Acts of Courage (16 page)

TWENTY-TWO

Twelve Mile Creek didn’t usually flow fast in the month of June, but the spring rains had turned it into a torrent of rough waves that swirled out toward the banks and jackknifed back into the main current. The tree-trunk bridge that lay across the creek was completely under water in three places. Laura began to struggle over it, half stumbling, half crawling in the darkening dusk. Her cap was torn off by an overhanging branch, and her thick brown hair hung down in wet strings and lay flat against her back. She knew if she made it about two-thirds of the way across the creek, she could wade to the shore through the reeds that clustered up against the opposite bank.

About halfway across, a rush of water washed her shoe away and wrapped the hem of her petticoat around the stub of a branch. She tore the petticoat loose and pushed forward. The water was getting deeper. She inched along the trunk, testing each hold. She knew that she must not falter now. As she drew nearer to the opposite bank, she reached the thick marsh reeds that swayed in a gentler current along the edge of the creek. She tightened her hold on the tree trunk and lowered one leg down into the water until she could feel the mud oozing over the sides of Elizabeth’s shoe. Then she slipped off the trunk and started wading toward the bank, waist-deep in the swirling water. The remaining shoe refused to come out of the murky creek-bed. She was barefoot.

As she parted the last bunch of reeds, the total fatigue she’d been labouring under for the last two hours enveloped her like a dark cloud. She dropped heavily onto the grassy bank and fell into a half-sleep.

Crickets chirped gently in the quiet darkness, but they could not blot out the memory of the rough, vengeful voice:
Now’s our chance to get rid of that green sliver and his Bloody Boys
.

She was jolted awake by a rustling sound. Before she knew what she was doing, she jumped to her feet and stared ahead. A familiar choking smell assailed her. It was a skunk. She squinted through the darkness—she could see it sauntering up the hill in front of her. A false alarm, but she knew that she put herself in danger if she rested in the open.

She struggled up the rough ground. It was painful without shoes, and she felt almost too weak to climb the steep hill ahead. She was thankful, though, that she knew the area well. She and her husband and small children had picnicked here many times.

If she could just reach the top of the hill, she would only have to cross a couple of low, flat fields and one more hill. From there, on that second rise of land, she knew she would be able to see the De Cew family house, where the lieutenant had set up his headquarters.

As she pushed her tired body uphill, waves of doubt began to wash over her—the lieutenant might not believe her message. Perhaps, as James had suggested, Chapin had only been bragging to his guerrillas. After all, the only evidence of the planned attack she had was the snippet of conversation she had overheard through the window. FitzGibbon might just laugh at her or pity her, thinking she had become confused from the pressures of the war or the heat of the day. She could just imagine him saying, “Madam, I’m truly sorry; I’ll be needin’ hard facts.” Laura put these thoughts out of her mind and kept going up the hill.

The night was darker now. A thin wash of moonlight was all that lit the way. Without slowing her pace, she reached ahead to part the tall grass and weeds. She flinched as she stepped on a sharp stone, but the throbbing of her foot was lost in the pain she felt all over her body. She had been running, stumbling, walking for sixteen hours. It seemed that every muscle was screaming in pain. She did not even stop to check the new wound.

When she reached the top of the hill, she stopped abruptly, trembling at an unexpected sight. Clusters of tents and groups of men around campfires were silhouetted against the sky.

At least a dozen men started to move toward her. As they came closer, she recognized the Mohawk leggings that some of them were wearing, but she could not guess the identity of the others. She wondered if they were on the side of the lieutenant. Whoever they were, they were now moving swiftly in her direction. As they come closer, she saw that they were staring at her with cold eyes and moving in to surround her. The two on the right pointed at her and began shouting to each other in a language she did not understand. She gasped in fear, but even as that terrible feeling of weakness came over her, she marched directly up to the one who appeared to be a chief and, pointing to the next hill, she said in a firm, sharp voice, “Lead me to Lieutenant FitzGibbon.” She knew the lieutenant and his men were camped in the direction she was pointing. Surely he would understand.

But the chief just stood and looked at her. She motioned and pointed to the chief, then to herself, and then to the camp over the hill. She repeated these motions and said the lieutenant’s name over and over. She kept the chief’s attention. Then she pointed to the distant northeast and shouted, “The enemy is coming!”

The chief studied her closely, and finally his brow relaxed a little and his eyes became softer. He nodded, then turned and spoke to his men, but they looked suspiciously at her and spoke to each other in low voices.

Her heart pounded. She found it harder than ever to control her fear, but she was too tired to run away. All she could do was stand and wait.

