Someone else crouched down beside him, and he looked up to see Sekahos, red-and-black-painted face dripping with sweat and stained with smoke. ‘The major and the others have escaped,’ the Mississauga said. ‘They have retreated towards Pine Grove. But the Americans are moving east. We will have to go east as well, or they will cut us off.’
‘We’ll make for the fort,’ MacLea said. They might find Murray and the rest of the company there.
Gripping their muskets, they ran through the trees while American musket balls and rifle bullets shredded the air around them. A splinter jumped from another tree and hit MacLea just below the eye. He could feel the wound starting to bleed.
With desperate energy, they reached the open fields west of the fort and ran towards it. A curtain wall, an outlying fortification protecting the main fort, stood before them, with a couple of batteries of artillery beyond. The Union flag still flew over the gate, but when they sprinted through and stopped, gasping, next to the first battery, they saw the entire fort was empty. The cannon in the abandoned batteries gleamed in the sun.
From further east came the steady tattoo of drums. Winded and sick, MacLea staggered up the steps onto the ramparts and looked out over the fields towards York. There in the middle distance was the British column, somewhat reduced in numbers now, marching steadily towards the town.
‘They’re still retreating!’ he called to Sekahos.
‘Mort-dieu,’ came the response. ‘We are beaten, then.’
MacLea looked around again. Drifting smoke hung in the air, staining the sky and turning the sun dull orange. The leading American troops were no more than a quarter of a mile away. The fort was intact; no attempt had been made to set fire to its buildings or spike the cannon. The powder magazine, a stone structure shaped like a beehive, stood just above the lakeshore. Out on the lake beyond it the American warships prowled, the Stars and Stripes at their mastheads brilliant in the sun.
‘The magazine!’ MacLea shouted. Sekahos nodded and ran towards it. MacLea followed, his breath dragging in his chest. He hurried through the open door and down the stone steps to find Sekahos already there, looking at the stacked kegs of gunpowder.
‘Mon-dieu tabernacle,’ the Mississauga said. ‘There is enough here to set the world on fire.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said MacLea. He pulled down a keg of powder from the stack and used the butt of his musket to smash it open. Sekahos did the same, and they hurried back up the stairs carrying the broken kegs, laying a thick trail of powder across the ground towards the curtain wall. Thunder filled the air around them; the cannon on the American warships were firing again, and nearer at hand the Americans had brought a battery of field artillery ashore and were raking Sheaffe’s retreating column. Kneeling down beside the powder train, MacLea held the lock of his musket just over the powder and pulled the trigger. Sparks flew, and the powder train hissed into life, a line of white smoke snaking back towards the magazine.
Sekahos nodded. ‘Time to go,’ he said.
They ran towards the blockhouse, but they had lingered too long. Bullets flew around them, and more green-coated infantry appeared, ahead of them this time, raising their long-barrelled rifles and opening fire. Government House lay to the left; MacLea and Sekahos ran towards it, hoping to find cover behind its walls, but MacLea could feel his breath burning in his lungs. His legs felt numb and leaden, and he knew he could not go much further. Weakened by his wound and fever, he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.
Sekahos turned back towards him. ‘Run!’ MacLea shouted. ‘Don’t let them take you!’ The Mississauga nodded and sprinted away, bullets kicking up spurts of earth around him. Hearing the enemy approach, MacLea struggled to his knees, but then rough hands seized him and dragged him to his feet.
‘Well, well,’ drawled Major Forsyth. ‘Captain MacLea, sir! It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.’
* * *
Brigadier General Zebulon Pike was conferring with his staff officers just outside the fort when the riflemen dragged MacLea before him. ‘Splendid,’ he said crisply. ‘I was hoping for just this moment. I shan’t bandy words with you, MacLea. You agreed to join our cause. Your subsequent actions brand you a deserter and a renegade.’ He motioned to the riflemen. ‘Hang him. Do it as publicly as possible. Let his fate serve as an example to anyone who tries to resist us.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said MacLea. ‘If it’s not one bloody general calling me a deserter, it’s another. You know damned well I never agreed to join you, General. Calder blackmailed me into it.’
‘So he did,’ said another voice. ‘But you still agreed. And as the general says, my dear MacLea, that makes you a turncoat. A traitor.’
MacLea turned. James Boydell stood smiling at him, wearing the blue and white uniform of an American officer. ‘Are your friends still searching for me?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid their effort has been entirely wasted. I left town as soon as your lady friends went to see Mrs Dunne. I knew then that the game was up, but fortunately I had made my preparations beforehand. A small boat was already waiting to take me to a rendezvous with General Pike and the fleet.’
‘And now you have returned to gloat over our defeat,’ MacLea said. In his mind’s eye he could see the powder train burning. It must be nearly at the magazine now; unless Forsyth’s men had spotted the smoke and put out the fire.
