‘All right,’ said Givins. ‘But the fact remains that we still have a double agent in our midst. Can we simply leave her in place, without supervision? What if she goes back to working for the Americans?’
MacLea was watching the forest again. ‘She’ll never do that.’
‘If you say so,’ said Givins without conviction. ‘You know the lady better than I do. I’ll ask the question again. What are you going to do?’
‘About Josephine Lafitte? Nothing,’ said MacLea. ‘I beg you, Captain, do not tell a living soul. Her American spymaster is Colonel Beauregard, head of the US Army Ordnance Survey, the American military intelligence office. If he finds out she is working for us, he will kill her without hesitation. Her only chance is absolute secrecy.’
After a moment, Givins nodded. ‘All right. We’ll play it your way. But if Sheaffe finds out, he really will have us both shot.’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea, and he pointed to the forest. ‘However, right now we have more important problems. Here they come again.’
Blue-coated skirmishers trotted out of the forest and across the fields towards them, muskets at the trail. Even as they watched, several stopped, raised their weapons and fired, white puffs of smoke blown quickly away by the wind. Behind came a solid column of infantry tramping down the road towards the bridge, drums beating. MacLea and Givins ran back to the tavern, hurrying into the common room and slamming and barring the door behind them. ‘They’ve been reinforced,’ said Murray, watching from a window. ‘I reckon there’s about four companies now.’
MacLea pulled out his battered pocket watch and looked at the time. Bisshopp’s troops from Chippawa would not reach them for another two hours at least. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll hold the position for as long as we can. Make every shot count.’
Muskets spat smoke and flame from the windows and the loopholes knocked through the tavern walls. The Canadians and Mississaugas fired steadily and methodically, picking out their men. The enemy skirmish line withered, men crumpling and falling to the ground. The Americans halted and knelt down, returning fire. The column on the road stopped too, and they could hear orders being yelled; men peeled off to the left and right, swiftly turning the column into a line of battle, which then began firing by platoon, the echo of volleys hammering around the field, smoke floating in clouds in the windy air.
Musket balls thudded into the walls of the tavern or flew through the windows, smashing glass and knocking lumps of plaster out of the walls. Schmidt cursed as splinters raked his cheek, and one of the Mississaugas sagged back with a musket ball in his arm, buckskins dripping blood. But the Americans were taking punishment too; MacLea could see a dozen bluecoats on the ground now, some of them crawling away to safety, others lying motionless. But still they stood, trading blows with the defenders of the tavern, disciplined and calm.
‘What the hell are they doing?’ asked Alec Murray, biting open a cartridge and ramming powder and shot down the barrel of his musket. ‘They outnumber us by nearly fifteen to one. Why don’t they just rush us?’
‘I told you,’ said Givins, raising his musket and firing. Sulphurous smoke belched into the room. ‘They’ve no stomach for fighting.’
Sekahos shook his head. ‘They do not attack because they have no need, mon ami,’ he said. ‘Instead, they will wear us down. I think they may have more ammunition in those boats on the river. And we have only the cartridges we are carrying.’
He raised himself up and fired again, then ducked as American musket balls shredded the air and tore more splinters from the wooden walls. ‘Sooner or later we will run out of cartridges,’ he said. ‘When our fire begins to falter, then they will attack.’
He was right, MacLea knew, but so was Murray. There was no need for the American commander to be this cautious, not with overwhelming numbers. A sudden rush would compel the defenders to either flee or surrender. Then the Americans could get on with demolishing the bridge, which was surely their objective.
The enemy fired again and again, their ranks shrouded in white smoke after each volley before the wind ripped the smoke away. Miller, kneeling in front of another window, suddenly fell back, pitching headlong onto the floor with blood running down the side of his face. Another Mississauga lay beside him, not moving. The rest loaded and fired, loaded and fired, over and over, until their shoulders ached from the recoil of the muskets, but still the Americans stood doggedly, volleys crashing out regular as clockwork. Through the haze that was settling over the field despite the wind, MacLea could see men running down to the boats and coming back again carrying canvas bags of cartridges.
