A Call to Battle

by Gillian Chan

  I sat up a while longer, thinking about what Angus said, knowing that I would not follow Father so blindly when it came my turn to fight. I would be the one to bring glory to the MacKay name.

  By the time the sun struggled to pierce the early morning clouds, we were both exhausted, but at least Father seemed no worse. We loaded him gently into the back of the wagon. He had soiled himself, and this combined with the foul smell of his sweat made it hard to be by him. Angus drove the wagon while I sat in the back, trying to keep Father calm and comfortable. It was not an easy task. Whether the movement of the wagon hurt him or agitated him, I do not know, but he became more and more restless, flailing his arms, kicking and, one time, struggling to his feet, only to fall heavily back down. I have never been so glad to see the track that led to our home.

  Drew was the first to hear us coming. He raced out from the house yelling, “They’re here, they’re here! Sandy has fetched them home safe!” He ran alongside us, still shouting, until we drew to a halt in front of the house and Mother and the girls came running out, followed by the tall, angular form of Dr. Tiffany. Mother stifled a sob when she peered into the wagon and saw the state Father was in, but the girls had no such control. Ellen alone was dry-eyed. I’m sure she had no idea how her words stung when she looked at Mother and asked, “Is Father dying? Have they brought him home to die?”

  Mother’s voice was soft, but there was steely determination in it, too. “No, Ellen, we will not let him die. Is that not right, Doctor?”

  Dr. Tiffany hesitated before replying. “We will all do our best,” he said. “Now, let’s get poor Rob inside.”

  Father was thrashing around again, so it took all the strength we had to manhandle him inside so that Mother and the doctor could treat him. When I went outside to see to the wagon and horses, Angus made as if to go with me, but I sent him in, too — he was tired, dirty and starved. I sent Drew for buckets of water from the well to sluice down the wagon bed and wash away the filth. We worked in silence and although I knew we finally had it clean, it was as if the stench still lingered in my nostrils, a stench that frightened me to the core of my being.

  * * *

  Those next months were consumed by Father’s illness, which lingered and lingered, sucking the life from him until he seemed a hollow version of the man he had been. Typhus was what Dr. Tiffany called it, and agreed with Angus that it was likely caught from those damn Yankee prisoners they had been guarding — although, being a Yankee himself, Dr. Tiffany did not call them that! For days, and then weeks, Father burned with fever, often not knowing where he was, not recognising Mother, who never seemed to leave his side. She even slept on a straw tick alongside their bed. Nothing Dr. Tiffany tried — bleeding him with leeches, or making him vomit — helped. Finally, Mother called a halt to it all, saying that the treatments made Father a little weaker each time and that rest and wholesome food would have to do the trick.

  Angus, too, came down with it, but perhaps his youth saved him from the worst, because after a week of fever — a week when I thought that without Morag and Polly, Mother would have driven herself into exhaustion — he recovered quickly and soon was back working with me.

  He would not talk more of what had befallen him and Father, no matter how much I begged him.

  Chapter 3

  May 1813

  It was not until the spring came that Father regained some semblance of health. By early April he was sitting on the porch — a little gaunt, to be sure, and his hair had become as grey as his brother William’s — but he was himself. Each day that passed saw more colour come back to his face. By May he worked alongside us, although Angus and I were quick to help him, if we could do it without him realising what we were doing.

  Angus was now the one to do all the errands off the farm. I hated how little news he brought back from these trips or how, when he did have some, he would make sure that he took Father aside to tell him. It annoyed me so much that I challenged him about this, but all he did was smile and say that he wanted to make sure that if it were bad news, such as when the American forces captured York in April, he would not scare Mother and the girls. He did not want the rumours swirling about — men were saying that the Americans would try to push up from Niagara — to colour our lives with fear.

