. Well, at least the woman had offered to pay. She sighed as she took a tin plate from the cupboard and placed it on the table. With a long wooden ladle, she pushed the hot potatoes and eggs onto the large plate. She was just about to tell the woman to sit at the table when she noticed her at the other side of the room, peering into the china cabinet.

  “Your food is ready,” Laura said a little crisply.

  The woman turned around quickly then, but spoke in the same shaky voice. “You must have brought these dishes from the old country.” She slid along the bench seat beside the table. Her long unfashionable petticoats dragged along the floor.

  “No, they came from Great Barrington, Massachusetts,” said Laura. “They were my mother’s.”

  The woman suddenly choked on the huge mouthful she had just scooped up, and Laura rushed over to a pail on the bake table. She dipped out a cup of water and handed it to her.

  “Here,” she said. “This may help. You needn’t hurry. Take your time eating.” She was beginning to feel sorry for the woman.

  Laura bent over the fireplace to cover the coals with ashes, for it was a warm day in late May, and she hoped the fire would not heat the rest of the house. In this position, squatting over the hearth, she glimpsed across at the woman, who was still clearing her throat. Beneath the table, her feet were spread wide apart and her boots were not a woman’s.

  She knew that sometimes women wore their husband’s boots, but these boots were different; they were military boots. A British soldier would not try to hide his identity, and neither would an American soldier. A cold chill gripped her as she realized he must be a scavenger. He could well be more dangerous than the enemy, but she knew she must feed him anyway.

  She stayed crouched there, poking the ashes and trying to compose herself. She would have to go along with his disguise for now. She needed to figure out a way to lure him outside, give him the butter, and then hurry back inside and lock the door. Maybe she would come to no harm. She slowly straightened up and turned toward the table.

  His plate was empty.

  “Let’s go out for the butter now,” she said quietly. But her hand shook a little as she picked up the plate from the table. She felt the eyes of the scavenger close upon her.

  “Don’t be afraid, Laura Ingersoll,” said a low, smooth voice.

  Laura turned and stared at the figure before her. She had not been called Laura Ingersoll for years now. Who was this person?

  “I was Laura Ingersoll before I married. My husband is James Secord, a sergeant with the first Lincoln Militia.”

  “Laura…I’m Red,” the man said in a strong masculine voice, pulling the heavy grey wig from his head and letting his shock of thick red hair fall over his forehead.

  Laura stared in disbelief. The man’s unruly hair was standing on end, just as it had when she had first met him, and his face, though fuller now, had broken into that lopsided smile she could never forget. It truly was Red.

  “Red!” she shouted and rushed over to him, but hesitated and dropped her arms without throwing them around him.

  Still smiling, he said in a low voice, “Be quiet, Laura. I’m on the run again.” He grabbed the wig from the table and pulled it back over his head. “But tell me about yourself.”

  “First, I’ll get you some of my apple pie,” she said, cutting him a huge wedge.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, tell me.”

  “Well, we came to Upper Canada in 1795,” said Laura, taking a chair by the window. “Father ran the tavern at Queenston at first. Then he set up farming out at La Tranche River.”

  Red was eating pie slowly as she talked. “He must be torn by this war,” he said.

  “Yes, he would have been. He had many friends in America, as well as Mira and her husband and family. But he died just as it began. He never knew.”

  “And Sally?”

  “She’s at Port Credit, running the inn there. They lost the farm.” She swallowed as she thought about her father. Then she looked up at Red and asked, “And you, Red, why didn’t you ever write? I haunted the mailbox.”

  “I did. I wrote to the judge, and I wrote to you, too.”

  “There was no return address on your letter to the judge, and I never received any letters.”

  “I didn’t write you at the same time as I wrote the judge. But I wrote you not long afterwards. My letter must have been lost. Then I wrote again a few years after that. I guess you’d moved to Canada by then. I never forgot you, Laura, but I gave up hope of ever seeing you again.” His voice was deep with emotion as he stared at her, and his fork lay still beside his plate.

  Red was a handsome man, she thought, probably a few years younger than James—more her age. He adjusted his wig with one hand, and his pale green eyes swept softly across her face. She had forgotten that she had removed her mob cap before he had come, and her shining brown hair hung down long across her back and shoulders. He silently admired her as she sat there by the window, with the evening shadows falling across her face.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes as though the years had not passed between them. Finally, he stood and walked over to her. He took her hand in both of his and said simply, “Thank you again, Laura.”

