Billy Green Saves the Day (2 page)

Madison sighed. “Sit down, George.”

Clinton shuffled closer to the Cabinet members and looked each one in the eye. “Have you all forgotten how unpopular conscription is?” He glanced at Madison. “And need I also remind you that the debt is already at forty-five million dollars? Pursuing this folly will surely triple that amount! You, Mr. President, will bankrupt the country.”

Madison kicked his chair back and pointed a threatening finger at Clinton. “I've had enough of your insubordination in public and in private! You
will
show me my due respect!”

“Men are going to die for the sake of your ego,” Clinton said calmly. “You're incubating a lie for the American people. If you truly want war, then attack the harbour in Halifax. That, sir, is where the British navy is based.”

Paul Hamilton, the secretary of the navy, cleared his throat nervously. “I … I must admit we might not be ready for such a conflict.”

Madison frowned. “Are you a coward, Mr. Hamilton? You were a professional soldier. I'm sick of your excuses!”

“I just want to be ready, sir,” Hamilton said, his plump face flushing.

Clinton smiled knowingly and poured a glass of wine with quaking hands. “You want nothing to do with Halifax because you know the British navy is too strong, not to mention the hundreds of Loyalists who live there.”

Madison smirked and admired his reflection in the mirror again. “You
are
jealous of me, George, aren't you? You failed to be elected president twice. That's what's really bothering you, isn't it?”

Clinton clenched his jaw and inched closer to Madison. “I was an unwilling candidate and you know that. The only reason I did run was because so many people didn't want you.”

Madison slicked back his snow-white hair. “George, you're nothing but an old, stubborn, unpatriotic man who's lost his will to fight.”

Furious, Clinton swiped the desk with his cane and sent the crystal glasses and wine bottle crashing to the floor. “I fought in the French and Indian War!” he thundered as he hobbled to a copy of the U.S. Constitution hanging on the wall. “My name would have been on that document, too, but I was in charge of the militia at the request of George Washington himself. Remember?”

Madison strolled to the crackling fireplace and warmed his hands. “In case
you've
forgotten, I
am
the Father of the Constitution, George. Washington was a good friend of mine, as well, but this is about the economy. Invading Canada is a good bargaining chip against the British.”

Congressman Clay aggressively nodded his approval and patted his pistol. “The president is right. Only war will restore America's honour in light of these British transgressions.”

“Here, here!” Congressman Calhoun said, pounding the desk to demonstrate his support.

Clinton stared at the Constitution. “War Hawks — every one of you,” he whispered before turning to confront the men. “Many of the militias won't even fight outside their own states. New England won't stand for this and neither will Congress. And you, Mr. President, why don't you call this what it really is — Mr. Madison's War?”

The president wheeled to retaliate, but William Eustis, the secretary of war, stood up. “Actually, Mr. Vice President, Upper Canada has many American migrants who are sympathetic to our cause. The entire area is weakly defended and thinly populated, I might add.”

Clinton raised his cane and pointed it at Eustis. “Those aren't good enough reasons for spilling innocent blood. As a surgeon, you should know that. Haven't you seen enough killing?”

Eustis ignored Clinton and turned his attention to the president. “Scouting numbers suggest there are fewer than five thousand British troops in North America. Besides, England is too preoccupied with Napoleon to defend such a vast area.”

Clinton shuffled over to Madison and placed a hand on his shoulder. “James, please listen to me. I know we've had our differences, but justifying this folly to the citizens of our country will be impossible. Some of their relatives live in Upper Canada, and they'll undoubtedly be caught in the middle. And what about the slaves? They could revolt and side against us. Do you really want to go down in history as the man responsible for such madness?”

Madison slowly removed Clinton's hand. “
Now
you call me James? Go home, George. Go home and let men who love their country do their work.”

Clinton searched Madison's eyes for a moment, but the president simply looked away. The vice president leaned closer. “You are a small, small man, James. Maybe that's why you and Napoleon have so much in common.”

“Get out!” Madison barked.

