‘How will you do that?’
She took a deep breath. ‘By exposing Polaris.’
* * *
‘Colonel Lawrence sets out from Kingston today,’ said Colonel Calder. ‘He will be here the day after tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘Lawrence and his men will be cold after their journey across the ice. Never mind. The welcome we have prepared will soon warm them.’
It was the twentieth of March. The snow was melting, patches of bare earth and grass beginning to show dark like old bones through the white sheet around Sackett’s Harbor. On a parade ground covered in grey slush, the Canadian Volunteers were drilling, the tramp of marching feet echoing off the stone buildings around them. ‘They are looking much more like soldiers,’ Calder said.
MacLea shrugged. He himself was wearing the same blue and white uniform as his men, with an officer’s epaulettes. ‘Give me a few more months and I might make something of them. As it stands, I doubt they can stand up in the line of battle.’
‘You underestimate your skills, Captain. General Pike watched your men drilling yesterday and was most impressed. They look a sight more professional than do many of our own militia. And in two days’ time, they will get the chance to show their mettle.’
Calder paused. ‘A friend of yours has joined Lawrence’s force. Or perhaps more correctly, a former friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Captain Derenzy, along with his company of the 41st. I hope you won’t feel any divided loyalties. Derenzy will probably want to shoot you on sight. Don’t be afraid to do the same to him.’
Something clicked in MacLea’s brain. ‘And Lawrence still thinks Sackett’s Harbor is practically undefended?’
‘Yes. We know there are British spies here, but one of our agents in Canada has intercepted all the intelligence reports and substituted them with copies of his own before they reach your commanders. The deception has been thorough.’
Calder paused again, watching MacLea. ‘It has occurred to me that your side may be doing something similar,’ he said. ‘We are quite interested in Kingston, for the same reason that you are interested in Sackett’s Harbor. Destroying the enemy’s naval base would give either side undisputed control of Lake Ontario. We had an agent in Kingston, but he disappeared. Then we started receiving reports that the Kingston garrison had been reinforced and the fortifications strengthened. I wonder if that is true.’
MacLea said nothing.
‘You were in Kingston before you came to Ogdensburgh,’ Calder persisted. ‘What did you see?’
‘Very little,’ replied MacLea. ‘Because there is very little to see. Fort Henry consists of nothing more than a wooden blockhouse and ramparts, and there is a single battery near the water’s edge, protecting the shipyard. The garrison is ragtag and bobtail, whatever Colonel Vincent can scrape together.’ He smiled at Calder. ‘You’re right. The British have been playing you at your own game.’
Calder smiled in reply. ‘Of course they have,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am familiar with the concept of double bluff, Captain MacLea. Report to Fort Tompkins at three p.m. We will dine with the general again, and then go over the final plans.’
* * *
Pale and red-lipped, General Zebulon Pike addressed his officers. ‘Our preparations are complete. The guns of the warships have been taken ashore, and we have emplaced two masked batteries, disguised so the enemy will not see them until it is too late. Once the British have advanced to point-blank range, the hidden batteries will open fire. The attack will break, and our infantry will then launch a counterattack. I do not expect many of the enemy to survive.’
‘What next, sir?’ asked Major Forsyth.
‘We carry on with our own plans. In another two weeks, the lake ice will start to melt. We expect the harbour to be ice free by mid-April. That is when we will make our move.’
‘And what is our target?’ asked another officer.
‘Kingston is too strongly defended,’ said Pike. Calder looked over at MacLea and smiled. ‘Niagara too is well fortified. The weakest point of the enemy line is the centre. We shall attack York.’
A murmur ran around the room. ‘I do not expect much opposition,’ Pike continued. ‘The morale of the civilian population will have been broken by the news of Captain MacLea’s defection and the defeat of Colonel Lawrence. I expect we will occupy the town without firing a shot.’
MacLea listened silently. Cogs were turning in the back of his mind, like a millwheel in a race slowly gathering speed. An idea was forming.