 
She looked up into his handsome face and remembered the boy she had cared so much about and had waited and waited to hear from.

  “Mama!” It was Charles, crying out in his sleep.

  Laura came back to the present with a start and pulled her hand free. The child did not call out again. Then she looked back at Red, still standing there, and she wondered why Red was running again.

  “And you, Red,” she asked. “Where are you going?”

  Then, in a lower voice, “I mean, who or what are you running from this time?” There was no sting in her tone.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t explain.” He sounded embarrassed.

  She knew he was hiding from someone, or he would not have been dressed as he was. Suddenly, her feelings changed and she said, “There was some excuse then, but now you’re a man. What justifies your running now?”

  His voice became guarded.

  “You’re right,” he said. “And I must go. May I buy the butter?”

  He grabbed his large basket and handed it to her. She knew he wanted it for a cover, as it was not unusual for peddlers to go through a camp of soldiers, selling their goods. This way, he would pass undetected.

  “I’ll fill it from the cold cellar.” She walked briskly to the door.

  In about five minutes, she was back. He was sitting on the back stoop. She handed him the basket filled with wooden bowls of butter packed in ice chips and sawdust.

  He put a handful of money in her hand, but she did not even look at it as she saw him go out the door. For some reason, he had irritated her. Perhaps it was his irresponsibility. It seemed he would never grow up.

  Then her heart softened as she thought of the poor shivering boy back on the road to Great Barrington. “God go with you,” she called out gently.

  He turned then and smiled. “We’ll meet again, Laura. I will come back to see you.”

  She smiled sadly at Red, limping like an old woman as he went along the road to St. David’s. She was quite sure she would never see him again.

  TWENTY

  The sultry summer days grew longer and hotter as the war that was to have ended so quickly dragged on into its twelfth month. The Americans controlled a large part of the Niagara Peninsula. Sheaffe had been recalled to England, and Brigadier-General John Vincent, commander of Britain’s Centre Division, had withdrawn to Burlington Heights and disbanded the local volunteers. With three thousand American soldiers to seven hundred Canadian, the outcome of the war appeared to be inevitable. In the northern part of the Niagara Peninsula, the only local men still fighting were the cavalry of Captain William Hamilton Merritt.

  Only one leader, an Irishman named James FitzGibbon, still dared to inhabit the lower region of the Peninsula. He had been an officer under Brock and had learned from him and admired his war strategy. His small, well-trained band, known to the Americans as the “green sliver” and the Bloody Boys, made lightning-speed skirmishes against the enemy. They travelled from place to place, signalling each other with cow bells.

  ***

  On the evening of June 21, 1813, Laura was helping James up the stairs to bed. That afternoon, the temperature had reached ninety-eight degrees, and it was so hot on the second floor that James had spent the afternoon lying on the sofa in the parlour. His wound was still inflamed and gave him a lot of pain when he tried to stand on it. Laura noticed his weight on her shoulder more than usual this night. The heat was taking its toll.

  They had barely reached the top of the stairs when Laura heard loud knocking at the front door. Wearily, she realized it would probably be enemy soldiers looking for food. They must be newcomers—soldiers who had been here before came to the back door that led to the kitchen.

  The knocking had become louder, and she could hear sounds of shouting and jeering. This was a rougher bunch than usual. But she could not lock them out. “Dear God, protect us,” she prayed as she led James into their room, then raced back down the stairs.

  With trembling hand, she opened the door and looked up at a tall man with a long face and a large nose. His piercing blue eyes stared at her coldly as he gave orders to his men.

  “Search the place.”

  Laura spoke out firmly and pleasantly, “I’ll be glad to show you about. My wounded husband has been given permission by American officers to stay home, and my young children have gone to bed for the night.”

  Their leader nodded to two of his men and indicated that they should come with him. They followed Laura up the stairs. Laura could hear the other men searching the yard and the rooms below.

  When Laura and the men returned to the main floor, she opened the door to the parlour and said, “I’ll prepare you a meal quickly while you wait in here, if you wish.”

  Their leader agreed and his men entered. He stayed in the hallway, looking out the window.

