“I've only three left myself.”
The leading company of the Queen's Own drifted to the rear, with men of the 13th Hamilton Battalion taking their place in the firing line.
“They're still coming,” Jack tried to discourage the Fenians, but O'Neill turned the situation to his advantage.
“If we don't stop the advance of the Canadians, they will hang us all,” O'Neill shouted. There was a temporary lull in the firing as the Fenians digested that unwelcome thought. “Better to die honourably by a bullet than dishonourably by the rope.”
O'Neill's words put new vigour into the Fenians. They lined up behind the picket fence and opened a terrific fire at the volunteers. For a while, the two sides exchanged musketry, with a haze of smoke pressing down on them, the constant crackle of rifles and the occasional scream of a wounded man.
“We're holding them now,” O'Neill said with satisfaction and gave orders for both wings to extend. “We'll see how the weekend soldiers react to being outflanked.”
The Canadians refused to panic, but found cover and met the advancing Fenians with controlled volleys.
“They're holding well, the devils.” O'Neill sounded surprised. “I could have done with a few regiments of these Canadian boys during the late war.” He did not disguise his admiration. “But they are amateur soldiers. Let's see how they cope with the infantryman's nightmare.”
“You men!” O'Neill addressed the mounted Fenian officers. “You are now the cavalry of the Irish Republic. Make yourself known – ride up to the Canadians with noise and bluster. Put the fear of God into them!”
Jack nodded. it was a simple plan that could be effective against raw troops, however brave. He watched as the newly constituted Fenian cavalry cantered around the hillside, shouting and waving swords until the volunteers reacted as O'Neill had hoped. Jack heard the near-panicked call of, “Cavalry!” together with the brassy blare of a bugle and watched as the volunteers formed a square, Waterloo-style.
“Got them,” O'Neill said. “The Limey's love that formation.” He raised his voice. “Push forward the flanking companies. Shoot that square to pieces.”
Jack knew that a well-disciplined square of infantry was almost impervious to cavalry but offered an excellent target for riflemen. As the Fenians moved forward, firing, Colonel Booker realised his mistake and ordered his men to break formation once more.
O'Neill waited until the volunteers were in confusion. “Now, my Irish lads! Fix bayonets and charge!”
While the Queen's Own refused to retire and even advanced towards the Fenians, the companies in the rear, unable to see what was happening, hesitated and moved back, with some men running in near panic. Jack heard the hoarse shouts of the officers as they tried to regain command of their young soldiers.
At last, the Queen's Own realised that they were isolated, outflanked and outnumbered. Major Gillmore who commanded the regiment, ordered a withdrawal.
“They're fighting well,” O'Neill said as the Queen's Own withdrew in good order, turning every few yards to fire. Occasionally they hit rough ground that broke their formation, reformed on the far side and continued their disciplined retreat. Jack noted that one company was particularly stubborn. He watched them for a while, shaking his head. The Caledonian Company, of course. Bloody Sawnies. Old General Campbell might approve of that!
* * *
“You fought well.” Jack stopped beside a wounded volunteer.
“We'll do better next time.” The boy's smooth face grimaced in pain. “I've never fired live ammunition before. Next time we'll flatten the Fenians.”
“Come on, son.” A hard-eyed Fenian hurried to help. “You can't fight any more. We'll look after you now.”
Leaving behind a few men, O'Neill pushed on until he reached Smugglers Hole when he called a halt to watch the volunteers' steady withdrawal. Standing beside a crooked tree, Jack could only admire the bravery of the half-trained volunteers. “You did Canada proud, boys,” he said quietly.
“Chase them,” Walsh snarled, firing both pistols at the volunteers. ”Chase them back to Toronto!”
While a few of the more hot-headed Fenians obeyed, the bulk decided they had done enough fighting for the day and stopped for a smoke, or to pick up souvenirs of their famous victory.
“Officers, gather to me,” O'Neill said. “We'll discuss the situation.”
Standing on a slight rise with the immense space of Canada stretching before them and the abyss of the sky above, Jack again thought it very strange to be in the middle of a small army that was trying to topple the British Empire. He stood as the Fenian leaders gathered around, some bearded, intense men, sincere in their belief of a free Ireland, others younger, some foreign mercenaries who knew no other trade except soldiering. Walsh glared towards the volunteers, loading his revolvers.
