I take Lieutenant Gunner’s hand, and he pulls me up in one swift, strong movement. He’s tall, lean and way younger than Major Helston. He actually looks good in his tight-fitting red jacket and tall black hat with its shiny plate and white plume. He looks like an officer in a movie about the War of 1812.
“You’ve recovered,” he says. “It’s a miracle!”
He grins at me like we’re both in on the joke, and I smile back. Could it be that easy? I glance around for Major Helston.
“Don’t worry about Helston,” Gunner says, as if he’s read my mind. “He won’t see us until the smoke’s cleared, and by then the battle will be over.” He nods toward my musket. “So what’s the problem?”
I explain about my musket misfiring. He’s going to think I’m a real loser. Instead, he nods.
“Pretty common with nineteenth-century muskets,” he says. “Make sure you clean it before you load it again.” He holds his own gun out to me. “Give this one a try. It’s primed and loaded.”
I exchange my musket for his and take aim across the field. Through the rising smoke and bright orange blasts of musket fire, I see the white uniforms of the other soldiers. I can’t tell which side is which. I hesitate for a second, reminding myself that there are no bullets in the gun. Then I squeeze the trigger.
Bang!
I feel the gun kick back in my hands as flame and smoke burst from the end of the barrel. Cool.
“Reload, soldier,” Gunner orders. There is a note of amusement in his voice—like he’s not taking this stuff half as seriously as everyone else seems to be.
I grin, thumb open the priming pan and take a paper cartridge from the cartridge box hanging at my side. I bite off the top of the cartridge, tap a bit of powder into the pan and then close the pan. I glance at Gunner to check that I’ve done it right, and he nods. Then I lower the musket butt to the ground and pour the rest of the powder down the barrel. I raise the gun, get in position and fire.
Bang!
Another perfect fire.
“Well done,” says Gunner.
I thank him and hand back the musket.
“Not much point to being here if you don’t get to shoot,” he says.
After the battle ends, I catch up to Sean outside the mess hall. It’s actually a big white tent set up outside the walls of the fort. Our sleeping tents are lined up at this end of the field too. And when I say field, I mean it. That’s all there is. There’s a dry ditch around the fort walls, and then a big, flat grassy area with some trees at one end. No swimming pool. No miniature golf. No junk-food store. No anything.
Sean’s face is pink from sun and exertion. I notice his breeches are still white, while mine are stained with dirt and grass. He grins when he sees me.
“That was cool, hey?” he says.
I lift one eyebrow and don’t smile. “I wouldn’t know. I spent it lying on the ground.” For some reason, I don’t tell him about Lieutenant Gunner. Maybe I don’t want to admit that shooting a musket actually was pretty cool.
Sean’s eyes drop to my musket, which I’m kind of leaning on like a crutch, with the muzzle pointed to the sky.
“You’re supposed to hold it like this when you’re at rest,” he says, jiggling the gun on his shoulder. “If that was primed, it could discharge and shoot you in the face.”
I scowl at him, and then I remember that I haven’t cleaned the gun yet. Quickly, I shift the musket to my shoulder. Sean is way too into this. He’s lucky he’s my favorite cousin.
We leave our muskets propped next to an empty table and join the food line. The food laid out on a long table smells good. But they served us a few weird things last night when we arrived, so my expectations are not high. Behind the table is an older woman and a teenage girl who might be mother and daughter. They’re both wearing old-fashioned cloth caps and long dresses with aprons over top. We definitely will not be getting hamburgers or hot dogs.
When I finally get to the table, I grab a plate and hold it up. Ahead of me, the woman serves Sean something that looks like beef stew.
“Cock-a-leekie soup?” asks the girl. She holds a big wooden ladle over a large pot.
“What?” I raise an eyebrow.
She laughs, and I notice she has a dimple in one cheek. Strands of curly black hair escape from under her white cap.
“I know,” she says. “Sounds rude, but it’s chicken soup.” She lifts the lid off the pot, and a delicious smell escapes with the steam.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll risk it.”
I watch her ladle soup into a bowl. How does a cute girl like her end up in the middle of a bunch of nerds like this?
“So, is this a summer job?” I ask as she hands me the bowl.
“Job?” she echoes. Again, that cute dimple appears in her cheek. “My da’s stationed at the fort,” she says. “He’s in the King’s 8th Regiment. Ma and I stay in the barracks with him.” She nods toward the older woman.
For a second I wonder if the girl is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but then I realize she is playing a part. I want to ask her more, but the guy behind me is getting impatient. She gives me a sort of wink as she turns to serve him. At least I think it’s a wink. Did I imagine it? She glances back at me, her dark eyes sparkling. Is she flirting with me, or laughing at me?
I move on to the stew and then grab a couple of slices of bread and catch up to Sean. We find the table where we left our muskets and slide onto the bench seat.
Carter and Arman, two guys we met yesterday, sit across from us. They remind me of those Muppets, Bert and Ernie. Carter, the one with the round head like Ernie, has brown hair gelled into short tufts on top of his head. I’m surprised the major didn’t confiscate his hair gel when he took our phones and stuff.
“Dude, did you see all that smoke?” says Arman, the one with the long face. He looks like he could be from the Middle East, which doesn’t exactly fit the Bert and Ernie comparison. Or the North American War of 1812. But then, I’m part Ukrainian on my mom’s side, which doesn’t exactly fit either.
“When they fought for real, how did they tell who they were shooting at?” Arman asks.
Carter punches him in the shoulder. “Pretty hard to hit anyone when your gun doesn’t fire,” he jokes.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arman says, punching him back.
I’m relieved to hear that I wasn’t the only one with musket trouble. I notice there is a smudge of black down Arman’s cheek, which must be the result of the gunpowder flashing in his face. Do I have black on my face too? Is that why the girl was laughing at me?
I glance over at the food table, but the girl isn’t there anymore. My eyes rove over the rows of guys in white soldier costumes. Do I look as stupid as they do?
“Hey,” says Arman. “You know we’re sitting right on a spot where people actually died?”
“So?” says Sean. “There was fighting all over the Niagara area in the War of 1812.”
“Yeah, but some of the bloodiest was right here,” Arman says. “Over three thousand guys were injured or killed when the British, the Canadian militia and First Nations warriors tried to take the fort back from the Americans.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sean says. Of course, he would.
“Have you heard about the ghosts?” asks Carter.
“Ghosts?” I repeat skeptically.
“Well…” Carter lowers his voice and leans toward us. “There were these two American soldiers camped near the fort. One guy was giving the other one a shave.”
“You know, with one of those long sharp razors,” Arman adds.
“Then suddenly,” continues Carter, “a British cannon ball comes flying in, and ffttt—” He swipes his hand past Arman’s neck.
“So,” Arman finishes, “the dude getting shaved loses his head. The other one loses his hand.”
“Jeez!” I groan, half disgusted, half laughing.
“It’s true,” Sean says. “I heard people have seen a headless ghost and a handless ghost wandering around the fort.”
I roll my eyes.
“And they’re not the only ghosts,” says a voice from behind me. I jump as a water jug smacks down on the table by my elbow.
The guys all laugh. I turn around to see the girl in the old-fashioned cap and dress, a mocking grin on her face.