Billy Green Saves the Day (7 page)

The others roared with laughter, and some even encouraged Billy to take a swing at the enraged customer, but Brady quickly slid another beer toward the man. “It's on the house. Leave the lad alone, or you're never coming back in here.” Satisfied, the man released Billy. Brady glared at Billy. “You shouldn't have done that. I won't tell your pa, but don't ever do it again.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Brady, but I was awfully thirsty. The Yankees really are coming. Really, they are.”

“And that's another thing, son. You shouldn't go around making up stories like that. Folks might take you seriously and you could do some real harm.” Brady gave him a glass of water. “Now drink up and get on home.”

“You have to believe me,” Billy said, running to a window and pointing.

Brady and the men laughed again until they heard the sound of approaching wagons and marching men. Everyone scrambled to the window to discover the point of the American army only fifty yards away. The customers talked nervously among themselves, a few even finished the remainder of their drinks, then they all scrambled out the door only to be chased and arrested after warning shots were fired into the air.

Panicked, Billy glanced around the tavern. “Is there another way out of here?”

“No,” Brady said. He quickly retrieved a pistol from behind the bar and handed it to Billy. “It's not loaded, but point it at me. Tell them I'm a Loyalist and that you support the Americans. It's the only way to save yourself.”

“I ... I can't,” Billy said, trying to give the weapon back, but Brady forced it into his hand.

“Just do it, or they'll take you away and force you to fight,” Brady said as a group of American soldiers entered the tavern, followed by an officer.

“Get ... get your hands up!” Billy shouted, and Brady complied.

“Who are you?” The U.S. officer asked suspiciously, staring at Billy.

“My name's Billy Green. I saw your army coming down the road. I'm an American sympathizer and I captured this Loyalist.”

“Prove it.” The officer reached for one of the bottles of liquor. “Shoot him.”

Billy and Brady exchanged fearful glances, then Billy asked, “Why should I do your dirty work? I'm a citizen, not a soldier.”

“You're just a boy, and what's a boy doing in a tavern?” the officer demanded, helping himself to some bread behind the bar.

“Like I told you, I saw your army coming down the road and I wanted to help.” Billy edged toward the door.

“Where do you think you're going?” the officer asked as he set up some glasses.

“Home. I don't care what you do to him.” Billy opened the door just as Brady charged him but was subdued.

“Yankee lover!” Brady yelled as he was pushed into a chair.

“How old are you, boy?” the officer asked.

“I'm ... I'm fourteen,” Billy lied. “I know I'm too young to be in the army.”

The officer smirked. “I have boys in my command from Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania who are younger than that. Maybe you should join us.”

“I'd like to, but my father won't let me.”

“Leave him be,” Brady said, still constrained by a guard. “His mother died when he was a baby and his old man's dying. Billy's the only one left to take care of him. He's got no brothers or sisters.”

“Didn't you just call him a Yankee lover?” the officer asked suspiciously. “Why do you care so much?”

“Billy's touched in the head,” Brady whispered to the officer. “He's always coming in here and telling us how much he hates the Loyalists and the British because his pa was wounded in the revolution. I give the boy some bread when he barges in here like this with his gun. It's not even loaded.”

The officer considered Brady for a moment to weigh the truth of the tavern keeper's words, then looked at Billy. “Give me that weapon, boy.”

Billy decided to take on the crazy role Brady had given him. “Get back! You're a British spy! Take one step and I'll shoot you down!”

The officer held his hand out. “I said give it to me.”

“Bang! You're dead!” Billy pulled the pistol's trigger, but it was indeed empty. The officer took the gun away from Billy as the other soldiers laughed. “I shot you! You're dead! Lie down!”

“Get him out of here,” the officer told his men, and Billy was pushed out the door. The officer poured freely from a whiskey bottle and filled the glasses, spilling alcohol all over the bar and floor. “Help yourselves, men. Looks like this town's full of drunks and crazies.” His men laughed as they served themselves drinks.