* * *
The following day he drilled the Canadian defectors as usual. They admired him, he knew, or at least most of them did; they looked up to him as a fighting soldier, even though he had previously been on the other side, and dreamed of emulating his exploits against their former countrymen. Some were ideologues who talked of freedom and liberty for Canada; some were fugitives who had fled justice; some simply wanted to be on the winning side. But they were all ready to follow him into battle. Calder is right, he thought. Somehow, in a month, I have turned them into soldiers. The thought left him with mixed feelings.
That night, scouts on snowshoes came gliding back over the ice. ‘They’re coming. They’re only five miles away.’ They could see the glow of sentry fires out on the lake. The wind was in the west and the ice creaked a little, but it was still firm and strong.
* * *
West of Fort Tompkins, the ground rose steeply from the lakeshore. The Canadian Volunteers stood at the top of a low bluff, a blue-and-white-uniformed double rank of men. More troops, American regular infantry, waited out of sight behind a rise in the ground. The ramparts of the fort were bare of troops, but MacLea could see the infantrymen and gunners down in the courtyard, waiting for the signal. Snowdrifts, grey and dirty, streaked the ground. The ice on the lake was blinding white.
‘Stand to attention!’ That was MacLea’s senior sergeant, a farmer from Prince Edward County who had once served in the Foot Guards. The blue-coated ranks stiffened, presenting their muskets. Colonel Calder walked down the line, inspecting the men.
‘Very good,’ he said to MacLea. ‘You’ve done well. They look ready to fight.’
MacLea held out his empty hands. ‘Am I to lead men into battle without a weapon?’
‘You’ll be allowed a weapon when we decide we can trust you,’ said Calder. ‘Not before.’
‘Here they come,’ said someone in the ranks.
On the horizon they saw a scarlet line shimmering with movement, gradually resolving itself into a marching body of men. Regimental colours waved, bright flecks against the sky. The high, piercing notes of a fife playing ‘Lilliburlero’ reached their ears, followed by the rattle of drums. Shading his eyes against the brilliant light, MacLea saw skirmishers out in front, little dots of scarlet and white, and then the solid marching column of the Royal Americans behind. A man on a white horse rode at their head, upraised sword winking in the sunlight. Behind the Royal Americans came another body of men, Canadian militia dragging four heavy sledges. Sunlight flashed on brass; the sledges were carrying cannon.
The skirmishers were spreading out, presenting less of a target to the enemy. The nearest were about four hundred yards away. Another officer with drawn sword led them on foot. Tingling with nerves, MacLea watched him. Derenzy, he thought. I must get to him quickly, before the mayhem begins.
He turned to Calder. ‘I’m going down to the ice.’
‘Why?’ Calder’s voice was full of suspicion. ‘They are walking straight into the trap, just as we planned.’
MacLea shook his head. ‘William Derenzy commands that skirmish line.’
‘That should worry you, perhaps. Why should it concern the rest of us?’
‘Because he is one of the best light infantrymen in the British Army. He has a nose for trouble. He can spot an ambush or a masked battery better than anyone. If he thinks there is something wrong here – and he will – he’ll tell Lawrence to call off the attack. Your plan will fall to
pieces.’
Calder watched him. ‘So why do you need to go down to the ice?’
‘I’m going as a decoy. If Derenzy spots me, he’ll concentrate on me and send his men after me. I’ll draw them into the trap.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Calder.
‘Why? Do you think I’m going to desert?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Don’t be a fool. If I do, the British will hang me and your agents will kill Josephine. You’ve got me where you want me.’
‘I’m still coming with you,’ said Calder. He turned to the nearest soldiers. ‘You, and you. Follow us. If Captain MacLea tries to make a run for it, shoot him.’
Both soldiers looked shocked. ‘Sir?’ said one of them.
‘That is an order,’ snapped Calder.
They scrambled down the steep bank to the frozen lake and started across the ice. The fife continued to skirl, the drums rattled and rolled. The skirmish line drew closer, and now MacLea could see clearly the white cross belts and red facings of the 41st. Still the forts and shipyard remained silent. A hundred yards from shore, MacLea drew a deep breath.
