by Tamara Gill
Inside the front garden a clump of broadleaf bushes decorated a corner of the fence, providing an excellent hiding place. Jaclyn crawled in behind the largest bush where she collapsed on the ground and panted while her heart gradually slowed back to normal and her legs stopped feeling like throbbing tree trunks.
The gunfire was constant now, not the explosive bang of a massed volley, but the individual pops of a firefight. From where she was crouched, Jaclyn could observe what was going on along the River Road, but she herself would not easily be seen. She peeked through the branches then almost fell back in surprise as a man clothed in a scarlet uniform loomed up before her. The gate flew open and John Stoughton Dennis, the only person in Fort Erie dressed in regimental red, bolted into the garden followed by two men in the blue uniform of the Welland Canal Field Battery.
Jaclyn scrunched down, trying to ensure her hiding place was not noticed, but she needn’t have worried. Dennis was too intent on seeking sanctuary to notice that someone else was in the garden. He marched up to the front door of the prosperous-looking house and raised the knocker, lowering it with an imposing series of thumps.
One of the Welland men, thankfully watching the street and not looking around the garden, said, “Why don’t we just go round the back and find a place to lay low? They’ve got a barn. We could try there.”
The other Welland man said, “Good idea,” just as the door opened a crack.
“Yes?”
“I am Colonel John Stoughton Dennis of the Queen’s Own Rifles! I need your assistance. Open this door!”
The door opened wider. “Colonel Dennis? What—”
Dennis wasted no time on polite conversation. He thrust his shoulder against the door, pushed it wide and marched inside. His two followers crowded in behind him. The door shut with a slam.
Jacqui shook her head in awed amazement. Colonel Dennis’ role in the Battle of Fort Erie had come under some criticism after the defeat of the Fenians. His actions had been scrutinized, from his request that he be put in charge of the Queen’s Own, through his decision to leave the Canadian column in Port Colborne and sail off in the Robb, then on to his final order to his men to scatter after only two volleys. Like Colonel Booker at Ridgeway, Dennis would be court-martialed. Again, like Booker, he would be exonerated. Unlike Booker, the stigma of leading a major defeat wouldn’t stick to John Stoughton Dennis. He’d ended his life as a senior civil servant, well respected and the recipient of high awards while Booker would die a few years after Ridgeway, broken socially and financially.
When doing her research Jaclyn had discovered two books by Major George Denison, the officer in command of the only cavalry unit in the Niagara, the Governor General’s Body Guard. Denison hadn’t been involved in either battle, but the book he’d written a year or so after the invasion had been highly critical of Dennis’ actions. She remembered wondering if his viewpoint had been the result of an in-depth analysis of Dennis’ capabilities or if it depended on a simple difference in leadership style.
Denison’s second book was a memoir. In it he had come across as a free-wheeling, energetic young man who saw the invasion as an exciting adventure, while J. S. Dennis had been portrayed as pompous and pushy, a man whose ego had soared past his capabilities. Jaclyn had discounted some of that when she read the documents, but seeing Dennis in action today, shoving his way into a private home, endangering the family inside in order to save himself, found Jacqui in complete sympathy with George Denison. John Stoughton Dennis was a jerk, pure and simple.
Shaking off thoughts of Dennis’ personality flaws, Jacqui glanced back at the street, considering her options. In a few minutes the homeowner would suggest Dennis hide in the washhouse behind the main building. A while later the house would be visited by Fenian soldiers who must have seen Dennis scuttle into this garden while they were too busy subduing the men of the Welland Battery to follow him. The Fenians wanted Dennis desperately, probably as a bargaining chip to exchange for the prisoners now floating down the river in the tug Robb.
She didn’t want to be here when the Fenians arrived. Taking one last look at the house, Jaclyn opened the gate and dove back into the action.
***
Oblivion never lasted long enough. Oblivion from wrongs no man should be forced to accept. Oblivion from sights no man should be obliged to see. Oblivion from pain no man should have to endure. The oblivion that wrapped Sean O’Dell in its blessed cocoon was chased away by the horse, Sunny Girl, when Colonel Starr ordered his men to fire their second volley at the Canadians lined up on the dock. The explosive crash of a hundred weapons discharging all at once, and right beside her, panicked the young horse. She tried to rear, but Sean’s uninjured arm was still crooked around the reins. His weight dragged her back to the ground and kept her from bolting, but the jerk on his arm brought him back to consciousness.
The first things he saw as he opened his eyes were the legs of the horse, dancing far too close to his face for comfort, then beyond them men in Fenian blue, green and civilian clothes running. For a moment he stared stupidly at the men bolting around him. He couldn’t figure out who they were or why he was lying on the ground staring up at them. The whole situation was akin to something out of a nightmare—the shouts of the men, the roaring cheers from somewhere, the ever-present bursts of gunfire. Obviously he was in the middle of a battle, but which one? And why was he lying on railroad tracks?
Once again the filly tugged at the reins, jerking Sean’s body. Pain sharpened memory, blowing away the mental fog that surrounded him. He swore, roundly and with a great deal of anger, at his bad luck to be wounded in this mad scheme that couldn’t possibly succeed, at himself for reaching Starr’s line at precisely the wrong moment and at the Canadian volunteer whose bullet had felled him. The anger focused his energies and the cursing cleared his mind. He was still belaboring an unkind fate as he struggled to his knees.
