Читать книгу Billy Green Saves the Day - Ben Guyatt - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

A lamp illuminated the face of a dead young British soldier; his eyes wide, mouth agape. Two American infantrymen picked up the body and lowered it into a trench alongside other fallen redcoats. Dirt was shovelled over the mass grave.

The battle at Fort George was long and bloody, evidenced by the smoke still drifting from the battlefield and billowing in the decimated compound. Mangled bodies were strewn everywhere — British, American, black, and Native. Inside the fort the Yankee forces supped boisterously, huddled around countless campfires outside their tents. Above the fort, in makeshift headquarters, U.S. Generals John Chandler and William Winder relaxed before a roaring fireplace.

“I’ve had court cases tougher than this battle, John,” Winder declared, slightly inebriated as he slurped directly from a bottle of rum. The stout, ruddyfaced officer laughed stupidly and handed the alcohol to Chandler.

“Your love of drink is exaggerating your confidence,” Chandler said, preferring to pour the libation into a glass.

Winder grinned. “The British are going back to Burlington Heights to lick their wounds like the dogs they are.” He chuckled, kicked off his boots, and plunked his feet on the table. “I’ll wager you they give up on the defence of Upper Canada altogether. We’ve already captured Fort York and burned it to the ground. Their supply lines are virtually cut off.” Winder reached for the bottle clumsily and raised it. “We’ll march and sail unabated to Kingston, we’ll control the St. Lawrence, and we’ll strangle the British navy.”

“We don’t control Lakes Ontario and Erie yet, my drunken friend,” Chandler cautioned, corking the bottle.

Winder smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. “Just think of it, our names will be written in the annals of history. It will tell of how we courageously and brilliantly captured an entire country.”

He uncorked the liquor again, then staggered to his feet to fill his colleague’s glass but spilled it. The rum spread quickly and soaked Chandler’s shirt. Winder pretended to have shot him, and they both laughed heartily until there was a knock at the door. “In!” Winder bellowed.

A junior officer entered and saluted. “Sir, I have the final figures.”

Impatient, Winder waved for him to continue.

The junior officer read from a sheet of paper. “We had thirty-nine killed and one hundred and eleven wounded.”

“Brave boys,” Winder muttered, visibly shaken.

“And the enemy?” Chandler asked.

“Fifty-two killed, forty-four wounded, and two hundred and sixty-two captured,” the officer said, folding the paper.

“All of them ... on both sides were brave boys,”

Chandler said, raising his glass and drinking, much to the chagrin of Winder.

“Bring one of the prisoners in here!” Winder commanded, pulling on his boots. The officer disappeared for a moment as Winder buttoned his uniform jacket.

“What are you doing?” Chandler asked nervously.

“I can end this war even faster,” Winder said as a scared young British soldier was hauled into the room. “Sit down,” Winder ordered, motioning to a chair. The trembling teen took a seat, and Chandler offered him the bottle, but Winder swiped it away, smashing it to the floor. “How many forces do you have at Burlington Heights?” Winder demanded.

“I ... I don’t know, sir.”

In an instant Winder withdrew his sword and held it to the boy’s throat.

Chandler looked on, thoroughly alarmed.

“I don’t ... I don’t know,” the lad said, fighting back tears.

“Liar! I swear to God I’ll run you through!” Winder said, pushing the sword harder and causing the skin to break as a tiny line of blood trickled. Beneath the soldier’s chair a growing pool of urine began to puddle.

“Perhaps the prisoner can recollect if he has food in his stomach and his body has slept,” Chandler said, gently pulling the sword away. He smiled warmly at the young man before gesturing to the American officer to lead him away.

Once they were gone, Winder slammed the door and wheeled toward Chandler. “You should have filled him with buckshot!”

“Prisoners require fair treatment, William! As a lawyer, you should be familiar with that concept!” Chandler yanked the sword away from him. “We’re all tired. I know what the stress of war can do to all of us.”

Winder collapsed into his chair again, drank loudly from the bottle, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Full of disdain, he eyed Chandler from head to toe. “You don’t belong here.”

“And you do?”

Winder broke into an evil simper. “Look at you. You’re a tavern keeper. Once penniless and illiterate, I might add.” He drained the bottle, burped, and waved the container in Chandler’s face. “Serving up liquor is all you’re good for.”

“Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouth. But if you’d like, I’d be happy to tell our commanding officer about your treatment of the enemy.”

Winder snickered. “Ah, yes, General Dearborn. If it weren’t for him lending you four hundred dollars to buy your two hundred acres, you’d still be begging in the streets of Maine. You got rich because of that old man. It’s nice to have friends in high places, isn’t it?”

“You should know,” Chandler said, marching for the door, which opened before he got there.

Haggard and ill, General Dearborn limped inside. Winder and Chandler immediately stood at attention and saluted. The sixtyish officer coughed and patted his forehead with a cloth. “Gentlemen, I have your orders.” He wheezed and handed Chandler a piece of paper. Dearborn spied the empty liquor bottle and watched as Winder tilted. “General Chandler, you’ll be in charge. I’m too sick to join you.” He coughed hard again. “I suggest you sober up, gentlemen, and get some rest. You’re going to need it.” Slowly, Dearborn turned for the door as Winder and Chandler saluted.

After Dearborn was gone, Winder chuckled and slapped Chandler on the back. “High places, eh?”