The chief finally indicated that she should go with him. He and two of his men strode along beside her. She walked briskly with pain in every step, fearing that the chief would change his mind before they got there. Her breath came in short gasps, almost as if she were running again.

Laura had no idea how long it would take to reach the top of the last knoll. All she knew was that she could finally see the stone house where the lieutenant was stationed. As soon as it was in sight, one of the Mohawks ran ahead, but she could go no faster. She knew that she must not fall now, so near the end of her journey.

The darkness seemed to close in on her when she finally reached the yard in front of the house. The lieutenant, carrying a lantern, came out the front door and down the stone steps to meet them. She could not make out his features; her eyes were so blurred from fatigue.

She staggered as she reached him and gasped out her message. “I am the wife of Sergeant James Secord, who was wounded in active duty at the Battle of Queenston Heights.”

Lieutenant FitzGibbon breathed in sharply and stared at her in disbelief. Then he recovered himself and stared at her with his cool green eyes.

Laura tried to focus on the face before her. It looked familiar, somehow. “Since my husband is not able to travel, I have brought this message. The enemy under Colonel Boerstler and directed by Chapin’s guerrillas plan a surprise attack tomorrow. They have a much larger force than you.”

“Who told you this?”

She hesitated. Would the lieutenant take seriously the gossip of Chapin and his men? Could she tell him that the wine she served may well have loosened their tongues? “My husband does not wish to reveal his source, but he says to tell you it is a reliable one.”

“How could you possibly have come by the road from St. David’s? Enemy scouts are patrolling all the way to Queenston along the route.”

“I know. I came ’round by the Great Black Swamp and Shipman’s Corners. Then I went south and across Twelve Mile Creek to the Mohawks’ camp.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he examined her wet, torn, blood-stained clothes, her scratched arms and legs, and her bleeding feet. “My God, Laura Ingersoll! If it’s not Laura Ingersoll, I’ll be—and you walked. My God, that’s nineteen miles in this burning heat!”

How does he know my name? thought Laura, who was trembling with fatigue. She looked up at him but could not make out the face exactly. It was a blur, and so were the other faces around him. Then, for a short moment, everything came into focus. It was Red. That was why he knew her name—Lieutenant James FitzGibbon was Red!

“Laura, I don’t know how your husband got this information, but I believe you—you risked your life to get here.”

Then, turning to one of his officers, he commanded, “Here, Sam, help this lady upstairs to Mrs. De Cew. She’s about to faint. Move sharp now.”

Red turned and walked briskly back to his headquarters. It was going to be a long night.

TWENTY-THREE

The first clank of cow bells sounded loudly in the morning air. Then four more rang out over the fields, one after the other, at even intervals.

“They’ve come,” FitzGibbon announced to his men. It was seven a.m. on the twenty-fourth of June. FitzGibbon and his force of forty-five men had been waiting since late in the evening of the twenty-second when Laura had brought them her message.

Lieutenant FitzGibbon did one more quick calculation of the resources available to him. He had sent word to Major De Haren, who was camped a couple of miles to the north. At most, though, he reckoned that De Haren had no more than two hundred men. The opposing enemy force was made up of five hundred or more trained soldiers.

The lieutenant marshalled the Caughnawagas from Quebec, under Dominique Ducharme, the Grand River Mohawks led by the young John Brant, his second cousin, Captain William Johnson Kerr, and the tribe’s adopted Scottish leader, John Norton. He instructed them to hide in the beech woods and to attack the fringes of the enemy from their secure position in the woods. The Indians numbered well over two hundred, and he knew he could depend on them to complete their task. They had proved their value and their loyalty many times in this war. His situation would be hopeless without them.

Still, FitzGibbon worried about how long they would last if face-to-face fighting followed. They were not accustomed to that kind of warfare. Still, the warriors who supported him were hidden and waiting.

At best, his circumstances were not good, even though he had received sufficient warning. If De Haren’s troops arrived, he might have a chance. Without them, he would be far outnumbered by the attacking Americans. Yet he would not back down without a fight.

The enemy, unaware their every move was being watched by the Indians in the forest, moved steadily ahead. They had just completed a long march in the oppressive heat the day before. That night, as they slept in a nearby farmer’s field, no light or fire was allowed, since that would reveal their position to the residents of Queenston. Extra scouts and guards had gone ahead of them as they marched out of the field, to make sure no one could possibly surprise the advancing troops.