The world swayed around him as the throbbing in his head escalated to a relentless hammering. His stomach churned and nausea rose in his throat. Mounting Sunny Girl was more than he was capable of at that moment, but by using the horse for leverage he was able to drag himself to his feet. Leaning against the filly’s neck he waited for the world to stop spinning and his head to clear. Neither happened.
There was some reason he had to stand up. He had some place he had to get to, a message he had to give, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Still the imperative nagged at him. He risked looking around and spied Owen Starr mounted on a horse that was behaving no better than Sunny Girl. Memory returned. He had a message from O’Neill that he had to deliver to Starr. It was important.
Somehow he had to get from where he was to where Starr was, and that would not be easy. Each movement made his head pound and his senses swim while his arm burned with pain. Sunny Girl shifted. Sean moved with her and realized that with the help of the horse he might just make it to Starr’s position. So, hanging on to the reins, he leaned against Sunny Girl, talking gently to her to keep her calm as he staggered forward.
Starr was swearing when Sean reached him. His horse was tossing its head, pivoting around, bucking, and generally showing its displeasure in being where it was. When he saw Sean he gave up the fight to calm his mount and jumped down, handing the reins to a nearby soldier. “O’Dell! What happened?”
Sean could no more answer that than he could salute or even shrug, so he said in a voice that sounded strained even to his own ears, “Message from Colonel O’Neill, sir. You are to hold your position. He’s on the bluff and will support you momentarily.”
The concern in Starr’s eyes was overlaid by the glitter of battle fever. “He’s already advancing, but there’s no need! These fellows broke and ran after two volleys. Two volleys too many,” he added grimly. “That gave the tug time to get away.”
Sean frowned. His mind wasn’t working fast enough to keep up. “The tug?”
“Packed with our men!” Anger shimmered in Starr’s voice and flas
hed in his eyes. “As I marched down the railroad tracks I could see our men on the dock. They were out of the tug and I hoped...I damn well wanted them freed, but that cowardly Englishman held his command together long enough for our stragglers to be loaded back onto the tug and for the boat to get away before he cut and ran.”
“How do you know he’s a regular?” Something had happened to his voice. Sean was shocked that it seemed to have dwindled to little more than a whisper.
Starr frowned. “The men he commanded were volunteers. Their uniforms were blue. The commanding officer wore a red uniform. He’d clearly been sent in from another unit. But that’s neither here nor there. You need doctoring, O’Dell.” He waved his hand at a nearby soldier. “Sullivan!”
“Sir!”
“Help Major O’Dell over to the holding area in the derelict fort. Do what you can to staunch the bleeding.”
A terrible anticipation shivered through Sean. His arm was aflame now. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone touching it. “That’s not necessary...”
Starr shot a look past Sean and Sullivan nodded a response. Sean knew what that meant. They weren’t listening to him. They’d decided they knew better and they were about to take matters into their own hands. He’d done the exact same thing earlier today. Nausea clawed at his gut and blackness edged his vision.
“Put your good arm over my shoulder, Major,” Sullivan said.
Sean drew himself up. “I’ll just lean against the horse. It’s worked so far and I am responsible for the animal,” he said as forcefully as he could. Unfortunately his voice lacked the strength of his thoughts.
“I’ll see to both you and the horse. Come on then. Throw your arm over my shoulder like I said and we’ll be off. I don’t want to miss too much of the fighting.”
Sullivan was clearly a force to be reckoned with. Once again Sean surrendered to what he could not overcome.
***
A half a dozen men dressed in normal everyday clothes for the 1860s—a white cotton shirt with turned down collar, a plain vest with no lapels, or a frock coat of some dark somber color, trousers that were wide at the waist and narrow at the ankle and shoes thick-soled with square toes—almost ran Jacqui down as she trotted toward the dock. At the very last moment she veered one way and they the other and a collision was avoided. Her heart thundering, Jaclyn paused to look at the men as they raced down River Road.
With no uniform and clearly running to safety, these men could only be members of the Dunnville Naval Brigade taking John Stoughton Dennis at his word and doing their best to save themselves. The men of the Robb did not leave the scene of battle in a mass as the volunteers who fought at Ridgeway had. The men of the Robb had truly scattered, breaking apart into small groups that responded to the Fenian threat with a fierceness that surprised the American invaders.
Lachlan McCallum, captain of the Dunnville Naval Brigade and eventually a member of the Canadian Senate, would later tell the story of how he had bolted down River Road with the Fenians at his heels.
Hearts thumping, lungs aching, he and a small group of his men had seen the edge of town drawing ever nearer. Escape seemed to be only a few minutes away until they looked up and saw the main body of the Fenian force descending from the bluff. Realizing there was little hope of beating the Fenian rush, the group split. The larger one pushed its way into the nearest building, which happened to be the Fort Erie Post Office and the home of the postmaster, William Lewis. McCallum and two others had kept running even though one of them had been slightly wounded. They had succeeded in avoiding the Fenian net as O’Neill slowly closed off all the exits from town. They were later rescued by the Robb further down River Road.