“Here is the position,” O'Neill reminded. “We've repelled the Canadian volunteers, but there are two battalions of British regulars and a battery of artillery on its way towards us.”
The serious men nodded, calculating the odds, while the hotheads made wild statements about fighting to the death and twisting the British lion's tail. “We're come here to fight,” Walsh said. “We can ambush them, kill as many as possible and encourage the Canadian Irish to rise.”
“Colonel Peacocke is a good fighting man,” Jack pointed out, hoping the Fenians would retreat rather than fight regulars, with the resulting casualties on both sides and martyrs for the next conflict. He had seen enough of Irish soldiers to know they were formidable whatever the circumstances. He saw Walsh turn those pale, mad eyes towards him.
O'Neill looked from one to the other as The Wearing of the Green drifted to them from the Fenian ranks. “There we have both sides. Do we fight, gentlemen? Or do we withdraw? We can still reach the canal and hold out there.”
“We fight!” Two of the younger men shouted, with Walsh nodding his agreement.
“We'd lose if we did,” Jack said. “I have no doubt that our men are brave, and we've just seen them push back a force of redcoats, but the soldiers coming towards us are professionals. Have any of you ever seen British infantry in action?”
Nobody had. Even Walsh was silent.
“Well, I have. I've led British troops in Burma, India and Russia and they won't heed casualties, or be fooled by a few men on horseback. I'll tell you what Peacocke will do. He'll throw out companies to block our retreat and hammer us with artillery until we either break or charge, right into the massed volleys of British infantry.” He let the image sink in for a few moments. “When we've taken hundreds of casualties, the redcoats will advance with the bayonet and finish the job.”
“We'll take some with us,” Walsh said.
“Yes. We will, if Peacocke allows us to get in range. He has rifled Armstrong artillery, the most accurate cannon in the world. They can dice us long before our rifles can reach them. Imagine the blow to Fenian morale in the States if the British destroy this force with few casualties to them.”
O'Neill glanced at Jack. “You know the British Army, Windrush. Tell me honestly; what chance do we have in a straight fight?”
“None,” Jack said flatly.
“That's what I thought,” O'Neill said. “If we fight, I'd be condemning these men to slaughter. We'll occupy the town of Ridgeway to show the flag, and then we'll return to Fort Erie.”
Jack felt Walsh's gaze on him as the Fenians turned around, some happy to get back to America, while others grumbled their disapproval. Kennedy bit off a hunk of stolen tobacco. “We lost nine men defeating the British,” he said. “We should be chasing them, not running away!”
* * *
Ridgeway was a quiet little community where the people watched as the intruders paraded around for a while, shouting Fenian slogans. The occupation was short and bloodless until O'Neill gave the order to destroy the weapons they had brought to arm the expected flood of Canadian Fenians recruits.
“We're returning to Fort Erie,” O'Neill said.
&n
bsp; “We're retreating from shadows,” Riordan said, glowering at O'Neill.
Some Fenians cursed as they broke the spare Springfields, while others enjoyed the act of destruction. Moving to the company he had trained, Jack barked them into formation and ensured they marched as a disciplined unit. His professional pride dictated that, enemy or not, his men would look like soldiers when they arrived back on United States soil.
“Windrush,” O'Neill said. “Find out if the Canadians are following us.”
“Yes, sir.” Happy to leave the discontented army, Jack pushed behind the Fenians and trotted cautiously in the direction of the volunteers, to see them withdrawing in good order, with sharpshooters out to watch for any possible Fenian advance. He tailed them for a while, saw they were heading in the opposite direction and hurried back when he heard the crackle of musketry.
Kicking in his heels, Jack galloped forward, to find the Fenians halted in confusion outside Fort Erie.
“What's happening? What's the firing for?”
“It's the Limeys,” O'Neill said. “They've occupied the town. We can't get back to the USA until we capture it. We're trapped!”