The modest Green homestead basked in the glow of a full moon, and the sound of crickets filled the night air, along with the frequent call of an owl. Adam Green stepped onto the porch, lit his pipe, and relaxed into a rocking chair. Levi Green, Billy’s twenty-five-year-old brother, soon appeared with their brother-in-law, Isaac Corman.

“Thanks for dinner, Adam,” Isaac said, leaning against the wooden railing.

“It was Keziah’s cooking, not mine,” Adam said, rubbing his stomach.

“I’m not so sure you should thank my father, Isaac,” Levi said, slapping his brother-in-law in the gut. “It’s his daughter who’s fattening you up.” The two of them playfully exchanged punches, and Isaac put him in a headlock.

“You’re not exactly starving yourself,” Isaac said, poking Levi in the stomach.

Billy strolled onto the porch and sat on the steps, lost in thought.

Isaac leaned over and felt Billy’s arm. “You could use a little more meat on your bones, boy.”

Billy pushed Isaac’s hand away. “I’m not a boy!”

Mocking Billy’s attitude, Isaac said in a high voice, “All right, sir, I surrender.”

Levi laughed.

“Shut your mouth!” Billy snapped at his brother.

“Mind your tongue, Billy,” Adam said sternly. “We don’t speak like that around here. Apologize.”

“Sorry,” Billy mumbled.

“You hardly touched your supper,” Isaac said, lightly tapping Billy with his foot. “Your sister’s cooking isn’t that bad, is it?”

Levi grinned, pretending to shoot a musket. “He’s just mad because he can’t fight the Americans.”

“That’s enough out of you, too,” Adam said sharply to Levi.

Isaac rolled up his sleeve. “Let me tell you something, Billy. War isn’t what you want it to be. When I fought at Queenston Heights, well, let’s just say I saw men die horrible deaths.” He pointed at an awful scar. “This is what a bayonet can do to a man.”

Billy jumped to his feet. “Do you always have to show me that stupid scar? You’ve had your turn! This war will be over by the time I see any action!”

Adam stared hard at his younger son. “Watch your tongue! I’m not going to tell you again. Understand?” Billy lowered his head as Adam leaned forward in the chair. “Let’s get something straight, Billy. You’re not going to fight. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to stay. This family has suffered enough at the hands of the Americans.”

Billy paced the porch. “You can’t have it both ways, Pa. You despise them, but you won’t let me fight!”

“The subject is closed,” Adam said, and began rocking again.

Slapping one of the beams holding up the roof of the porch, Billy said, “You’re the one who’s always telling me how your brother died and how the Yanks stole your land. I want to join the army!”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you all those things. It was wrong ... I guess. But this much I do know, you’re not going to be in this war.” Adam relit his pipe as his eyes drifted off. “I made a promise to your mother. I took an oath on her deathbed that you would be free from the horrors of war, and I intend to keep my word.”

“I’m so tired of being babied by you. It’s well within my rights to fight the enemy, for God’s sake!”

Adam leaped from the chair and gripped Billy by the collar. He pushed his son to the wall and lifted him off his feet as Levi and Isaac tried to pull him off. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain again. Your mother died from years of child-bearing. You owe it to her to stay alive.”

Billy wrestled free and gasped for air. “She was your wife. You want me to pay a debt I have nothing to do with. I didn’t ask to be born!”

The last comment crushed Adam, and he slowly sank into the chair as Isaac and Levi looked away uneasily.

“I’m ... I’m sorry, Pa. I didn’t mean that.”

“Are you still seeing Sarah?” Adam asked after a long silence.

“Yes ...” Billy shuffled his feet. “I ... I love her.”

“I forbid you to see that girl.”

“My personal life’s none of your business.”

Adam slammed his fist against the chair’s arm, causing it to splinter. “She’s the daughter of an American sympathizer, Billy!”

“What about you? You’re an American!”

“I was an American, but I’m not anymore. It’s bad enough I had to beg the Crown for this three hundred acres of useless land, but to have to endure the likes of her and her father as neighbours — that’s unbearable!” Adam got up and started for the door.

“I’m going to marry her whether you like it or not!” Billy cried, scrambling off the porch.

“You do and I’ll disown you!” Adam shouted.

Suddenly, Billy halted and turned toward his father. “Then find another son.” After that he disappeared into the darkness.

There was an uncomfortable quiet until Adam glanced at Levi. “I want you to stay over and keep an eye on Billy for a few days. If the Americans get this far, Billy’s liable to do something stupid.”

“I ... I got my own family to look after, Pa.”

“This is your family,” Adam growled. “Just do it.” He went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

At Burlington Heights, situated between the lake on one side and a marsh on the other, the British Army had turned a farm into a fortress. Earthworks were built and eleven guns were stationed behind them. The fields were cleared, trees were felled, and fences were broken to provide a clear firing range should the Americans attack.

Inside a marquee tent, General Vincent sat at a desk with his head in his hands, staring at a piece of paper reviewing the numbers and names of the men killed, wounded, and captured at Fort George. He shoved the papers away, dipped a quill into an ink jar, and scribbled: “This position, though strong for any large body, is far too extensive for me to hope to make any successful stand against superior force understood to be advancing against me.”

Vincent closed his private journal, retrieved a fresh piece of paper, and began to write his last will and testament, but stopped when there was a disturbance outside the tent. It burst open as a bedraggled, unshaven man in his late forties barged past the sentries.