‘Captain!’ It was Abel Thomas, calling from the floor above. ‘We’re down to our last five rounds, sir.’
One of the Mississaugas turned his head and nodded. ‘Moi aussi, monsieur,’ he said.
‘And the Yankees are getting ready,’ Thomas said.
MacLea looked out of the window and saw that the Americans had paused their firing and were fixing bayonets. Their drums were beating again, a steady tattoo, tatata-ta, tatata-ta, tatata-ta, tatata-ta, preparing for the charge.
‘Your orders, Captain?’ Thomas asked.
‘Hold your fire until they reach the far end of the bridge,’ MacLea said. ‘Give them one volley, and then get everyone downstairs and outside. Run like hell until you reach the woods. Alec and I will cover you.’
It was not much of a chance; the Americans would have a clear shot at them as they retreated over the ploughed fields. Their only hope was to run hard, and hope that the American infantry’s reputation for being unable to shoot straight was justified.
Upstairs, Thomas shouted, ‘Here they come!’
The drums rattled and roared. They could hear the Americans cheering as they surged forward, men trotting at first, then breaking into a run and racing towards the bridge. In the tavern, the militiamen and Mississaugas sighted on them, fingers tightening on the triggers of their muskets.
And then the foremost Americans stopped, so suddenly that the men behind blundered into them. Even at a distance MacLea could see the confusion and panic on their faces. ‘What the hell?’ he wondered out loud, and then he heard another noise, coming from behind him. There was no mistaking it: the high, thin skirl of a fife, playing the British Army marching song, ‘High Germany’.
Beside him, Sekahos grinned, his painted face full of delight. ‘Rosbifs,’ he said. ‘The redcoats are coming.’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. He lowered his musket, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. They were safe.
‘Huzza!’ shouted Alec Murray. Around them, the others were whooping with delight. ‘Look, there go the Jonathans!’
The Americans had broken ranks again and were running, streaming away towards the boats drawn up on the riverbank. Some were already climbing in and taking up oars, preparing to cast off. More men, redcoats of the 49th Foot and Canadian militiamen, ran past the tavern and across the bridge, pausing to shoot at the stragglers. Within a few minutes, the Americans had embarked in their boats and were rowing back towards their own side of the river, leaving only a scattering of bodies on the cold mud behind them.
* * *
Carson pushed open the door of the tavern and came inside, looking worried. ‘Everything all right, Captain?’
Miller was sitting up, holding his head, blood leaking from between his fingers. Sekahos knelt over the Mississauga and felt for a pulse with his fingers, then looked up and shook his head. ‘I am sorry,’ MacLea said.
‘He died as a warrior dies,’ said Sekahos, and he touched his rosary. ‘His people will honour his memory.’
MacLea stood silent, his eyes still on the dead man. In the back of his mind was a niggling worry. Why had the Americans not pressed home their attack?
On the far side of the common room, Alec Murray slapped Carson on the back. ‘How did you get here so quickly? Did you grow wings?’
‘I didn’t have to go far, Sergeant. Turns out our detachment here had sent
a boat downriver the moment they saw the Americans getting ready to cross. I met Colonel Bisshopp and Captains Boydell and Hatt coming up with their men only about three miles away.’
‘And a good thing too,’ said Captain James Boydell, coming into the tavern. He was a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties, a few years older than MacLea. In everyday life he was a lawyer and merchant from York, but he was also a capable and competent captain of militia. Captain Richard Hatt, a landowner from Ancaster, followed him into the room.
‘We got here just in time,’ Boydell said. ‘I reckon they were about to roll you over, old fellow.’
‘You could well be right,’ said MacLea, although he was still not certain. ‘At all events, I’m very glad to see you. What force did you bring?’
‘A company of the 49th and two companies of militia,’ said Hatt. ‘About a hundred and fifty in all. Colonel Bisshopp has gone up the Fort Erie road to catch any Yankee stragglers. He’ll be along shortly.’