  “I’m going to the bakehouse to call my servants to help,” she explained as she went outside. He followed, not far behind, and when he saw only the two black servants, he returned to the back stoop.

  Bob and Fan had already prepared most of the meal. Laura kept partially cooked food in her deep cellar so that the preparation would not take long. She was thankful that they had the fireplace and pit in the bakehouse. A fire inside tonight would have made the upstairs unbearable for sleeping.

  In about twenty minutes, the meal was ready, and Laura brought the serving dishes into the kitchen. She set the table and called the rough men in from the parlour. They slid eagerly along the benches on either side of the table. Laura had opened both the front and the back windows and, just as they were ready to eat, a pleasant breeze blew through the room and across the table.

  They didn’t notice. They helped themselves to huge portions and started eating right away, not like most of the other soldiers, who had waited until they were served. Their total concentration on their eating had one advantage, though. It gave Laura a chance to tiptoe up the stairs to check on the family.

  The girls were not yet asleep, and she tried to reassure them with a smile. Then she looked in on James. He motioned her over and, as she bent her head toward him, he whispered, “It’s that bastard Chapin and his turncoat partisans.” She nodded and stepped back out into the hall. She dared not stay longer, lest she arouse suspicion. Trembling, she held the stair railing for a few seconds before she returned to the kitchen.

  Laura set her last three pies on the table in front of the leader. Without thanks, he grabbed one, helped himself to a large piece, and passed the rest on to his men, who had already eaten plenty. They hardly noticed her as they continued to eat and talk.

  Laura went out the back door and sat on the stoop, where it was a little cooler. She could hear the conversation of the men inside coming out through the kitchen window.

  “That green sliver is getting too bold, Doctor. The men sure didn’t expect to run into him at Deffield’s Inn today,” a voice said.

  Laura knew that Chapin had been a surgeon in Fort Erie and later Buffalo before the war.

  “I’d think the two of them could have beat him up, at least, even if they didn’t capture him,” Chapin replied.

  “He took them by surprise, Doctor.”

  “Taking a man by surprise is his style, and I plan to do something about it.”

  “Do you think Boerstler will take your advice, sir?” asked another.

  “Of course he will. He’d be a fool not to,” Chapin bragged. “Now’s our chance to get rid of that green sliver and his Bloody Boys. Boerstler will listen to me.”

  “So, Captain, we attack the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we’ll combine forces with all Boerstler’s troops at Fort George and march down on the last foothold in the Niagara Peninsula. When he’s wiped out, Upper Canada is ours!”

  “He’s a tough one, though. It m
ay not be easy.”

  “He doesn’t have nearly as many men as we do. Besides, we’ll take him by surprise.”

  Laura sat frozen to the stoop. What if they came out and saw her sitting there? Surely they must know she was nearby. Perhaps it did not matter. What good could hearing them do? She was behind enemy lines, and it would be impossible for her to take the news to FitzGibbon.

  Laura walked quietly to the well and sat on the far side of the low stone wall around the well opening. From there she could hear voices and guffaws but could not distinguish words. The front door slammed. She had taken the bucket from the well and set it on the low foundation wall when she heard footsteps coming toward her.

  Chapin and his men stood beside her. She gulped down her fear and handed Chapin the dipper. To her relief, all he did was take a drink and offer his men the same. Then the churlish crew went on their way. Laura breathed a prayer of thanks as she went back into the house and walked upstairs to see James. They had not ransacked her home, as had happened twice before, and had not harmed her family.

  Laura could see the relief in James’s face when she told him the guerrillas were gone. Before she could say a word about what she had overheard, Charles cried out in his sleep. The heat was making him restless. She went to the cradle and wiped Charles’s face with a cool cloth, her mind racing. Lieutenant FitzGibbon should be warned. He must not be taken by surprise. As it was, he would be far outnumbered by Boerstler’s troops. She needed to talk to James.

  When Laura finally turned back to her husband, she knew his pain was bad tonight. His dark head lay still against the pillow. His face was pale and his eyes intense. As usual, he did not complain, but he was obviously in no condition to talk. She had to tell him, though, and she did, recounting all the details she had heard.

  “We can’t be sure there will even be an attack,” James whispered. “Chapin is known to be a braggart. He has no real power. Boerstler may well not listen to his suggestion. You’ve probably,” he grunted in pain, “only heard the ravings of a man impressed with his own importance.”