Lieutenant FitzGibbon walked to a high spot on the top of a hill and looked over the cornfield. He could see the enemy. Soldiers in grey uniforms led the way. Next came the colonel on his horse, followed by what must be three hundred walking soldiers. Their dark blue shakos, blue coats, and white breeches would make them easily recognized targets. Behind the infantry came their train of artillery, with horse teams pulling wagons of ammunition and large and small field guns. More companies followed, each one led by its officer. In the rear were two dozen cavalrymen. The harnesses on their horses and brass plates on their caps flashed in the light of the morning sun.

Through his field glass, FitzGibbon saw the advance guard return after they had reconnoitred the woods. The main body of troops then proceeded to enter the beech woods. They were only a few miles now from his camp. When would the Mohawks and Caughnawagas attack the enemy? Watching the troops disappear into the woods, he drew in his breath and waited for the sounds of battle.

Suddenly, rifle shots and the piercing war cries of the warriors broke the silence of the morning. For a moment, relief swept over him.

FitzGibbon faced again the truth of his precarious position. What good were his forty-five soldiers and two hundred warriors against a trained enemy force of over five hundred regulars with more ammunition and supplies? Reinforcements could well come to them from Fort George before his own help arrived. If De Haren had really been only two miles away, he should have been here some time ago.

If the Americans emerged on the west side of the beech woods, only two short miles would lie between them and his men. Even with severe losses to the enemy, the Bloody Boys would be far outnumbered. He swallowed as he thought of his loyal crew, the men of the brave 49th Regiment with their scant numbers and meagre resources, fighting a well-supplied American army of five hundred. He could not let this happen.

When the enemy began to emerge from the far end of the woods, the Indians would lose ground. Only FitzGibbon’s trained men could fight in the clearing, and those men would be swamped.

FitzGibbon’s plan was too fantastic to dwell on for long. He moved speedily to the far end of the field and, when he reached his men, he had his bugler sound the cease fire. To his own surprise, the Indian attackers immediately fell silent in the woods and their firing stopped.

Holding high a white handkerchief firmly tied to his sword, he rode forward at a measured pace from the west toward the beech woods. FitzGibbon rode in silence, the white handkerchief fluttering weakly in the wind. There was not a single movement from the enemy side. He was getting dangerously close to their lines. He would be completely vulnerable.

Finally, an enemy soldier holding another white flag came toward him on a large white horse. The horse cantered at a controlled speed, then lightly pawed the ground when its master drew the reins in tightly to bring the steed to a stop.

“Good morning, sir,” the officer said. “I am Roderick McDowell, First Regiment of Artillery, United States Army.”

FitzGibbon put his bold plan into words. “My pleasure, sir. I am Lieutenant James FitzGibbon of His Majesty’s Forty-ninth. I am instructed by Major De Haren to offer you the opportunity to surrender and avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

The officer did not reply.

“You are surrounded by a large force of British and cannot escape,” FitzGibbon continued. “My Indian allies, incensed by their losses in this morning’s battle, are ready to close in for a massacre. Only a fast surrender will ensure your safety.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall relay Major De Haren’s message to Colonel Boerstler,” Captain McDowell replied. Nodding, he turned and then galloped back to his lines.

FitzGibbon waited patiently but his thoughts were racing ahead. He was planning the reply he would make if the colonel refused to surrender.

Just then, a British officer rode toward him from his own lines. “I’m Captain Hall from Chippawa. We heard firing, and I’ve come with my twenty dragoons. We’re at your service, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Captain Hall. Please return to your lines, but I may call you back shortly. In the absence of Major De Haren, you may have to impersonate him.”

Captain Hall looked puzzled. “Only in the eyes of the enemy,” FitzGibbon told him and laughed loudly. Quite puzzled, Captain Hall nodded and returned to his men.

In a short time, Captain McDowell returned with his commander’s message. “Colonel Boerstler says he is not in the habit of surrendering to an army he has never seen.”

With an expression of confidence, FitzGibbon replied, “If that is his wish, I shall ask my superior officer if I may escort Colonel Boerstler to see our troops.”

FitzGibbon abruptly pulled his horse’s right rein, and the animal turned so suddenly its raised tail cut the air in a semi-circle. He galloped back to his men, went directly to Hall, and saluted him.

The amazed officer still did not realize what was happening. In a low voice, he stammered, “Lieutenant, I don’t understand.”

“Captain, you don’t need to. But, for the present just pretend you are my superior officer. I want the enemy to believe that you are Major De Haren. If all goes well, you will be no closer to the enemy than you are now. Later, it won’t matter if they discover that you aren’t Major De Haren.” As he spoke,
FitzGibbon gestured with his hands and pointed to the enemy. He shook his head several times and pointed again.