Clinton limped toward the door. “The Loyalists are still angry for being robbed of their land and possessions during the Revolution, gentlemen,” he said as a burning ember from the hearth leaped to the floor. “If they ally themselves with the Indians, there will be more trouble than you bargained for. I promise you that.”

Madison stepped on the ember and crushed it with his shoe. “Perhaps you should join them, George.” He gestured at the wisp of smoke curling from beneath his foot.

“How dare you!” Clinton cried, storming toward the president. When the vice president faltered and nearly lost his balance, a few Cabinet members steadied him. “I was a brigadier general in the Revolution! You have no right to speak to me that way!”

Madison smiled thinly. “Maybe it's time for you to retire, George.”

An uneasy silence filled the room until Jefferson turned from the window. The aging former president poured a glass of wine. “As the Republican Party founder, I can confidently state that the acquisition of Canada is a mere matter of marching. And that, good sirs, is precisely what I intend to tell Congress.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the annexation of Britain's crown jewel. Let the cannons roar.” The men cheerily clinked their glasses as Clinton exited the room.

Surprised by the vice president's sudden appearance, Dolley Madison hid the box of snuff she was using and handed Clinton his cloak. “Good night, George. It was a pleasure to see you again.”

Clinton glanced at her sabre leaning against the wall. “I'd sleep with that under my bed if I were you,” he said quietly as he closed the White House front doors behind him. The wind was blowing hard now, and a wicked bolt of lightning flashed over the horizon, followed by the crash of thunder. “Fools!” he muttered to himself. “God forgive us!”

CHAPTER ONE

A
twig snapped and the young black bear swung its head to locate the noise but soon returned to eating raspberries. The bruin finished gorging and lumbered farther along in search of more food. Pushing through the thick brush, the beast flushed a flock of birds from a small tree. After that everything was silent again. The bear slightly raised its great head to sniff the air. In an instant it turned and reared up on its hind legs. The animal let out a frightening roar, saliva dripping from its mouth.

Billy Green, a teenage lad, stood a few yards away, holding a musket. His piercing brown eyes stared directly at the bear. With a swing of its head, the animal dug at the earth with razor-sharp claws and bellowed again, but Billy stood his ground, his finger slowly wrapping around the trigger.

The beast dropped to all fours and inched closer but suddenly stopped, its eyes locked on Billy's. “I've been following you for almost an hour and you didn't even know,” Billy whispered as he reached into a pocket. “I was always downwind. I haven't seen you before. You haven't been away from your mama for long, have you?” He retrieved a piece of beef jerky and held out the meat with steady hands. “Come on, boy, you can have it.”

The animal took a few guarded steps and menacingly rolled its head. Letting loose with another blood-chilling roar, the bear returned to its hind feet, mere inches from Billy. The teenager could feel the creature's hot breath against his face as the bear searched his eyes for a sign of aggression or weakness. Then the beast gently took the jerky from Billy's hand and darted off into the thicket.

Billy exhaled deeply and checked his hands. They were beginning to tremble.

“You keep doing that and one of these days you won't be coming home,” Adam Green said.

Billy wheeled around to find his father on a ridge, aiming a musket. “Did you see him, Pa? He was beautiful!”

Adam waved at his son to join him on the ridge. “I almost had to kill him, and that would have been your fault.”

Billy climbed the steep hill and stood beside Adam, glancing at their farmhouse close by. “I could've shot him, but I knew he wouldn't hurt me.”

His father wiped sweat from his brow. “Animals are as unpredictable as people, Billy. And I thought I told you there was work to be done this morning. That flour mill isn't going to run itself. We've got orders to fill.”

Billy kicked at some pebbles. “I know but … but it's boring.”

Adam pivoted and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. “Listen, Billy, that boring mill keeps food on the table and a roof over your head for our family. Understand?”

Billy wrapped an arm around his father as they continued walking. “Yes, sir.” He studied Adam's leathery face. His father was only fifty, but he looked much older. “You miss New Jersey, don't you, Pa?”