  I could see that the news was bad, but it just fuelled the fire of my wanting to fight, too. I listened where I could and pieced together what had happened at York. The Americans had landed from the lake and it shamed me to hear that the decision to retreat was made so quickly by the British commander. At least before he left he blew up the Grand Magazine containing, so they say, five hundred barrels of gunpowder! The American commander and many soldiers were killed by the mighty blast and people said this was why the Americans had looted and burned in York — terrorising its inhabitants in revenge. They eventually withdrew, for they could not hope to hold the town with no support coming. But American forces still pressed hard in Niagara, taking Fort George. And what had the British there done? They retreated to Burlington Heights!

  It seemed foolish and cowardly. No one, militia or regular, should rest until every last Yankee had been driven back across the border! I was determined to be ready and, whenever I had the chance, if I saw that Father was occupied, I’d sneak his musket out and go through the movements of loading it, trying to make myself as speedy as I could.

  The end of May gave me an opportunity to show Father how grown I was, the equal of most men, when we were invited to Uncle William’s farm. Though it was large and well established, he wanted to push back the forest some more to enlarge his fields, so he sent word out inviting all in the district to a clearing bee.

  The whole family was excited, as we would go and have a chance to visit with our friends and neighbours. Uncle William’s wife had died two years ago and he had only sons yet unmarried, so he asked Mother and the girls to supervise the food. This they gladly did, baking so much that I feared there would be little room in the wagon for Drew and Ellen and Sam!

  After days of rain and cold, the day of the bee was bright and clear — warm, but not so hot as to be oppressive. We had gone the night before, and it seemed as if morning had barely arrived before wagons full of people started to arrive. Mother and the girls were kept busy, as each new arrival came forward with food, which they laid out on trestle tables in the shade. Drew and Ellen had been put to work turning the spit for the roasting piglets. Uncle William appointed Father the grog boss — a wise choice, as he would have the sense to make sure that no man went thirsty, but he would not let any man drink too much until the clearing had been done. It was kind of Uncle William, too, as it gave Father a way to participate without feeling left out of the action. He had always been in the thick of anything like this.

  When the teams were made up for the clearing, I hung back, not sure whether I would be included. I didn’t want to be humiliated if I should step forward, only to be told that there was no place for me because of my age. Angus, who had been named as head of one team, caught my eye and beckoned me over, but I was still reluctant. My hesitation must have been apparent because my uncle shouted out, “Not so fast, Angus!”

  He turned and winked at the men around him. “Two MacKays on the same team is hardly fair, is it? Not with the size of them!” He grasped my shoulder and pulled me to him. “Now, who wants this fine specimen to work for them?” He twirled me round as if I were a bull he was trying to sell. I coloured red, but was secretly pleased. My smile grew even broader when each of the three other teams began calling out that they wanted me. Finally, after much bantering back and forth, it was decided that I would join Benjamin Smith’s Green Team. They pulled me into their midst and clapped me on the back as they told me what a fine fellow I was and what a great help to my father I’d been both while he was away and during his illness.

  I couldn’t help but laugh a little as Drew dropped the spit handle and rushed forward, demanding not to be left with the girls and little children, as he was
quite big and strong enough to work with me, too … and how crestfallen he looked when he was sent packing.

  The day before, Uncle William and his sons had marked the area to be cleared, dividing it into four equal segments, each marked at its corners by rags of blue, green, yellow and red. It was more brush than true forest, so there were few tall trees to be chopped down, but those we tackled first. I was flattered when Ben Smith handed me his axe, saying, “Sandy, you’re the biggest and youngest amongst us, so let’s give you the most onerous task.” I just wished that Father had been there to see how I was treated like a grown man rather than a boy!