Chapter Nineteen
FORT ERIE, CANADA, JUNE 1866
“How many men?” Jack peered over at Fort Erie. “They're using the trenches we built, the rascals!” He focused on the Union Flag the Canadians had raised. “I can't see many men there at all, but they might be in hiding, waiting to ambush us.”
“They're blocking our return,” O'Neill said. “We'll have to drive them away.”
Once again, Jack had mixed emotions. Part of him hoped there were sufficient British soldiers in the garrison to end the Fenian incursion here and now, while he did not wish the Fenians to suffer. Ireland and the Irish had endured too much already.
“Ready, boys,” O'Neill said tersely. “Get the sharpshooters forward.”
The Fenians moved like the veterans many were, advancing in short rushes under covering fire. The Canadians responded with volleys of musketry that howled and screamed around the Fenians. From the onset, it was evident that the Fenians had 10 times the manpower and 20 times the firepower of the defenders. Jack saw sailors among the Canadians, while men in scarlet fired muzzle-loading muskets against the repeating Spencers of the Fenians.
“They're falling back!” O'Neill ordered his sharpshooters forward, with the bulk of his men following behind as the ill-armed Canadians fought desperately. Some were wounded, others surrounded and forced to surrender, throwing their outdated weapons to the ground in frustration. Once again, Jack noted how well the Fenians treated their prisoners as soon as the fighting ended. Those Canadians who escaped retreated to a small tug for their withdrawal to Port Colborne, a few miles to the west.
“There were fewer than 80,” Murphy said. “Navy volunteers and artillerymen without their guns. I thought the Canadians wouldn't fight us.”
“They killed four of our boys,” Kennedy said, “and wounded dozens. We should shoot them all!”
“Look after the prisoners,” O'Neill said. “They're soldiers like us.”
“That's twice we've captured Fort Erie,” Riordan cleaned and reloaded his rifle. “Once more and we get it to keep.”
“I don't think London would swap all of Ireland for one small Canadian town.” Jack holstered his revolver. He had not fired a shot in the entire skirmish.
“No, and I don't think we'll be getting any reinforcements over this river.” O'Neill pointed to a United States gunboat that cruised off the town. “It seems that we are as unpopular with the Federal authorities as with the Canadians.”
With British regulars marching on their position and the US Navy blocking any reinforcements, the Fenians' invasion had come to a dead stop. That night, the Fenian numbers fell as men began to desert, some drifting into the Canadian countryside and others finding small boats to try to cross back into US territory.
“We may get arrested on our return, gentlemen.” O'Neill addressed his officers. “But at least we'll be in an American jail and not a British one.” He raised a smile. “Let us hope that our exploits on Canadian soil have ignited a fire for Irish freedom.”
The men cheered.
“Although the outcome was not what we wished, we have demonstrated our desires and made the Limeys sit up. They know they have another frontier to guard.” O'Neill made the best of his hasty retreat. “Now we can withdraw to America, or try again in Canada.” O'Neill grinned. “I'm going to try again. Are you with me, boys? Ireland for ever!”
“Ireland for ever!” With O'Neill's suggestion restoring their confidence, the Fenians cheered as the general signalled for a tug and scow from the Fenians on the US shore.
“I will leave some pickets behind,” O'Neill said. “Hold the town until we pull the British away and then reinforcements will flood in. I'm looking for volunteers.”
Jack was surprised when about 30 men volunteered to return to Fort Erie.
“Take us to Lower Black Rock,” O'Neill ordered the tug's master. “While the British are marching to Fort Erie, we will outflank them and show them that the Irish know how to use the water as well.”
Boarding the scow, the Fenians cheered, waved their rifles and raised the green flag.
“Ireland for ever!”
“You're playing a losing hand,” Jack said as the tug headed along the river.
“Halt right there!” The metallic voice of a speaking trumpet sounded as the US gunboat approached them. “This is USS Michigan of the United States Navy. You are all under arrest.”
“Keep moving,” O'Neill ordered. “They won't do anything. The US authorities support our cause.”
The sound of the crack of naval artillery, followed by a tall pillar of water suddenly rising a few yards ahead of the tug proved O'Neill's words to be false.
“Jesus and Mary!” Kennedy pointed his rifle at USS Michigan. “We're Fenians!” he shouted. “Don't fire on us!”