‘Calder,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ Calder turned just in time for MacLea’s swinging fist to connect with his jaw. The colonel’s head flew up, and then his eyes rolled back and he fell heavily onto the ice. Spinning around, MacLea ripped the musket out of the hands of the first soldier and swung it at the man’s head. There was a crack of metal against bone and the soldier slumped to his knees and fell forward onto his face. MacLea pointed the weapon at the other man, his finger on the trigger.
‘Drop your musket and run,’ he said.
The man stared at him.
‘Do it!’ MacLea snarled. ‘Or by God, I’ll shoot you right here and now.’
The man dropped his weapon and fled back across the ice. Behind MacLea a pistol barked, and in the same instant a hammer blow struck his left arm. Blood spurted across the ice. Turning, he saw Calder sitting up holding a smoking gun. MacLea raised his musket one-handed and fired. Through the cloud of smoke he saw Calder sprawl backwards onto the ice. His limbs twitched once, and then he lay still.
Dropping the empty musket and clutching his bleeding arm, MacLea began to run. He saw the nearest light infantrymen raise their muskets and heard Derenzy shouting at them not to shoot. Good old Derenzy, he thought, a friend in need. A moment later he reached the skirmish line and fell to his knees, biting his lip in pain.
Derenzy was standing over him. ‘John MacLea! What the hell?’
‘It’s a trap,’ MacLea said. ‘The Americans are waiting for you. They have thousands of men, and dozens of guns in masked batteries. Tell Lawrence he must turn back.’
Derenzy shouted at his men to halt. ‘How do we know you’re telling the truth?’ he demanded.
‘For Christ’s sake, Derenzy! I’ve risked my bloody life to come out and warn you! Tell Lawrence, now!’
The tramp of hundreds of boots sounded across the ice. Lawrence was there, still on horseback, sword in hand. ‘Derenzy! Why have you halted?’
‘Captain MacLea is here, sir. He says the Yankees have set an ambush for us.’
‘MacLea!’ Lawrence looked down and saw MacLea still kneeling on the ice, blood dripping around him. ‘Arrest this man, Derenzy! At once! I am making you responsible for this traitor; if you let him escape, I will break you. When I have taken Sackett’s Harbor, I will return and deal with him.’
‘Colonel,’ gasped MacLea. ‘I am begging you. Don’t advance. The Americans will blow you to pieces.’
Lawrence gave no sign that he had heard. Wheeling his horse towards his men, he raised his sword. ‘Royal Americans! Follow me! Drummers, sound the advance! Charge! Charge!’
The drums beat a rolling tattoo. Cheering wildly, the Royal Americans broke ranks and raced across the ice, following their colonel. Feeling sick, MacLea rose to his feet and watched. Derenzy and his light infantrymen stood staring as well. ‘Oh holy Jesus,’ said Derenzy.
All around the harbour, hidden cannon spat flame and smoke. Iron balls ripped through the Royal Americans, throwing men across the ice like splintering wood. Case shot tore entire files to shreds, the dead and wounded lying in heaps. Half a minute later, the guns roared again, and then a third time. Sulphurous smoke billowed over the ice, blotting out the scene.
Out of the chaos staggered the Royal Americans, bloody and shattered. Their solid ranks were broken; men were stumbling, running, some throwing their muskets away. The American guns had fallen silent, and MacLea knew from experience what that meant: the counterattack was coming. The Royal Americans, broken and unable to fight, would be slaughtered on the ice. Ignoring his wounded arm, he began to run.
Colonel Lawrence appeared through the rolling smoke. He had lost his horse, and his hat had been knocked off; his face was blackened with soot, but his sword was still clenched in his hand. Roaring with rage, he slashed at the fleeing men. ‘Stand firm, you cowards!’ he bellowed. ‘Stand firm, I say! Halt, or by God I’ll kill you myself! God damn you, you vermin, stand firm!’
His eye fell on MacLea. He stopped for a moment, and then, slowly and with menace in every step, walked across the ice towards the captain. MacLea stood waiting for him. When they were six feet apart, Lawrence raised his sword and pointed it at MacLea’s chest.
‘You want to fight me,’ he said. ‘Now is your chance.’
‘For God’s sake, Colonel, he’s injured,’ Derenzy said.
