Fort George stood on a low hill overlooking the Niagara River where it emptied into Lake Ontario. The fort itself was an unremarkable collection of log buildings with a stone powder magazine surrounded by a rectangular wooden stockade. Bastions made of cut logs and rammed earth reinforced the walls at each corner. A gate in one end of the stockade stood open, the Union flag fluttering limply above it in the gentle wind. It was hard to believe that this was one of the most important fortified posts in Upper Canada.
Three quarters of a mile away across the rippling water stood another fort, its buildings low and dark in the blinding light of the sun reflecting off the river, the Stars and Stripes flying over its gate. This was Fort Niagara, citadel of the enemy. It was within easy artillery range of Fort George; at any moment its guns could lash out and blow the flimsy stockade and wooden buildings to pieces. MacLea, walking up the hill towards the gate, wondered why they had not already done so.
A sentry box, a hut protected by a little rampart of its own, stood just outside the main gate. A heavy guard had been posted here, men of the 49th Foot in scarlet coats with dark green facings, white cross belts and black shakos. With them were a dozen men of the Lincoln militia, leaning on their muskets and gossiping about corn prices. The militia sergeant, James Secord, a cheerful man in a broadcloth coat with a white armband, looked up as MacLea approached.
‘Hullo, John. You look like you’ve been through the wars.’
‘I have,’ said MacLea directly. ‘Half a company of American infantry landed on the west bank early this morning.’
Sensation; the militiamen stood up straight and stopped talking shop, and the British officer of the guard put down the newspaper he had been reading by the door of the sentry box and stood up. ‘At Queenston?’ said Secord, his face going pale. His house and business were in Queenston, and his wife and children were there now.
‘No, Jim, a bit south of Brown’s Point, about five miles from here. Rest easy; we rounded them all up, and seized their boat for good measure. Laura will be safe. But I need to report. Is the general here, or Colonel Macdonell?’
‘They’ve both gone into the town,’ said the British officer. He was a tough-looking lieutenant in his early thirties, about MacLea’s own age; MacLea recalled his name was FitzGibbon. ‘Did you say you had taken prisoners?’
‘About thirty. Captain Gerrard’s men are guarding them and my sergeant is there too. They have wounded as well, so they’ll need a wagon for transport.’
‘I’ll see to it. You’d better get along, Mr MacLea. The general will want to hear about this. You’ll find him at the inn in Niagara. Do you know the way?’
Unlike Fort Niagara, which lay on the American shore, the town of Niagara was on the Canadian side of the river, a little over a mile from Fort George and looking out over the shimmering blue waters of Lake Ontario. The town was even closer to the enemy than Fort George; looking across the river, it was possible to see the tiny figures of American sentries standing on the walls.
Hot and aching and tired, MacLea walked to Niagara, crossing a dry stream bed and climbing up past the church and burial ground. The town beyond was a grid of streets running at right angles to each other, fronted by a haphazard collection of houses. Some were brick-built and substantial, others more modest white clapboard buildings; still others were built of unadorned square-cut logs. One of the brick buildings was a Masonic lodge, another housed the courthouse, yet another contained a library. All the requisite elements of civilisation, he thought drily.
Despite the war and the enemy guns hard by, there were plenty of people in the streets, most on foot but a few of the more prosperous on horseback, and a steady traffic of wagons loaded with timber and stone. Building work seemed to be going on everywhere. Workmen in rough coats strode past carrying saws and hammers; they glanced at him, but there was no particular friendliness in their faces. Women in dark gowns and plain bonnets looked at MacLea severely, some drawing in their skirts and walking on quickly as he bowed to them. The people of Niagara did not want to be at war, and it seemed they were doing their best to pretend that the war did not exist.
Following FitzGibbon’s directions, MacLea found the inn, another substantial building of white-painted clapboard with a handsome veranda on the front. Several men in civilian coats sat on the veranda discussing shipping rates and drinking beer; they looked at MacLea once and then ignored him. The captain turned towards the inn door, and nearly collided with someone hurrying out of it.
The other man was tall and lean, and wore the red coat and gold epaulettes of a British staff officer. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling, ‘it’s John MacLea, looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. What the deuce happened to you?’
‘A brush with some Yankee infantry up the river this morning,’ said MacLea.
Lieutenant Colonel John Macdonell, lawyer, advocate general of Upper Canada and aide-de-camp to the lieutenant governor, opened his eyes wide and pulled him quickly inside, moving to avoid the other people going in and out of the inn. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
He listened intently while MacLea told his story. At the end, Macdonell swore, quietly but with some force. ‘So the Yankees are snooping around looking for landing places along the Niagara,’ he said. ‘Just when we are about to throw every man we have at the western frontier. The timing couldn’t be worse… Look, old chap, I’m sorry about your company.’
‘So am I.’
‘I’ll start enquiries, of course, and find out whether they came this way or cut across towards Burlington and York. But you realise there is nothing to be done. If we punished every militiaman who deserted, we would have a revolt on our hands.’
