by Tamara Gill
What had happened? Sunny Girl should be moving about nearby, or galloping for home and making a racket as she went. Then too, Jaclyn didn’t think Grandpa Bailey was the type to keep to his hiding place when someone he knew was in trouble. At the very least he ought to be out here demanding to know if she was okay. Then there was Denison. The good major had been performing his duty with a fanaticism that would do any zealot proud. It was his horse that had caused her to fall off Sunny Girl. He should be all over her.
But he wasn’t.
Jaclyn lay for a while longer, her eyes still closed, breathing slowly and waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The crickets stopped their squeaky song, a car passed in the distance...
Her eyes flew open and she sat up abruptly. Yes, there it was. The hum of an internal combustion engine, a sound evocative of Jacqui’s present and not the era of the Fenians. She looked around. The darkness was not as profound as it had been when she was riding Sunny Girl minutes before. Although there was no lamp standard near where she sat, there was the residual glow of electric lights from Buffalo just across the Niagara and from Fort Erie a few kilometers away. Both were products of her time.
She was back.
Her head was throbbing as if it had just been mashed with a sledgehammer. Gingerly she turned, twisting her body as she did. She groaned. Her shoulders ached and her thighs felt as if they were in permanent muscle spasm. As she had expected, her car was where it had been, parked in the little pull off by the Niagara River. There was now no doubt in her mind. She was home.
But what about Sean? Had he been able to escape safely back to the States? She chewed her lip. What had happened to him?
Would she ever know?
She rubbed her forehead in a pointless attempt to ease the throbbing inside her skull. Damnation! It wasn’t fair. She wanted to know Sean’s fate. She needed to know and now she had no hope of ever finding out.
Or did she?
The thought lodged in her mind and the implication made her gasp as her heart began to thump hard. Had she changed history because she hadn’t been able to ride a horse properly? Would she go back to the archives today or tomorrow and find that there was indeed a man by the name of Sean O’Dell who was captured by George Denison and his Governor General’s Body Guard after the main body of the Fenian army had left Canada West? Would she read Denison’s book and find a new section in which he crowed about his capture of a wounded Fenian officer trying to escape across the water?
The thought made her stomach knot painfully. Dear God, had she condemned Sean instead of saving him?
She would never know sitting here. She hauled herself painfully to her feet, groaning a little as she felt each new bruise from her fall. She looked speculatively at the sky. She had no idea what time it was or even what day it was. Was it still the early morning of June first, the day she’d parked here? Or was it the night of June fourth, the date when she left 1866?
She stuck her hand in her pocket, looking for her car keys, and found her watch. She pulled it out eagerly, but it hadn’t survived the fall. The face was a tracery of cracks and the hands showed the same time they had when she’d been dumped unceremoniously into the past. She ought to know, she had checked the damned thing often enough, hoping that it had decided to start working again. Disappointed, she sighed. Still, she strapped it onto her wrist out of habit. Perhaps the ruined surface would help remind her that she had to buy a new one when she got back to Toronto.
No further ahead, she wondered what she ought to do. If it was June fourth her family was probably frantic with worry, for she’d promised to return on June first. On the other hand, would the police, or the Niagara Parks Commission, or whoever managed this little stretch of the Niagara Parkway, have allowed her car to remain here for four days, apparently abandoned? She looked at the sky again in a vain attempt to guess the time. It was dark, that was all she could tell for certain. It could be two minutes before dawn or a few minutes after midnight.
Shoving her hands in her pockets she began to walk, away from Fort Erie, toward the little bridge that crossed Frenchman’s Creek. The exercise slowly worked the kinks out of her leg muscles and it reduced the throbbing in her head. It even eased the need for answers to her many questions.
Something she thought might be called peace settled over her. She had slipped back into the past and returned. How many other people could claim that kind of an adventure?
She crossed the bridge, pausing for a moment to look down into the dark, slow moving water of Frenchman’s Creek. What would the people of today do if a deluded group of idealists from across the Niagara River barged into their lives and told them that they were being invaded for their own good?
Would they greet the invaders with the same polite dismay that the people of 1866 had shown?
The Canadians of 1866 had not panicked. They had reacted calmly, even phlegmatically. True, on June third the townspeople of Fort Erie had shown their relief when they celebrated at the arrival of Anglo-Canadian forces. But throughout the invasion the residents of the area had had rock solid faith that they would eventually be rescued by the very British the Fenians were intent on defeating. It was a faith the Fenian invaders could not comprehend, because their experience with the British was based on coercion and authority too long misused.
Would the people of this area now have the same strong faith in their government, a faith that was based on trust and self-esteem? Hard to say, Jaclyn thought, walking on. The world was a bigger place now. Decades of IRA extremism and the horror of 9/11 had made people fearful of the idealism of the downtrodden. Then too those radical organizations that used raw violence as the way to change the system now fought their battles with a ruthless intensity that would have appalled a nineteenth century rebel. George Denison had described the Fenians as ‘quixotic’, an apt appellation that defined both their quest and their actions.