Lawrence gave no sign he had heard. ‘Give him your sword, Derenzy.’
Silently Derenzy held it out. MacLea did not move. ‘This is not the time, Colonel,’ he said. ‘You must rally your men. The Americans are coming.’
‘You won’t fight?’ asked Lawrence. ‘Then who is the coward now?’
‘I won’t fight you here, sir,’ said MacLea, and he turned away.
Derenzy shouted in alarm. MacLea spun around to see Lawrence’s sword driving straight for his throat. Then came the crash of a musket. Lawrence halted, an expression of astonishment on his face. The sword dropped from his fingers. His knees buckled and he fell forward onto the ice, where he lay still, a pool of blood spreading around him.
Behind the colonel, one of his own Royal Americans stood with smoking musket, staring for a moment at the body. Then he threw the weapon to the ice and followed the others.
Sliding on the ice, MacLea ran towards the militiamen. They were shuffling their feet nervously and watching the wreck of the Royal Americans with fear and alarm. If they could create a rearguard, even for a short while, that might give him space to rally the broken men.
‘Form rank!’ he shouted. ‘Get those bloody guns turned around! Load with case shot!’ The militiamen saw his uniform, but they also heard the authority in his voice, and they obeyed. MacLea ran on, cutting across the path of the fleeing Royal Americans, and then, alone and unarmed, he turned and stood to face the running men.
‘Halt!’ he shouted.
They looked at him. Many of them kept running, but some stopped, then a few more, and more. ‘Royal Americans!’ shouted MacLea. ‘Remember who you are! You are the King’s soldiers, by God! Now show me you deserve that uniform you wear! Form two ranks, facing the enemy!’
They turned, shuffling into rank. The first American infantry were marching out of the hanging smoke straight towards them, muskets presented and bayonets fixed, the Stars and Stripes and regimental colours floating overhead. The militia, seeing the Royal Americans rally, fell back to take position alongside them, the brass guns on their sledges in the front rank.
‘Who is the senior company commander?’ MacLea asked.
‘They’re all dead, sir,’ came the response.
‘Who is the senior officer?’
‘I guess I am, sir,’ said a young lieutenant. An ensign stood beside him holding the regimental colours, shredded by case shot. A drummer boy was there too, and a fifer, lads of about thirteen in gaudy unif
orms, shivering with fear.
‘Then you are in command,’ said MacLea. ‘When I give the order, open fire, and keep shooting until I say stop.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Load!’ he shouted down the rank. ‘Prime!’
The men obeyed nervously. There were about a hundred of them now; a few more of the running men had stopped and returned to the colours. A full regiment of American infantry was coming straight at them, two hundred yards away, a hundred yards, fifty.
‘Fire!’ said MacLea.
The volley crashed out, muskets spitting flame and smoke. In the same moment the six-pounder sledge guns boomed, and case shot ripped holes through the American ranks. Reloading, the Royal Americans continued to fire, over and over again. The militia were shooting too, and Derenzy’s light infantry came running forward and began firing into the flanks of the oncoming regiment. The enemy returned fire and a few more of the Royal Americans fell, but through the smoke MacLea could see the blue coats wilting, their officers going down, their colours falling onto the ice. They broke ranks and sagged back into the cover of the smoke.
‘Cease firing,’ said MacLea. ‘Lieutenant, form your men into column of march.’ He turned to the drummer boy and the fifer. ‘All right, lads. Give us “The British Grenadiers”.’
Bloody and exhausted, the Royal Americans turned and began the long march across the ice back towards Kingston, the militia and light infantry covering their retreat. Their colonel and a quarter of their number lay behind them, dead or wounded on the ice. John MacLea led them now, bleeding still from his own wound, and wondering what would await him in Kingston: a hero’s welcome or a traitor’s death.
* * *
They reached Kingston two days later. The garrison of Fort Henry lined the wooden ramparts, watching them, and across the harbour at the shipyard workers downed tools to stare at the smoke-blackened men, tattered colours and walking wounded.
Colonel Vincent came out of the gates and stood staring too. ‘Where is Colonel Lawrence?’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 33