Schmidt walked over to MacLea and touched the brim of his hat in salute. Like all of them, his face and hands were blackened with powder smoke. There was blood on his cheek where the splinters had hit him, dripping down onto his collar. ‘What do you want done with the prisoners, sir?’
The two captured Americans were in one corner of the common room, tied hand and foot. One was still unconscious, but the other had sobered a little and was squirming in his bonds. He looked up as the officers turned towards him, and MacLea saw the sudden fear in his eyes.
‘My God!’ said Boydell sharply. ‘I know that man!’
‘Which one?’ asked MacLea.
‘That one,’ said Boydell, pointing to the man who was awake. ‘He’s Canadian.’
‘What?’ said Captain Hatt sharply.
Boydell nodded, his face grim. ‘His name is Frank Calder, and he’s a storekeeper from York County. He served in my militia company back during the summer, but he deserted about a month before Queenston.’
The fear in the man’s eyes had deepened. ‘Did he indeed?’ said Hatt. ‘And now here he is wearing an American uniform. It would be interesting to know what he’s doing here, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t give a fuck what he’s doing,’ exploded Boydell. ‘He’s a bloody traitor, and he can die a traitor’s death.’ He strode to the tavern door and flung it open. ‘Sergeant! Inside, if you please!’
‘Wait!’ screamed the man called Calder. ‘Don’t kill me, I beg you!’
‘Shut up!’ Boydell snarled at him. ‘See this bastard, Sergeant? Recognise him?’
‘I certainly do, sir,’ the sergeant said grimly.
‘Good. Take him out behind the stables and shoot him.’
‘No!’ Calder cried. He struggled frantically against his bonds as the sergeant started towards him and looked at MacLea. ‘You! You’re Captain MacLea, aren’t you? I heard them say your name.’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘What of it?’
‘Don’t let them shoot me,’ the man begged. ‘Keep me safe, and I promise I’ll help you. I can give you information.’
‘Not interested,’ said MacLea, and turned away. The sergeant grabbed Calder by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
‘Please, Captain MacLea!’ Calder shouted. ‘Please, please listen to me! I know something of value to you. I can help you with your quest.’
MacLea turned his head sharply. ‘What quest? What are you talking about?’
The other man looked down for a moment, swallowing hard, and then raised his head and looked straight into MacLea’s eyes. ‘I can tell you where to find Polaris,’ he said.
Chapter Two
MacLea stiffened. ‘Wait,’ he said to the sergeant, then turned to Murray. ‘Alec, get everyone out of here. You too, Sergeant, if you please. We’ll watch the prisoner.’
The sergeant nodded and touched his hat brim in salute. He departed, followed by the militiamen and the Mississaugas, two of the latter carrying the dead man. Miller went with them, still groggy and leaning on McTeer’s arm. Murray closed the door behind them and barred it, and then stood leaning on his musket. As well as Givens and Boydell, Sekahos and Captain Hatt also remained behind.
MacLea turned back to the prisoner. ‘Polaris has nothing to do with me,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Calder. ‘You are searching for him. And he knows it.’
Boydell drew breath sharply.
‘Who is Polaris?’ demanded Captain Hatt.
MacLea ignored him. ‘My commission to hunt down Polaris came from General Brock,’ he said to Calder. ‘It died with him. I have no further authority in this matter. Alec, take him outside.’
Murray started forward. ‘No!’ screamed Calder. ‘I know where Polaris is! I can help you capture him!’
‘Will someone kindly tell me what the hell is going on?’ demanded Hatt.
‘Polaris is an American spy,’ said MacLea. ‘We believe he reports directly to Colonel Beauregard at the US Army Ordnance Survey.’
‘You mean he was an American spy,’ said Boydell. ‘He was Barton, that officer from the Royal Americans. The one you sent to feed the fish at Niagara Falls. He’s dead.’
MacLea shook his head. ‘No. Barton wasn’t Polaris. He told me so himself just before he died. I’m afraid Polaris is very much alive.’
‘Then who is he?’ asked Givins.
‘I can tell you,’ Calder said.
Boydell snorted. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of this treacherous bastard’s mouth.’