‘A defeat to which I have signally contributed,’ said Boydell. ‘General Sheaffe is withdrawing from the field now; he will make no further attempt to defend the town. York is ours. Sadly, you will not live to see its fall. General Pike, if I may make a suggestion, there are some rather pleasant trees in the garden of Government House. One of them would make a capital place to hang a noose.’
‘Good,’ said Pike. ‘Make it so, Major Boydell.’
‘Why?’ MacLea asked Boydell. ‘You had everything: position, rank, wealth, the respect of your peers. Why throw it away? Are you another ideologue, like Calder or Dunne?’
‘Of course,’ said Boydell. ‘We all are, or were. Wilson grew too impatient, Street too fearful; that is why I had to dispose of them. Dunne thought we were going to help him start a revolution in Scotland; sooner or later he was going to figure out that we weren’t, so we disposed of him too. Our interest is the new world, Captain, not the old. This is our land, and we shall dominate it. The Spanish empire is crumbling and the British are exhausted by their long war with Bonaparte. Once they are gone, all that will stand in our way is a few savages, and we can easily exterminate them. They will be no match for our artillery.’
‘Or your smallpox,’ said MacLea.
‘They will perish one way or the other; it hardly matters how. But we are wasting time. Come, let us take a turn in the garden. I shall grant a final favour, MacLea. I shall allow you to choose the tree on which you will die.’
‘One more question,’ said MacLea. ‘Who is your mysterious musician? The assassin who killed Fraser and Street? You may as well tell me; I’m hardly in a position to pass it on.’
The ground heaved. The men around MacLea stumbled, and then a gigantic force slammed into them and hurled them all to the ground. Winded, deafened by the blast, MacLea raised his head to see an avalanche of debris falling from the skies, stones and smouldering timbers smashing into the earth and the bodies of the men. A baulk of timber crashed down across one man’s legs, pinning him to the ground. Boydell was on his knees, trying to stand while shielding his head from the falling debris, and then he screamed and collapsed. A heavy stone hit General Pike in the back, breaking his spine with an audible crack and throwing him down into the mud. Then something struck MacLea on the head and the world went black.
* * *
Consciousness came back slowly. He waited until his eyes focused and then sat up. There was a bloody gash on the side of his head, but he had been fortunate: the stone that had knocked him out must not have been particularly large.
All around him, scores of bodies in Americ
an blue and rifle green lay scattered across a field littered with broken timbers and stones. Every window in Government House had been blown out by the explosion, and the trees in the garden had been stripped of most of their leaves. Some men were on their feet, moving around, tending to the wounded and picking up the dead. One party lifted General Pike’s body onto a stretcher and carried it away.
Boydell lay on his back a few feet away, his limbs moving feebly. MacLea crawled towards him and saw that the major’s eyes were open. ‘Who is it?’ MacLea said. ‘Who is the killer? We know it isn’t you.’
Boydell tried to speak, but his voice came out as a strangled croak, the words unintelligible.
‘Who?’ demanded MacLea.
Boydell paused, mustering his fading strength. ‘Go to hell,’ he said, and closed his eyes.
More soldiers were kneeling on the ground beside them. ‘This one’s bad hurt,’ said one man, pointing at Boydell. ‘Quick, boys, bring a stretcher and get him to the medics. What about you, sir?’ he asked MacLea. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ said MacLea. ‘Look after the others.’
There was little difference between his green uniform and those of the American riflemen. The men assumed he was one of them. Slowly he rose to his feet. He had no weapon; Forsyth’s men had taken his musket when he was arrested. Turning his back on the bodies and the debris, he began to walk on unsteady legs towards the town.
* * *
York, when he reached it, was a shambles. Most of the windows had been broken by the explosion of the magazine. The parliament buildings were on fire, flames crackling greedily and covering the town with smoke and sparks. In every street the Americans were at work, beating down doors and looting houses. Silver and other valuables were carried away; crockery and furniture were thrown from windows or carried out into the streets and smashed while the troops whooped with delight. Sick at heart, MacLea thanked God that Josephine was safely away at Pine Grove.
He started to walk east down King Street towards the Kingston road. He had gone barely fifty yards before a familiar Carolina drawl halted him.
‘Well if it ain’t Captain MacLea again. Sir, you have more lives than a cat.’
MacLea turned to find Major Forsyth standing ten feet away, smiling at him over a levelled rifle. He sighed. ‘Go ahead, Major. Shoot me.’
‘Nah. Not this time.’ Forsyth put up his rifle. He looked battered around the edges; he had a bandage on his head and his uniform was stained with smoke. ‘We’ve just signed a truce with your civic worthies, so the fighting is over. I’m out now trying to round up our rabble and stop the looting. We never intended that, by the way.’