‘I know. Let them go,’ MacLea said tiredly. He was sick of thinking about the Stormont Rangers. ‘At least Alec Murray is still with me.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Macdonell paused. ‘Are you game to carry on?’
‘Without a command? What use can I be?’
‘Rather a lot, I should think. We’re bloody short of reliable officers. If you’re looking for employment, I don’t think you’ll need to look very far. In fact…’
Macdonell paused again and looked at him. The lawyer had business connections in New Johnstown, Stormont’s main town, and over the past ten years he had become another of MacLea’s small circle of friends. He had an unfailing zest for life that MacLea admired. Macdonell had recently become engaged to a young woman whom MacLea privately considered to be a regrettable choice, but there was no doubt that he had even more of a spring in his step than usual.
‘Well, let’s see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘First we need to get you to General Brock. Come along and I’ll present you.’
A little puzzled, MacLea followed Macdonell through the foyer and into the big common room of the inn. This had been transformed for the day into an office, with a long wooden table at one end serving as a desk and people coming and going in a steady stream, some in red coats or blue, others in civilian clothes.
Behind the table, writing steadily with a quill pen, was a big man in a scarlet coat with gold epaulettes. Even seated, he was an imposing figure, well over six feet tall. He had sandy hair that needed cutting, curling over his collar at the back, and a pleasant, open smiling face; he looked like a man who had a sense of humour, and who made sure it got plenty of exercise. As well as writing, he was also listening to another man, a fair, thickset, beefy-faced British officer whose two salient features were a beautifully cut red coat made by an expensive Montreal tailor, and an extremely loud and carrying voice.
‘I am not happy, General,’ he was saying as MacLea and Macdonell entered the room. ‘I am not happy at all. No, sir, I am not. I regard this policy as short-sighted, foolhardy and dangerous. Dangerous, sir, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you very clearly, sir,’ said Major General Isaac Brock, lieutenant governor of Upper Canada and commander-in-chief of the King’s forces in that province. ‘Indeed, I can think of very little that would prevent me from hearing you, Colonel Lawrence. You believe my proposed course of action to be dangerous.’
‘Indeed I do, sir! You are giving arms and ammunition to Tecumseh and the Shawnee. You mark my words, sir. The savages may use those arms against the Americans today – or they may not. We have no way of knowing if they will keep their word. But in five years, or three years, or a year, they will use them against our own folk. I do not think the women and children of Essex and Kent counties will thank you, sir, for putting their lives at hazard. If the savages turn against us and attack the western districts, all hell will be visited upon us, just as it has been breaking loose north of the Ohio these past twenty years.’
‘The Indians already have their hands full fighting the Americans,’ said Brock. ‘They’ll be too busy to fight us as well.’
He picked up the letter he had been writing and handed it to an aide, who quickly dusted it with sand. ‘Fetch me something to drink, Johnson, will you? Good chap. Colonel Lawrence, your objection is noted, but we do have an Indian Department that sees to these things and works to keep the Indians on our side. And right now, I need Tecumseh. General Hull has two thousand men on Canadian soil at Sandwich and is preparing to march on Amherstburg. You will agree, I am certain, that the fall of Amherstburg would be a major blow. If that happens, we might as well write to President Madison and offer our surrender. But if Tecumseh can rally the tribes to our cause once again, we can protect Amherstburg and perhaps even think about retaking Sandwich. That is the position, plain and simple. Now, sir, will you forgive me? I fear I have a good many people to see today before I return to York this evening, and I have given you ample of my time already.’
Colonel Lawrence saluted and turned on his heel, his slabby face beet red. He strode towards the door, nearly barging into MacLea as he did so. ‘Get out of the way!’ he snapped, glaring at the captain. ‘Bloody provincials!’
He stormed out, shouting for a groom to bring his horse. MacLea pursed his lips but said nothing. Macdonell clapped MacLea on the shoulder and walked towards the general, who looked up and greeted him with a smile of relief. The two men began to talk quietly and quickly. Another man, a militia officer in a handsome green coat and fawn breeches, looked at MacLea and rolled his eyes.
‘Colonel Lawrence,’ he observed, ‘really is the living definition of the word “buffoon”. Do you know him? He commands one of the new fencible regiments, the Royal Americans. Raised it at his own expense, jolly patriotic of him and all that. Unfortunately, that does not make him any less of an oaf. My name’s Boydell, by the way, James Boydell. I’m with the York militia.’
‘John MacLea, at your service,’ said MacLea, bowing a little. He looked at the other man. ‘Boydell. I know the name. Aren’t you a member of the Assembly, sir?’
Boydell smiled. ‘I represent the West York riding, for my sins… I hope you will forgive me for saying this, sir, but I was passing through the foyer a moment ago and could not help overhearing you tell John Macdonell about the fate of your company. I should like to offer you my condolences. Much the same thing happened to me not long since.’
‘Oh?’
‘My own company of York militia started off with forty men a month ago. Now, I have a dozen. The rest have simply gone home.’ Boydell nodded towards the table where Brock and Macdonell were conferring. ‘I have told the general that in my view, before very much longer we shall not have a single militiaman under arms. We simply have no way of keeping them here.’