And what of communications? How would the news of the invasion be handled today? The media often seemed more interested in making the news rather than simply reporting it. Jacqui thought about the key players in the invasion and had to smile. CBC Newsworld or CNN would have had a field day with the Fenians. They’d focus in on John O’Neill with his intense, sad eyes and deep idealism and make a martyr of him. Then they’d take Sean O’Dell with those blazing blue eyes and that gorgeous athletic body of his and make him a star.
At the thought of Sean her amusement fled. What had happened to him?
She’d reached a street lamp that cast a yellow puddle of light in the darkness. Automatically she glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. Not so very long... Her heart lurched, then began to thump. Blood rushed in her ears and she felt dizzy. She leaned against the lamp standard. She needed the support.
Her watch wasn’t broken. The case might be cracked, but the insides were working just fine. Now she had her answer. It was the morning of June first, not long before dawn.
That answer, of course, created its own problems. She had come back to the present at exactly the same moment she had left it. Did that mean the last four days had been a bizarre dream? That she had never left the present? She looked down at her clothes and moved her body, seeking reassurance that what she had experienced was real.
The aches in her muscles could not have come just from a casual fall, of that she was certain. And there was no reason for her white shirt to be gray with dust or her slacks to be dirty at the knees and smelling rankly of horse. She shoved her fingers through her short hair. It was sticky with sweat and needed a wash. She was also pretty sure that she smelled rather ripe herself. All of this indicated that she’d been living through hot weather, that she’d been active and that she hadn’t been showering regularly.
That was very reassuring. She didn’t want to think that she had been hallucinating or that she was going crazy over a research assignment.
She began to walk again, considering the Fenian invasion with the benefit of hindsight, the way any historian d
oes.
After Lowry had ordered his troops to stand down and had sent most of them home, the Michigan had towed the scow full of Fenians back to Buffalo. There they were officially charged. The Fenian organization raised the money to pay the bail that had been set and the members of the Fenian army were freed. Everyone, from Colonel O’Neill on down to the privates, drifted away. They were never pursued or prosecuted. Although the US government protested that the Fenian invasion had been a clandestine operation from the start, there were many in the Canadas who believed that the US authorities had known of the Fenian plans and turned a blind eye to them. It was one more plank in a fence of distrust of the United States that pushed the British North American provinces to create a confederation in 1867.
Had the Fenians ever been a danger to Canada West? Hindsight said no, of course not. The Fenians were a misguided group of men who thought they were doing something virtuous. Nothing terrible happened as a result of their invasion, so therefore they were not important.
The people of 1866 would have disagreed with that casual put down. They hadn’t known that the Fenians were misguided, but benign. To them, the threat had been very real. It had demanded a patriotic response and, despite their defeats, the courageous defense of their homeland by the men of Volunteer forces had proved that Canada could be safeguarded by its own people. The British North American colonies didn’t really need Britain, did they? It wasn’t Peacocke and his regulars who fought so bravely in the battles against the Fenians. In both cases it was Canadian Volunteers. Here was proof the people of Canada could stand on their own. Devastating proof.
Jaclyn reached the next lamp standard and stopped. She stretched and flexed her muscles. She was feeling better now. Her head was thumping, rather than pounding, and the stiffness in her muscles was working itself out. She turned back, retracing her steps.
The Canadians of 1866 had not been content with realizing new strengths. They wanted restitution for the goods the Fenians had requisitioned and revenge for the five Canadians who fell at Ridgeway. Restitution had been easy. Everyone and his uncle had petitioned the British government to have their losses made good. This had been a long drawn out process, as seeking money from any government always is, and in order to justify their demands people wrote full accounts of their activities during the invasion, accounts that were immensely useful to future researchers like Jaclyn.
Revenge was another matter. The wrath hardened into bitterness and fell upon both the Fenians who had been captured and on Colonel Booker, who had the misfortune to lead the defeated column of Volunteers at the Battle of Ridgeway.
The trials of the Fenian prisoners created a sensation throughout the fall and winter of 1866, but none were men of any importance in the Fenian movement. On the other hand, Colonel Alfred Booker had been the Canadian in command of the Volunteers. If blame was to be laid, he was the perfect person to receive it. He was condemned in the press as soon as word of the defeat at Ridgeway came out and a court-martial was inevitable. Then, as now, the public saw a court-martial as a confirmation of wrong doing rather than a trial to prove or disprove an officer had erred. So, even though Booker was exonerated in military court, he was ruined socially and financially. Life in Hamilton became impossible and he eventually moved to Montreal.
The men of the Welland Canal Field Battery and the Dunnville Naval Brigade weren’t concerned about Booker’s actions or errors. Their wrath was aimed directly at John Stoughton Dennis. His most notable critic was Captain Richard King of the Field Battery, the man who had his foot amputated in Buffalo after the Battle of Fort Erie. At Dennis’ own request, a court of inquiry was also formed to look into his actions at Fort Erie.