  It took me only a little time to bring down that first tree and I had not even raised a sweat when it was time to move on to the second. Behind me the other men on my team were cutting the tree down to size, lopping off its branches and sawing its trunk into manageable pieces. Others were chopping the bushes and then pulling up their roots, leaving a swath of cleared land behind us. From the shouts, I could hear that the other teams were making good progress, too. Angus’s Blue Team was the one closest to us; he was their main axe man as well. With the last of the tall trees down, I set about making myself as useful as I could. It soon became clear that I was best suited to loading the sled with the cut wood, then pulling it back to the woodpile that was rapidly growing beside Uncle William’s barn. On my second return, Father and Drew were there with a cask of whisky and a cask of water, doling out a cupful to each man as he worked. I expected to be handed the water only, but was surprised when Father offered me a cup of whisky, too. It burned as it went down and I was hard pressed not to splutter and choke, but my pride would not let me do so.

  “It’s a two-team race,” Father said as I handed the tin cup back to him. “Blue and Green are far ahead of Yellow and Red, and you and Angus are a credit to your teams. It makes me proud to have two such strong sons. I swear that you have grown even more, Sandy.”

  Ben Smith, who was standing close, called out, “He has inches on Angus. He is even taller than you, MacKay.”

  Father shook his head, “No, I’ve still got the measure of him.”

  “You’re wrong. He’s taller and he is certainly broader. Let’s settle this. The two of you stand back to back.” Smith was grinning as he motioned us to get into the position he desired.

  Father felt slight against my back, not as solid as he once had been. Even before Smith spoke, I knew he was right, as I felt the line of Father’s shoulders a little below mine.

  “It’s Sandy who is the taller — a modern-day Goliath!” Smith laughed at the expression on Father’s face. “You should be proud, MacKay. Today your Sandy has proved himself to be a hard worker, as well as strong.”

  I smiled with pride to hear what Father said next. “I am, Ben. Without Sandy, the farm would have foundered while I was away. But time’s wasting here and the Blue Team is pulling ahead, so I’ll take their whisky to them and perhaps you can catch up.”

  We slogged through the rest of the afternoon and it was neck and neck between the Greens and Blues. When it was time for our last load of wood to be hauled, Angus and I came into the farmyard almost as one. I was tired now; he was, too. The rope on the sled bit into my chest, making the skin red and raw. Angus was sweating, his face strained and scarlet with exertion as he tried to match me, stride for stride. I forced my feet forward, concentrating on reaching the side of the barn first. The women had come to watch and our teammates ran alongside us, cheering and hooting in encouragement. I felt as if a dam broke inside me and a last flood of strength flowed into my legs. I surged forward. My sled went to the woodpile first. My cheering teammates rushed to stack the wood, but Uncle William’s voice rang out proudly as he shouted, “I declare Green the winners! Each shall receive thirty shot as their prize. But one of their number, the one they think has contributed most, shall be called King of the Wood, and receive this fine powder horn as well.”

  Before I even had a chance to glance at the horn that Uncle William held above his head, my teammates began to chant as one, “Sandy! Sandy! Sandy!” and did not stop until Uncle William walked over to me and slung the horn over my shoulder. The others broke into loud huzzahs that made my face burn with both pride and embarrassment. I glanced quickly over at Father, wanting to see his expression, but he had bent down and was picking up Samuel, tickling him to make him laugh. All that evening as we feasted and danced, I looked for an opportunity to talk with him, to ask once more if I could go with him and Angus should the militia be called out again. But Father was always in the thick of things, surrounded by others, laughing and enjoying himself as I had not seen him do for over a year.

  Eventually I gave up and allowed myself to be swirled away to celebrate with my team, who kept plying me with whisky until I felt sick to my stomach and the world began to tilt around me.

  Neither Father nor Mother were best pleased with me that night, or the next morning as I hung green-faced over my horse’s neck when it came time to make our way home.

  “We treat you like a man, and look what happens, Sandy! Like a greedy child, you don’t know when to stop.” Father’s face was pinched with disgust. Those were the last words he spoke to me for several days.

  * * *

  By June, with Father’s health on the mend, Morag was finally able to become a bride. She and Eric Holzer had been sweet on each other since they were little more than my age, always finding each other at any gatherings we had and sitting together when a travelling preacher came by. If the war had not come, they would have married a whole year ago.