Outside, Billy peered in the window and saw Brady wink at him. Billy winked back, then sprinted away.

The waves of Lake Ontario crashed against the shore, churned the surf a deep blue, and violently rocked the moored American troop boats. A small number of U.S. infantrymen hastily set up camp beside a partly burnt hotel with a charred sign that read: the king's head inn. Inside, the owner, John Lottridge, huddled with his frightened wife and two children as they watched a brigade of Yankee soldiers ransack their hotel.

Major Thomas stepped in and removed his hat. He strolled behind the desk and found several muskets hidden on a shelf along with a few bottles of wine. The major grabbed one of the bottles, slumped into a nearby chair, and rested his muddy feet on the table. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it across the room. After taking a heavy swig, he scraped the mud off his boots with a knife. “What do you do for a living, sir?”

“I'm ... I'm an innkeeper,” Lottridge said, perplexed by the obvious.

“I wonder why you have so many weapons behind that desk.” Thomas flicked a piece of mud against the wall.

“Please let my family be,” Lottridge said as Thomas hurled the bottle through a window, shattering the glass.

The children whimpered as Mrs. Lottridge pulled them closer. “I'm ... I'm the captain of the militia. Please, I don't want any trouble.”

Thomas took a swig from another bottle of wine. “When I ask a question, I want the truth. I'm tired of hearing lies today. What can you tell me about the strength of the British position and the Indians?”

“I don't know anything about that.”

Thomas chuckled and fingered the hilt of his sword. “You honestly expect me to believe that as the captain of the militia you don't know the answer to my question?”

“I know it sounds like I'm lying, but I really don't. I haven't been involved in the militia as much as I used to be. My work here has kept me away.” Lottridge ran his fingers through his young daughter's hair. “My family's more important.”

“Your heartfelt words don't change my mind. I strongly suggest you tell me the truth.” Thomas purposely split his finger against the blade of his sword, causing it to bleed. Fascinated, he watched the tiny stream of blood curl around his finger. “Well?”

Lottridge looked at his family before taking a deep breath. “You know the British are camped at Burlington Heights. As far as their numbers are concerned, the last time I was there I saw maybe ten thousand troops.” Knowing he was lying, Lottridge noted the grave concern that flashed across the faces of Thomas and his men.

Thomas smiled thinly. “Ten thousand? You wouldn't be exaggerating, would you, sir?”

“It was about a month ago. There might be more, there might be less. I know the British want to hold Burlington Heights more than they wanted to keep Fort George.”

“Why?” Thomas asked, still not convinced he was hearing the truth.

“Burlington Heights is farther away and tucked inside a bay. We need the cover for defence and to hide our supply ships.”

“I think you've told him more than enough,” Mrs. Lottridge said to her husband sharply.

“What about the Indians?” Thomas asked.

“That I truly know nothing about. They stay with their own kind. We never know where they are or what they intend to do.” Lottridge watched some of the U.S. soldiers take barrels of flour, pork, and other provisions from his storeroom.

Major Thomas studied Lottridge and his family for a few moments. “Keep them under guard,” he ordered his men. “Now get them out of my sight.”

Lottridge and his family were taken from the room as Thomas took another long drink from the wine bottle. “Bring the other prisoner in here.” Isaac Corman was accompanied into the room and shoved hard into a chair opposite the major. “Ready to talk?”

“Your death can't come soon enough,” Isaac growled. “And it will be by my hands.”

Thomas laughed. “Your heroics won't do you much good with a musket ball through your head.” He took a musket from a nearby soldier and loaded it. “Have you ever seen what buckshot can do to a man's face from such a short range? I'm only going to ask you one more time. Where are the Indians camped and what do you know about the British forces?”

Isaac closed his eyes. “Do what you must.”

Thomas wrapped his finger around the trigger as the other soldiers recoiled, anticipating the gruesome outcome. “I can shoot you as a spy, but I'd like to know why you're being so stubborn. Is your life worth it?”