“They know who we are,” Jack told him. “This invasion's over boys. We're going back to the States.”
As USS Michigan showed her eight guns, the last of the Fenian objections faded away. There was no resistance as US seamen fastened a hawser from the bows of the scow to the gunboat. Two US Navy cutters sat a few yards away in the river with armed sailors watching the now-quiet Fenians.
“Come on, lads! We've done what we set out to do!” O'Neill sounded cheerful. “The British won't dare attack us when the navy is here.”
As the night eased into morning, British troops arrived in Fort Erie, and soon the Union Flag once more soared above the little riverside town. Lifting his binoculars, Jack could see some British regulars watching the drama off their town, while others took prisoner those Fenians who had remained.
“The English will hang them, like as not,” Kennedy roared, waving his fist.
“I don't think so,” Jack said. “They're US citizens, mainly, so there will be some diplomatic solution.”
“They're citizens of the Irish Republic,” Riordan glared at Jack. “They took the Fenian oath, same as you and me.”
Unwilling to argue the point, Jack only nodded as the US authorities towed the Fenians back to American soil.
“They don't know what to do with us,” Riordan said. “If they go against us, America might have another civil war as 100,000 Fenians rise, and the South might join in.”
“We want to fight the British Empire,” Walsh pointed out, “not the United States.”
With a minimum of fuss, the US Navy ushered the Fenians back on land, relieved them of their weapons, and escorted them to an enclosure. They separated the known officers from the rank-and-file, with Jack, as an unknown, thrust in with the latter. The men huddled into small groups, boasting of their part in the late battles or contemplating their next move, depending on their natures. Finding a spot where he could listen to the conversations, Jack sat on the grass and leaned back.
“Wolfe.”
Jack looked around, trying to ma
ke out the voice amidst the babble of sound. “Fraser?”
“Windrush, follow me.”
Jack eased away to one of the few quiet corners, where Fraser sat, dressed in a faded green jacket.
“I'm glad you survived the battles,” Fraser said.
“That was a kind thought,” Jack said. “What do you want?”
“I have a message from Smith.”
“I thought you might have.” Jack sighed. “Does he say I can return home now?”
“Here it is.” Sliding off his left boot, Fraser extracted a small square of paper from under his heel.
“Why the subterfuge? It would be easier to tell me.”
“I am not to know what it says,” Fraser said.
Jack sighed. “All right; what happens now?” He looked up, saw Fraser drifting away to merge with the Fenians, and opened the note.
“Stay with the Fenians and follow W. If you need assistance, contact Colonel Ferguson at Fort Erie and mention F. S.”
Jack sighed. He had hoped to slip back to Canada. W must be Patrick Walsh, whom the US Navy had also kept with the rank and file Fenians. With no uniforms to identify rank, the Federals had only held the well-known faces as officers. F must be Fraser and S was Smith. But who the devil was Colonel Ferguson? Jack shook his head, again wishing he was back as a regimental officer, with simple decisions of life, death and battle to make rather than these codes and false identities.
* * *
The smart uniform of the young US Navy lieutenant contrasted with the shabby garb of the Fenians as he addressed them.
“All right, Irishmen,” the lieutenant began, “you are leaving us. The government is giving you free passage to your home states without pressing any charges.” He looked around. “You are lucky men, for personally, I would charge you all with breaking the neutrality laws and trying to bring this great republic into a war with Great Britain.” He turned away to a chorus of jeers and whistles.
After three days of waiting, Jack was glad to be on the move again. He joined in the queue for the train south, keeping Walsh in sight as they boarded the carriages. Some Fenians were laughing, others drinking, with so many smoking that visibility was impaired. Jack estimated there were 2,000 Fenian soldiers crammed into the trains that rattled along the Hudson River Railroad and three out of four men were puffing on either a pipe or a cheap cigar. Fenian songs echoed around the corridors, sung in a variety of accents ranging from New England Yankee to the Southern drawl and the lilt of Connaught and Clare. Meanwhile, Jack kept his eye on Walsh, who was talking with a group of Ohio veterans, while Cormac and Dermot kept close.
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