  I liked Eric well enough, or rather I had, until he had not accompanied the militia when they mustered. Instead, his father had bought men to take both their places, men who drifted off into the woods as the company marched towards Niagara and were never seen again, or so Angus told me.

  I was surprised that Father would accept such a coward as a son-in-law, but when I said as much, his face hardened and he said, “Don’t be so quick to judge, Sandy. Eric is the only child the Holzers have.” I did not see what that had to do with anything, but held my tongue.

  It was our turn for the preacher to hold the weekly service at our farm on the first Sunday in June, the 6th, and Eric and Morag would marry in front of our friends and neighbours. Then, at the end of the day’s festivities, Morag would return with the Holzers to start her new life with them.

  We were busy, with little time to be sad that Morag would leave us. Mother and the girls baked and cooked for days. Father made me, Angus and Drew build benches for the congregation to sit in the shade of our apple orchard rather than on the ground. It seemed a waste of effort, as we would only take them apart once the wedding was over and use them for firewood. Perhaps my judgement was clouded. I felt restless and angry that we were preparing for such a frivolous thing as a wedding when there were rumours that the Americans were planning to attack both from the lake and by marching up from Fort Niagara.

  Only a month earlier, I had fumed when Angus had an actual encounter with the Americans. He and some of the other militia commanded by Captain Hatt had been guarding the King’s Head Inn on Burlington Beach. Two American schooners had come and fired upon the militia to drive them off. I told Angus they should have stood their ground, which is what I would have done in his shoes. Angus just smiled and shook his head. That made me furious, for while our militia had skulked in the bushes, the American troops landed, ransacked the inn and burnt it to the ground. I would have expected them to stay and make this their base for further feints, but Angus said they were merely taunting us to show us what they could do.

  Some said they were going to march on Burlington Heights, then York, and who knows where after that. Yet here we were doing nothing when Burlington Heights was less than an hour’s ride away. I admit that it was an unworthy thought, but I hoped the Americans would invade. Then surely every man and boy would be called to defend our homes. I would be able to show Father and Angus just what I could do — and that would be to fight to
the death, not run away and hide.

  I dared not say anything to Father, but turned instead to Angus as we were carrying the finished benches out from the barn into the orchard. “Why are we doing this when an invasion might be taking place?”

  Angus shrugged and gave me his slow smile. “They’re just rumours, Sandy. The army fell back from Fort George to Burlington Heights and they’ve camped around Colonel Beasley’s house to regroup. Ever since then, not a day has gone by without someone claiming that the whole American army is on its way to slaughter us all in our beds. It’s nine days and we’ve not seen anything of them. They’re not coming, I tell you. Our army will march back all the better for the rest and send the Yankees scurrying across the Niagara River again.”

  “But surely they’ll call the militia out if there is any sign of them,” I shot back. “How would it look if you got the call to muster tomorrow and half the congregation left the wedding and rode off?” I spat on the ground before continuing. “All except the groom, of course. He wouldn’t go anywhere!”

  Angus’s smile wavered slightly. “Eric wanted to fight but he couldn’t go against his father, just like we would never go against ours.” As we positioned the last bench, Angus sat down, looking more sombre than I had ever seen him. “As to whether they’d call upon the militia, that remains to be seen. The British officers don’t seem to have too high an opinion of us, despite what we did at Queenston. Given the choice, they keep us doing guard duty or labouring, not fighting to protect what is ours. They pay us pennies and keep us short of supplies and arms, so what do they expect?”

  I was shocked to hear Angus speak this way and sank down on the bench next to him. “But you’d never not go, not if the call to muster came?”

  “No, I’d go. Father and Mother have always brought us up to do our duty. Mother frets, I know, but she’s proud, too. Only the other day when I set off to guard the inn, she got all misty-eyed and told me that I was the twin of Uncle Roger.”