Billy Green Saves the Day

B
ILLY
G
REEN
SAVES
THE DAY

Ben Guyatt

B
ILLY
G
REEN
SAVES
THE DAY

Copyright © Ben Guyatt, 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Editor: Michael Carroll
Design: Erin Mallory
Printer: Webcom

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Guyatt, Ben
      Billy Green saves the day : a novel / by Ben Guyatt.

ISBN 978-1-55488-041-6

       I. Title.

PS8613.U927 B45 2009       jC813'.6         C2009-900503-4

1 2 3 4 5 13 12 11 10 09

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit
program, and the
Ontario Media Development Corporation.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

Printed and bound in Canada.
www.dundurn.com

To my mother, Myrla,
who introduced me to the wonder of history.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Selected Reading and Websites

PROLOGUE

A
light drizzle fell amid cherry blossoms swirling through the humid air. An opulent horse-drawn carriage emerged from the mist as hurried hooves echoed off the cobblestone path. The driver commanded the animal to stop, its heavy breath obscuring its black head.

A sentry holding a lamp stepped forward briskly and offered his trembling hand. “They're waiting for you, sir,” he said nervously.

George Clinton, a distinguished man of seventythree, awkwardly descended with the aid of a cane and slapped the sentry's hand away.
“Well?”
Clinton boomed as he wiped away the moisture from his balding head.

The sentry gawked at him dumbly for an instant, then stepped back and snapped a perfect salute. “Sorry … sorry, sir.”

Clinton half-heartedly returned the gesture and limped toward the White House doors. Then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “Sorry, son.” He peered skyward, his eyes flickering against a now-steady rain. “Age, politics, and the sniff of war tend to quicken one's Irish temper.” Sighing, he heaved himself up the steps.

The doors swung open to reveal the vivacious, buxom Dolley Madison carrying a sabre. She threw her arms open wide. “Good evening, George. How is the rheumatism?”

Clinton raised a curious eyebrow at the feathered turban she was wearing and hardly stooped to kiss her tender hand. “I daresay my physical pain will be less than my emotional distress after this meeting, Mrs. Madison.”

“The wife of the president must always look good,” she said proudly, slightly adjusting the turban. “Do you like it? It's the favourite one of my collection. I had it sent all the way from Paris.”

“I suppose Napoleon gave you the sword,” he said sarcastically, gingerly removing his coat. He handed it to her without looking as she scrambled to set the weapon aside and took the garment.

“If the British are intent upon our demise, I'll be ready for them,” she said firmly. “The Boston Massacre, the Tea Party, the Declaration of Independence … Valley Forge …” She placed a hand over her heart. “This Quaker girl has seen history in the making.”

Clinton rolled his eyes as she grabbed a candelabrum and escorted him to a closed door, their silhouettes dancing eerily against the wall as their shoes creaked heavily against the wooden floor.

Dolley motioned him inside with a toothy smile. “Go on in, George. Everybody's here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Madison,” he said, gripping the knob with a gnarled hand.

“Please, George, call me Dolley,” she said merrily just as her sword slid away from the wall and clattered noisily to the floor.

“I would prefer not to,” Clinton said, shaking his head.

Inside the decorative room Clinton studied the diminutive, sickly-looking James Madison. The president was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers.

Barely raising his eyes, Madison said a bit curtly, “On time as usual I see, George. The door ... please.”

Clinton pushed the door closed with an expert flick of his cane before nodding his greeting to the six Cabinet members seated before Madison. Thomas Jefferson, the former president, stood at the window with his back to the room, entranced by the steady rhythm of the rain, his tall, awkward silhouette majestic and somewhat ghostly.

The president got to his feet and motioned to the men. “You know everyone here, George. Please sit down.”

“I think I'll stand,” Clinton said, shifting his feet. “Just get to the point.”

Madison suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, causing everyone to jump except Jefferson, who was still transfixed with the weather. “We've discussed this before! You shall refer to me as Mr. President!”

“Then you will call me
Mr. Vice President
,” Clinton insisted.

Both men stared at each other until Madison slid a glass of wine toward Clinton as a peace offering. The vice president waved it off, and Madison walked over to a full-length mirror.

“As you are all aware, with Britain and France at war, the United States has always wanted … needed to stay neutral,” the president said, straightening his jacket before tugging it downward. “I have asked Britain to continue trading with us, but she refuses. She even blockades the seas so we can't trade with France. But perhaps worst of all, gentlemen, many of our ships are being seized and our sailors impressed.”

Clinton snorted. “From what I understand most of those seamen are actually British runaways.”

Congressman John C. Calhoun leaned forward and casually helped himself to another glass of wine. “I'm more concerned with those Indians led by that heathen Tecumseh,” he said with a Southern drawl as he brushed aside his long, thick hair. “He's scaring everybody to death west of the Mississippi.”

“You're right, Congressman Calhoun,” Clinton said. “It's only
their
land. What right do they have to it? Your wealth has blinded you to reality.” He dug into his pocket and flipped some silver at the congressman. The coins fell to the floor, making a sharp noise that echoed in the room. “Maybe that will buy your youth some common sense.”

Calhoun scowled. “Pennywise and pound foolish you are. Contrary to what you might believe, none of us need your permission to maintain our struggle against the British for our liberty and independence.” He bent down, picked up the change, and deftly manoeuvred one of the coins through his slender fingers. “The only reason you're here is because you
are
the vice president and your support would be … preferential, shall we say?”

Another congressman, Henry Clay, swallowed the remainder of his drink and greedily held out his glass for more. Calhoun filled it. “And you just know the British are encouraging the Indians to attack us every chance they get. Expanding westward is proving more difficult than we imagined.” The man had the whiff of intoxication about him as he resumed shuffling a deck of cards.

“Your insatiable taste for liquor and gambling clouds your judgment,” Clinton said to Clay as he moved the wine bottle farther away.

“Would you like a duel?” Clay asked, laughing. Then his fine-featured face grew dark. “I have a wellknown temper, Mr. Vice President. You would do well to remember that.” He sat back in his chair to reveal a pistol beneath his jacket.

Clinton surveyed the room. “These are all nice speeches, but this isn't the floor of Congress. All you're doing is making excuses for war.”

“We're wasting time, gentlemen,” Madison said, returning to his desk and unfolding a large piece of paper. “This is a map of Upper and Lower Canada.” He reached for an imaginary object above his head. “It is a plum just waiting to be picked.”

The others chuckled.

Clinton stabbed the map with his cane. “You're going to throw away twenty-nine years of peace with England for that?” He glared at the assembled men.

“The American people won't stand for this!”

Madison resumed sitting and sipped his wine. “Your usual flair for the dramatic has been duly noted …
Mr. Vice President
.” The president pushed away the tip of Clinton's cane.

“This betrays our own heritage, for God's sake!” Clinton said. “The United States prides itself upon liberty and equality for all … including our neighbours.”