“I miss your mother more,” Adam said, looking skyward. “That's why we owe it to her to keep working. She would've wanted it that way.”

Billy stopped walking and licked his nervous lips. “Pa … I want to join the militia.”

Adam's face darkened, and he grabbed the musket from Billy's hand. “We've already discussed this and the answer is no!”

“Why?”

Adam hurried into the barn, set the weapons aside, and began piling sacks of flour. “I said the answer is no! Get to work!”

Billy started lugging the bags and stacking them against the wall. “I hear there are soldiers my age fighting on both sides.”

“That may be so, but I'm not their father. Let their parents worry about them.”

“A lot of people say the Americans could even come here to Stoney Creek and take over this country.”

Adam threw the sack in his hands against the wall, causing an explosion of white powder. “It's not going to happen! It's just a stupid rumour.” He pointed at his son. “I'm only going to tell you this one more time. There will be no more talk of the war in my house!”

“I'm not a child! I'm a man, Pa!”

“Then start acting like one! No
man
wants war!” Adam snatched one of the muskets. “My brothers were jailed during the Yankee Revolution and one of them died there! This gun doesn't solve anything!”

“Don't you want to fight for your country?”

Adam's eyes flared with rage, but he quickly regained his composure. “I did … I just backed the wrong side.”

“You told me they stole six thousand acres from you in New Jersey because you supported the British. Now you've got three hundred in Canada. What if the Yankees do come here? We have to fight.” Billy lowered his head. “And I want to help.”

Billy's father sat on one of the stacks and massaged his sore neck. “I've seen war, son. It's not glamorous. It's not exciting. It's bloody and it's something you want to forget but never can.”

“You can't stop me … you just can't!” Billy cried as he ran out of the barn.

“Billy! Billy!” Adam shouted. He tried to catch his son but could only watch as the teenager disappeared into the long grass.

At dawn the distant sounds of birds cooing and the gentle lapping of waves could be heard. Mist rolled in from Lake Ontario, frequently allowing brief glimpses of the smouldering Fort George.

A few seagulls pecked at the sand for food until the boom of a cannon shattered the serenity. Another burst followed and offered a quick flash of brilliant orange from somewhere amid the haze.

“Man your guns!” Brigadier-General John Vincent yelled with an Irish accent as another cannonball whistled overhead and exploded, sparking more fires. “Get the women and children back to the basements! Quickly now!”

The dashing officer assisted a young woman and her child as a flame-engulfed beam fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing them. Then a wall collapsed, catapulting a handful of screaming British soldiers through the air, their clothes ablaze.

Vincent scrambled up a stairway, retrieved his scope, and peered at the lake. Looming on the calm waters, he saw a flotilla of troop carriers headed toward the shore. Swiftly, he turned and spotted one of his officers. “I was wrong! The invasion's coming from the shore! Prepare the men!”

Inside one of the American vessels ammunition handlers withdrew a red-hot cannonball from a furnace and carried it in an iron cradle to the gun. The glowing sphere was rammed inside, followed by the wad. Then the weapon was fired and the process was repeated.

At another cannon a canvas bag was loaded with rocks, metal slugs, and shards of glass. An American officer watched as white and black British soldiers marched on the beach. “Send them the grapeshot!” he commanded as the bag was stuffed into the cannon. “Fire when ready!”

The grapeshot sprayed the British infantry, cutting, slicing, and detaching limbs. Blood-curdling screams pierced the mist. The Americans hurriedly disembarked from their small boats and waded ashore as more ordnance bombarded Fort George.

“This is your chance, boys!” a British officer with a Scottish accent screamed as his troops ran to meet the enemy. “After two bloody days of those Yanks shelling us, it's time to get even!”

The British regulars and militiamen splashed into the water and bayoneted several Americans, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The melee turned the water a cloudy red while men from both armies fought hand-to-hand as bayonets cracked bone and musket balls pierced flesh. Outnumbered, the remaining British hastily retreated, some dragging their wounded comrades beside them.