‘If you say so,’ said MacLea. ‘I don’t suppose you know where my army is?’
Forsyth pointed down the Kingston road. ‘They fell back east, across the Don River. That was real smart thinking by your general. He doesn’t have enough troops to face us, but he’s kept his army together.’ He gestured with the rifle. ‘You may as well cut along and join them.’
‘I’m free to go?’ asked MacLea.
‘Sure. This time.’
‘Then I look forward to our next encounter,’ said MacLea.
Forsyth smiled. ‘It might be a while. Once Pike was dead, the stuffing went out of the attack. Granny Dearborn took command, and started negotiating a truce right away. He likes truces, does Granny; a lot more than he likes fighting, anyway. Word is we’ll probably evacuate tomorrow and sail away again.’
‘So it has all been for nought,’ said MacLea. ‘The planning, the spying, the deception, the invasion, the deaths. All for nothing.’
‘Looks that-a-way.’ The major touched his forehead with one finger. ‘See you around, Captain,’ he said, and he turned and walked away.
* * *
MacLea reached the corner of Ontario Street and glanced towards Jordan’s Hotel. A party of American officers with gold epaulettes stood outside, talking with some local men; he recognised Robinson among them. The peacemakers, he thought, fresh from negotiating the truce. He wondered if Forsyth was right and the Americans would withdraw. Dearborn had a reputation of being one of the more timorous American generals, so quite possibly they would. If so, it might not be too long before he saw Josephine again.
Nearer at hand was the Boydell house, its front door standing wide open. Frowning, he walked towards it, stopping in the doorway and looking into the hall. ‘Hallo?’ he called. ‘Is anyone there?’
At first all was silent, but then he heard sobbing. ‘Mrs Boydell?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’
The sobs continued. MacLea walked down the hall to the library and knocked at the door. Receiving no reply, he pushed it open.
Patience Boydell sat on the floor, her skirts spread around her, holding a piece of paper in her hand and crying brokenly. Tears flooded down her face, dripping onto the paper. The room had been looted: books had been torn from the shelves and thrown on the floor; pictures had been hurled down and their frames smashed; the drawers of the writing desk had been forced and a strongbox had been prised open. MacLea stepped through the debris and knelt down beside the weeping woman.
‘Ma’am,’ he said gently. ‘Are you hurt?’
She looked up at him, her eyes red with heartbreak. ‘He was the love of my life,’ she said. ‘I adored him. I trusted him and believed in him. We had such a wonderful life together. And now this.’
She held up the tear-stained letter. In silence, MacLea took it and read it.
My dearest Patience,
I am so sorry to have to leave you. I hope it will not be for long, and soon we can be united again. I am sorry too that I never told you about my work. My activities on behalf of the Americans entail a certain amount of risk, and I knew that if you were aware of this, you would be worried for me. My dear, I did not want to burden you.
Patience, believe me when I say that I am working for a great cause. One day, hopefully very soon, that cause will triumph and I will return to you. And then, my darling, this land, this Canada that we love, will truly begin to bloom. The day when Canadians and Americans are united in friendship; that is when the future will really begin.
Until then, I beg you not to listen to the slanders that people will utter against me, nor the names they will call me. Remember only that I am a true patriot; and also, dearest Patience, remember that I am your truest husband and love. Until we meet again, farewell.
Your ever-loving and adoring husband,
James
‘I found it in the strongbox,’ she said, sobbing again. ‘They must have taken his other papers, but they left this behind.’
‘I am sorry,’ MacLea said softly.
‘Why, Captain MacLea? Why would he do this? Why would he betray our country? Why would he betray me?’
‘I asked him the same question myself,’ MacLea said. ‘He said something about destiny. I think he truly believes what he wrote in the letter.’
‘And he is willing to throw away everything we had – our lives together, our happiness – for an ideal? Oh Captain MacLea, how could I ever have loved such a man? All the years we were married, and I never really knew him at all. He has deceived me and lied to me and betrayed me.’
She collapsed, bowing her head and covering her face with her hands while she sobbed. MacLea watched her, his heart wrung with pity. I have seen many casualties of war, he thought, but none more tragic or pathetic than this.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked gently.
‘No.’ Slowly she mastered herself and brought her weeping under control. ‘There is nothing anyone can do. Everything is ruined now. My future, my life; everything is over.’
She looked up again. ‘Thank you, Captain. It is kind of you to care. But my only desire now is to be alone with my sorrow.’
MacLea nodded. Quietly he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he turned and walked out of the house and down the Kingston road, towards the bridge over the Don where he knew his men would be w
aiting.
A War of 1812 Epic
The Ballad of John MacLea
The Hunt for the North Star
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © A. J. Mackenzie, 2019
The moral right of A. J. Mackenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788633055
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Maps by Gary Beaumont
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