Six charges were levied against Dennis, one of which was deserting his command. Three senior militia officers presided over his trial, including Colonel George Denison Sr., the father of the Major George Denison of the Governor General’s Body Guard. Although Dennis was found not guilty on all charges, Colonel Denison wrote a dissenting report indicating he believed the charges had actually been proved against Dennis.
Despite this, Dennis faced no social stigma as the result of his actions at Fort Erie. In 1870 he was one of the surveyors in Manitoba who precipitated the first Riel Rebellion and he would eventually become a senior civil servant with the new Canadian government. His sterling career culminated when he was made Commander of the Order of St. Michael and St. George in 1882.
Other Canadian participants in the invasion had happier futures. After a successful life that included a stint as Mayor of Toronto, Major George Denison wrote his memoirs of his participation in the Fenian invasion that had so influenced Jaclyn’s perception of his actions. Lachlan McCallum of the Dunnville Naval Brigade eventually became a Senator.
But what had happened to Major Sean O’Dell of the Fenian Expeditionary Force?
The question gnawed at Jaclyn. She had to get back to Toronto and check the archives again to find out if his name had suddenly appeared in records where it had never been before. She had to know if she had somehow changed history.
But first she had to locate a place for breakfast. During the past four days she had snatched food whenever she could, but it was not always enough or when she needed it. She felt as if she’d been on a four day fast. Breakfast was definitely her first priority.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. Come in.”
It was the end of August. Jaclyn had come to Kingston before the semester began to set up her apartment and prep for the new year. She’d also come to discuss her report with Professor Perlaine.
She advanced cautiously into his cluttered office. The cramped little room looked much the same as it had the day he’d given her the Fenian assignment, but this time the visitor’s chair was clear. Jaclyn sat down, folded her hands in her lap and smiled at him, hoping she wasn’t about to get one of the professor’s caustic critiques.
Perlaine picked up a three-ring binder she recognized as the one she’d used to compile her research notes and the report she’d written identifying the key points. After her excursion into the past, Jaclyn had finalized her research, still finding no reference to Sean or a wounded Fenian officer. She completed her report and sent it off to Perlaine, but she received nothing but a final payment from him until he broke his silence with an e-mail the previous week, asking her if they could meet once she was back in Kingston.
After the weeks of silence, she wasn’t sure what to expect, and the e-mail didn’t give her any clue as to his reaction to her work. So here she was, waiting nervously as he flipped the binder’s blue cover, then tapped the cover page. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond earlier, but I was in Vancouver for most of the summer. I didn’t get back until a few days ago and I only just reviewed your materials.”
Jaclyn could have pointed out that she had sent her notes and summary as an e-mail attachment at the same time she couriered the hard copy. Perlaine could have read her work digitally, if he’d wanted.
She didn’t make the comment. There were some things it was better not to say aloud.
He drew a pile of papers, held together by a paperclip, from the pocket on the binder’s cover, then set the document to one side. “I was impressed with the arguments you made in your summary.” He picked up the document, studied it for a moment, then said, “I think you should submit it to the Canadian Journal of History. I’ve marked the places where I feel revisions should be made. If you would care to make the changes I’ll review the paper again and then write you a letter of recommendation.”
Jaclyn’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to pound. She stared at him, bewildered, knowing her bewilderment showed on her face, but unable to hide her feelings.
Perlaine smiled faintly, amusement in his eyes. He thrust the document toward her, forcing her to reach out and take it.
Her hand shook as she accepted it. She willed her muscles to still with an effort. “You thought my premise was va
lid?”
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and crossing his arms. “I will never be a student of military history, Miss Sinclair. I don’t like war, I don’t approve of it. But in your paper you make the argument that military actions must necessarily influence people and that people influence events. You used the examples of George Denison, eventually a mayor of Toronto, and Lachlan McCallum, who was to be appointed a Senator. Both men were proud of their involvement in repelling the Fenians. They were also patriotic Canadians who were in a position to influence the direction and growth of a Canadian identity. I thought, as well, that your suggestion that the essence of the Canadian identity had already been formed by 1866 was a fascinating theory.”
The unreality of the situation allowed Jaclyn to relax. She couldn’t really be discussing the Canadian identity in this polite civilized manner with the grouchiest prof in the history department. It wasn’t possible, therefore she didn’t have to worry about what she said. She laughed. “You mean old Thomas Newbigging’s assertion that the government would take care of him by making good all of his losses.”
Perlaine nodded. “Thomas Newbigging said it, but many others believed it as well. It seems that the modern Canadian expectation that the government has an obligation to ensure that its citizens do not suffer as a result of the vagaries of life springs from a long and honorable tradition. Then too there was the polite, although perhaps cautious, way the local Canadian population greeted the invaders.” Perlaine smiled with real amusement. The expression relieved the hard lines of his face and made him seem almost approachable. “I can’t imagine our American neighbors allowing an invading force to overrun them. The shooting would have started the first time a Fenian set foot on a farm and demanded horses and food. There would have been running gun battles the whole time the invaders were there.”
Jaclyn wrinkled her nose. “You make us sound like cowardly wimps, rolling over and doing what we were told.”