“All men from Kentucky are stubborn, just like U.S. General William Henry Harrison. As his first cousin, I'm most certain this barbaric act would anger him.” Isaac hoped his connection to an American general would spare his life.

Utter amazement shot across Thomas's face. “I don't believe it. I'm the general's second cousin.”

Equally impressed by the coincidence, Isaac managed to smile. “I don't think he'd approve of blood relatives like us killing each other, do you?”

Thomas raised the musket again. “How do I know you're not just saying this to save yourself?”

“Everyone from Kentucky knows General Harrison. Besides, I've never met you. How would I know you're related to him?”

Thomas lowered the weapon and offered Isaac a bottle of wine. “I apologize for the way I treated you and your wife, sir. The stress of war can make a man's temper short and his chivalry forgotten. Please forgive me. What are you doing in Canada?”

Isaac declined the drink and glanced at the setting sun. “To tell you the truth, I've had enough of war. I came here to Canada to start a new life. I'm worried about my family, sir. May I go now?”

“I guarantee you won't be harmed, but please tell me, do you know anything about the British and the Indians?”

“Nothing. Like I said, I've had enough of war and I don't want anything to do with this. I'm a simple farmer and blacksmith.” Isaac offered his hand. “But good luck to you.” They shook hands, then Isaac turned for the door.

“By the way, you'll need the password to get through our lines,” Thomas said. “As kin, you have to promise not to give it to the enemy. Doing so would be treason.”

Isaac placed his hand over his heart. “You have my word.”

“It's Wil-Hen-Har,” Thomas said with a grin. “Code for William Henry Harrison.”

Isaac tipped his hat and walked out.

Major Thomas withdrew a half-burnt cigar, lit it, and looked at two of his men. “Follow him, but do it discreetly. In war you can't even trust family.”

A tiny wisp of smoke rose straight up from the chimney of a white two-storey farmhouse. The home was nestled on a cleared area of land, surrounded by woodland and a cedar swamp on one side, and the tangled foothills of the escarpment on the other.

Inside the house a widow named Mary Gage sat at her kitchen table peeling potatoes. She smiled warmly at the painting of her late husband in the front hallway. Two other paintings showed her two grown sons. All were portraits from the waist up, indicating a certain degree of wealth. Each man held a Bible, conveying religion as the most important aspect of his life.

Suddenly, Mary thought she heard something and stopped working. After a few seconds, she began peeling again just as there was a flash by one of her windows. Carefully, she pulled the curtain aside as her door crashed open. Several U.S. soldiers stormed inside. Mary screamed and ran for another door. When she threw it open, she discovered more Yankees waiting for her.

Clambering up the stairs to the second floor, Mary bolted into a bedroom and barricaded the door behind her with a chair. She inched away and covered her mouth with trembling hands when she heard heavy footsteps coming up the staircase. Mary slid down the wall and caught a glimpse of the thousands of American soldiers converging upon her property. Her eyes widened in horror as the bedroom door was smashed open.

Downstairs, Generals Chandler and Winder scoped out the home. “We'll use this house as our headquarters until we decide when to attack Burlington Heights,” Chandler said, peering out the window when he heard skittish animals. At the barn some of the American soldiers awkwardly tried to round up the nervous livestock.

Mary was escorted into the room and fretfully looked out the window where a soldier held a knife to the throat of one of her sheep. “Please, I beg you, don't hurt my animals!”

Chandler quickly swiped the curtain closed, and then they all heard the death cry of the animal. The men outside laughed, rejoicing over the fine meal they would have tonight.

Mary collapsed into a chair as Chandler placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, madam, but it's a necessity of war to feed my army.”

Winder rolled his eyes and gestured to the guards.

“Lock her in the fruit cellar.”

“No, please don't!” Mary cried.

Chandler turned away as the widow was subdued and forced downstairs. “Was that absolutely necessary?” he asked Winder.

“What would you like me to do — let her walk away and tell the British we're here?” Winder took a bite from a peeled potato. “I realize you're in command, but if you don't have the stomach for this sort of thing, then leave it to me.”