‘Untie me,’ said Calder. He was swaying a little, but otherwise he seemed sober enough now. ‘Give me your word of honour that you will let me go. If you do, I will tell you everything I know.’
MacLea pulled his bayonet from its scabbard and cut the bonds on Calder’s wrists and ankles, then pushed him down onto a bench. Calder rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation, wincing with pain as the blood started to flow again. MacLea stood a few feet away, looking down at him.
‘Speak,’ he said.
Calder shook his head. ‘Your word of honour,’ he repeated. ‘I will suffer no harm, and you will allow me to return freely to America.’
‘You’re not in a position to bargain,’ said MacLea. ‘If you don’t tell us what you know, you’ll be dead in under five minutes.’
‘And everything I know will die with me,’ said Calder. ‘It all depends on how badly you want Polaris.’ He added softly, ‘You see, Captain; I can bargain after all.’
There was a moment of silence. It was true that MacLea’s orders regarding Polaris had been cancelled by General Sheaffe. The spy was no longer his affair.
But Polaris was also Canada’s most dangerous enemy. So long as he lived and walked free, infiltrating the high councils, stealing secrets and seducing others from their loyalty, the entire colony was in danger. And if Calder was telling the truth, and Polaris could be taken or killed… well, Canada would not be out of danger, not by any means, but a potent weapon would have been removed from the enemy’s arsenal.
MacLea looked at the others. Hatt shrugged; Boydell glared at Calder but said nothing. ‘Give him to my men, monsieur,’ said Sekahos. ‘They will have the truth out of him soon enough.’
MacLea shook his head. Information extracted under torture was rarely reliable; John Macdonell had taught him that lesson before he died. He looked down at Calder for a long time, saying nothing, watching beads of sweat break out on the other man’s forehead.
‘You have our pledge,’ he said finally. ‘Are you part of Polaris’s organisation?’
‘Yes,’ said Calder.
‘Who recruited you?’
‘The man you just mentioned, Captain Barton, formerly of the Royal Americans. He knew I was disaffected, and approached me and asked if I would help the cause.’
‘You were spying for the Americans even before you deserted,’ MacLea said.
‘Yes,’ said Calder. He looked at Boydell. ‘I am truly sorry, sir, if I have wounded your feelin
gs. I respected you deeply, and still do. But you spoke wrongly when you called me a traitor. Sir, I am a true Canadian patriot. But I believe that Canada’s destiny lies hand in hand with that of America. The Americans are not our enemies. They are good and honest friends, if only people would remove the scales from their eyes and see the truth.’
‘Friends?’ said Captain Hatt. ‘They have an odd way of showing it. Last month they bombarded Niagara town with red-hot shot, endangering the lives of women and children. Do you call that friendship?’
‘I deplore this war and its cruelties as much as the next man, sir. I hope that it will end as soon as possible. But you must understand that the Americans do not come as conquerors. They are liberators. They are here to help us escape the yoke of King George and his ministers, and to be truly free at last, just as our American brothers are.’
‘You mean our white American brothers,’ said MacLea, thinking of Crabbe and Abel Thomas and the whip marks they still bore on their backs. ‘You cannot force people to be free at the point of a bayonet, Mr Calder. You must forgive us if we choose to make our own destiny, rather than accepting the one your friends wish to impose on us. But why desert? Why not stay here as a spy?’
‘I was given a new role,’ Calder said. ‘I was to act as liaison between the American army and their sympathisers here in Canada, and was attached to the Fifteenth US Infantry, stationed at Buffalo. Colonel Boerstler gave me this uniform so I would fit in and not attract attention. I was ordered to join his expedition today and assist him once his regiment landed in Canada.’
‘Assist him how?’ Captain Givins asked.
‘Colonel Boerstler’s opening move was to cut the bridge here at Frenchman’s Creek so our troops could attack Fort Erie without interference from your garrison at Chippawa. Once the bridge was down, I was to guide the colonel and his regiment to Watersmeet Tavern, about halfway between here and Chippawa.’
‘And what would happen at Watersmeet Tavern?’ MacLea asked.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 3