Hall was becoming more confused. “It’s all for effect,” FitzGibbon said. “They may be watching.”

Finally, he nodded his head and saluted Hall. Still holding his horse’s reins, he mounted lightly and cantered back to the enemy.

FitzGibbon watched as Colonel Boerstler advanced slowly toward him. Even though his horse was moving at an even speed, the officer grimaced with each shift in position. FitzGibbon looked at the grave-faced colonel and sized him up. He was not a big man, and he had a sallow, pale complexion. Then he looked down and saw that blood had hardened on the colonel’s uniform just above his saddle and down his leg. The colonel sat with great discomfort on his horse.

FitzGibbon saluted the colonel. “I am sorry, sir,” FitzGibbon said, “but Major De Haren refuses to put his troops on display for the enemy.”

Weakened from his loss of blood, Boerstler hesitated. “We need time to decide. Ask Major De Haren to give us until sundown.”

“Sundown!” shouted the agitated FitzGibbon. “No, Colonel Boerstler, we cannot give you the time you request. I can’t promise you any more than five minutes. My Indian allies are chafing to avenge the death of their friends.”

FitzGibbon forced himself to speak more slowly.
“I am aware that the Americans accuse us of stimulating the Indians to destroy you, whereas we have ever used our best endeavour, and almost always successfully, to protect you.”

In extreme pain, Colonel Boerstler replied, “Can you, in fact, ensure the safety of my men?”

Heartened by his reply but reluctant to show it, FitzGibbon avowed,
“I can only give you this assurance—the Indians must take my life before they shall attack you.”

“Your assurance is sufficient!” Boerstler explained and held out his hand to FitzGibbon.

With great reserve and considerable gravity, FitzGibbon took the officer’s hand. He dared not look too jubilant.

Then, as he started to discuss the details for surrender, he noticed a horse galloping speedily toward him. To his amazement, the real Major De Haren was rapidly approaching, accompanied by his aide.

FitzGibbon turned and rode back to meet him. After he had saluted, he quickly asked, “Do you have your troops?”

“No, Lieutenant,” the major replied. “They’re miles away, but I’m here. I’ll take over now.”

“Sir, I already have control. They have surr—”

As Major De Haren brushed by FitzGibbon to face the enemy, with no knowledge of the negotiations underway, FitzGibbon groaned. Would all be lost now?

Inflamed, he turned and raced his horse to De Haren’s side and said in a low, bold tone, so only the major could hear,
“Not another word, sir, not another word. These men are my prisoners.”

Before the major had time to reply, FitzGibbon addressed him loudly so that the enemy could hear. “Shall I proceed to disarm the American troops?”

De Haren answered, “You have my permission.”

As the American troops lined up before them, FitzGibbon watched De Haren, who was now beside Boerstler. Would De Haren say something that might give away the ruse? Then, in a flash, he thought of a solution.

He barked a command to the soldiers.
“American troops, right face. Quick march.” Boerstler nodded to his officers, and they repeated the command to the men. As the troops marched straight ahead, the two leaders had to move apart and were prevented from talking to each other.

The Americans were approaching the wooded area where FitzGibbon’s men were waiting, so the lieutenant addressed De Haren, “Sir, shall the American troops ground their arms here?”

“No,” he answered harshly. “Let them march through between our men and ground their arms on the other side.”

FitzGibbon seethed inwardly. In his desire to humiliate the enemy by forcing them to lay down their arms before their conquerors, De Haren had forgotten one important fact.
Would five hundred men lay down their arms when they saw they were facing a force of only forty-five? He thought not.

Lieutenant FitzGibbon drew a deep breath. “Sir, do you think it prudent to march them through with arms in their hands in the presence of the Indians?”
he shouted to De Haren.

“For God’s sake, sir, do what this officer bids you!”
Colonel Boerstler shouted to De Haren.

“Do so,”
De Haren told him.

“Americans, halt! Front! Ground your arms!”
FitzGibbon shouted. The command was passed on by the American officers.

They obeyed promptly. The Indians rushed out of the woods and headed straight for the soldiers. They had been promised the enemy’s weapons in return for doing them no harm. A few American soldiers, terrorized as they watched the Indians approach, reached down for their muskets.

Instantly, FitzGibbon’s voice rang out, “Americans, don’t touch your arms! Not a hair of your head shall be hurt. Remember, I am here.”

Lieutenant FitzGibbon started to relax now. He knew he could rely on the word of the chiefs.

He turned to Colonel Boerstler. “Come with me,” he commanded in a kind, courteous tone. “I will take you to my headquarters at the De Cew house where you will receive care for your wounds.”