The men in the post office would engage in a hot defense of their unfortified sanctuary. In the process the house would be badly shot up. William Lewis would later report that there were bullet scars all over the wooden building. This small, determined group held off the much larger Fenian force until they ran out of ammunition and were forced to surrender. They probably also bought their fellow volunteers the time needed to get out of town safely.
A gun banged, far to close for comfort. Jacqui shrieked and dove toward the nearest building. There, in the dubious safety of the shadows she reconstructed what was happening now. When O’Neill’s men poured down from the bluff, their destination was the international dock. Many of the Canadians had taken cover behind cordwood and other paraphernalia on the dock rather than trying to run. They had put up a hot fire that kept the Fenians busy, but they were hugely outnumbered and they could not possibly defeat both Starr and O’Neill. They had probably been subdued by this time.
For those men, as it had been for all of the volunteers, defeat at the hands of the army they considered a rabble was humiliating. They did not see themselves as fighting veterans of the most vicious war of the era, of standing valiantly against superior numbers. They only saw the shame of losing against an invading mob.
There was one man in particular for whom the shame of that day mingled with the anguish of a destructive wound, a disastrous combination. This was Captain Richard King of the Welland Canal Field Battery.
King had been furious when Dennis gave the order to run. He gathered a small contingent around him and kept up a steady fire against the Fenians until his ankle was shattered by a Fenian bullet. At that point his little command disintegrated. Unable to run, desperate to avoid capture, probably half-mad with pain, King had managed to roll off the dock into the Niagara River. There he clung to a piling until he was eventually pulled from the water by his Fenian opponents.
With the ferry dock subdued, the battle moved down River Road to the post office where the Dunnville men had established their defensive position. The fight at the post office would keep the Fenians busy nearly a half-an hour while individual firefights happened wherever retreating volunteers came into contact with the Fenians.
Jaclyn tugged at the neck of her sweaty shirt and pondered her options. She could retrace her steps back down the street toward what must be the post office firefight. That probably wasn’t the best idea, for she had no desire to end up with a bullet lodged in one of her internal organs. They just didn’t have the technical skills or the diagnostic machines needed to put people back together in 1866.
By backtracking, she could also visit the house where Dennis was trying to avoid capture. Dennis would hide out in the washhouse for a while, then impatient and perhaps worried, he would slip out and head over to the main house, determined to find out what was going on. There he would overhear Fenians in his benefactor’s parlor, interrogating the family, demanding to know where the British Colonel was hidden. As a result Dennis would slip into the barn, leaving the two Welland men he’d arrived with to be found in the washhouse. He himself apparently avoided capture by hiding in a hayrick, whatever that was.
Though observing Dennis in action held a certain amount of interest for Jaclyn, the odds were that she’d end up being captured like the two Welland men and capture wasn’t part of her agenda. That left option number three.
She would head to the dock and make sure that the wounded Captain King was fished out of the Niagara River. She wouldn’t have to get involved. The records told her that one of the Welland men would make sure that King was rescued. She just wanted to be certain King was okay.
Taking a deep breath, she poked her head around the corner of the building. The pop of gunfire seemed to be behind her, in the direction she’d just come from, so that must be the firefight at the post office. Ahead of her, where the ferry dock was located, there was quiet. Cautiously she abandoned the shelter of the building and headed for the site of the battle, walking this time, careful not to be too open about her destination.
The fighting was indeed over when she reached the dock. The Fenians were holding the captured men of the Dunnville Naval Brigade and the Welland Canal Field Battery at gunpoint. The Volunteers stood with their hands up, watching their captors. The expressions on their faces ran
the gamut from careful blankness through dejection to outraged fury. The main body of the Fenian army milled about the area. Their shouts of elation mingled with the approving roar from across the river as Colonel O’Neill inspected his prisoners.
At the edge of the massed Fenians, Jaclyn paused. She couldn’t simply push her way through. These guys were in no mood to be pushed—they would push back. It would be damn bad luck if the Fenians figured out at this point that Sean O’Dell’s young prisoner was a woman, not a boy. Where was Sean anyway? He should be somewhere about. If she could just find him, he’d make sure that Richard King was properly looked after.
She stood on her tiptoes and looked around, but didn’t have any luck locating him. Frustrated, she eased her way along the edge of the dock, pausing every now and then to peer over the side to see if she could see Richard King. After the brilliance of the cloudless sky, the underbelly of the dock was gloomy tapestry smudged by dark shadows. At one point she thought she saw a shifting shape that could be King, but she couldn’t be sure. She would just have to get to John O’Neill and trust to his decency. And it had better be sooner, rather than later.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Fenians were being formed up into their units again and were moving out of the congested dock area. As yet only a few of the more adventurous townspeople had emerged from the relative safety of the buildings. They were staying well away from the action, watching and carefully uninvolved. As Jaclyn plunged into the midst of the Fenians, she was challenged a couple of times, but the comments were usually more in the nature of gruff orders for her to get out of the area so she didn’t get hurt, than demands to know what she was doing there.