MacLea nodded slowly. ‘They have no reason to stay,’ he said.
‘Exactly so.’ Boydell smiled again. ‘I think the general is calling for you. A pleasure to meet you, Mr MacLea.’
They both bowed, and MacLea turned to see General Brock beckoning with a finger. ‘Captain MacLea! Approach, if you please. This is the man, John?’
Macdonell nodded. ‘I’m certain he is exactly what we are looking for, sir. I’ll vouch for the fact that he is resourceful and reliable.’
‘Well, we shall see.’ Brock turned to look around the room. ‘And where is that damned bible-bashing scalp-hunter? Get him in here, John. I need to see him before we depart.’
The short interview that followed was one that MacLea would remember to the end of his days. At the time, he quite forgot his tiredness and aching limbs, and even his sense of humiliation. He stood before the big wooden table, strewn with papers and now also sadly stained with ink – the general was not the neatest of scribes – and Brock paid him the compliment of laying down his pen and studying him intently.
‘MacLea,’ he said. ‘West Highland name, I think.’
MacLea inclined his head.
‘Any of your people out in ’45?’ Brock asked, conversationally.
This was a test, MacLea knew; he had faced such questions before. Truth was usually the best response. He said in an equally easy tone, ‘My father was, sir, and my uncles and several of my older cousins. My father was just a lad at the time.’
‘Mm. Which regiment?’
‘Appin Stewart, sir. My father was with them right through to Culloden. One of his brothers carried the Appin standard away from the field and hid it in his house. When Stinking Billy Cumberland ordered all the Jacobite colours to be burnt by the public hangman, that was the only one saved. It’s still a matter of family pride.’
He looked steadily at Brock, who looked steadily back. ‘Only Scots,’ said the general, ‘would regard treason as a matter of family pride. You, on the other hand, have seen service with the British Army.’
It was a statement, not a question. ‘Yes, sir. I joined the Cameronians as a gentleman volunteer in ’99, just in time for the Flanders expedition. I was at Bergen, and Egmont. I saw you at Egmont, sir, leading your regiment.’
‘Mm,’ said Brock again. ‘I didn’t see you, however. And I suppose you were on the Ferrol expedition too. Did you go to Egypt with Abercrombie?’
‘Yes, sir, although our regiment didn’t see much fighting until Alexandria. Then after the Peace of Amiens, there was talk of disbanding the regiment. I had some prize money from Egypt, and a bounty for good service. Put together, there was enough to buy a farm in Canada.’
‘And so you settled in Stormont. I do remember you, as it happens; we’ve met once or twice in Kingston.’ The general leant back, steepling his fingers. ‘Prefer farming to soldiering, do you? Why?’
The question surprised MacLea. ‘I suppose… a farmer is his own man, sir. It’s up to him whether he succeeds or fails.’
‘Whereas a soldier is at the whim of some damned general in a red coat who expects unquestioning obedience to even the most idiotic of orders. No, don’t bother to tell me that is not what you meant. It is exactly what you meant. I understand, and I sympathise. Frankly, there are times when farming seems downright attractive. Are you married, MacLea?’
Another surprising question. ‘No, sir.’ He had hesitated for a split second before answering, and he felt certain the general had noticed it.
‘Well, you’ve got that all wrong,’ observed Brock. ‘A wife may be a liability to a soldier, but she is a positive asset to a farmer.’
He surveyed MacLea slowly. The captain stood still, acutely aware that behind the pleasant face a very serious mind was weighing him up. ‘You still have not told me why you decided to become a farmer,’ said Brock. ‘Surely there was a future for you in the army. All right, you couldn’t afford a commission, that’s why you were a gentleman volunteer. But not every officer has to buy his own commission. Some provision would have been made for you, given time.’
‘Perhaps, sir… I’m not certain how to put this into words. Canada seemed to offer a chance to do something new. I wanted to try my hand at forging my own destiny and… I also thought I should like to watch a new land grow and take shape. These things were in my mind, sir. I fear I cannot express it any more clearly than that.’
‘You are expressing yourself very clearly indeed. John Macdonell told me just now that your company has deserted.’
MacLea drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mm. Happens to the best commanders sometimes; don’t take it too much to heart. He also mentioned that you had a smart little fight with an American scouting party this morning. Tell me.’
MacLea told him. The general was kind enough to look impressed. ‘You made the best of a bad job,’ he said. ‘No, by God, that is ungenerous; with the help of Captain Gerrard’s lads, you did very well indeed. The disappearance of an entire scouting party will make General Dearborn think this frontier is more strongly defended than it really is. It might be a while before the Americans try to cross the river again. We’ve won ourselves a little more time, perhaps.’
Brock leant back in his chair. ‘Look here, MacLea. I don’t need to spell it out in detail. I’ve two battalions of regulars, the 41st and 49th, all fed up to the back teeth with garrison duty and most of ’em sodden with rum. I’ve a few fencible regiments, who may or may not be reliable, and I have several thousand militia whom I am damned sure are not reliable. There are said to be eleven thousand men eligible for service in Upper Canada, but Sir George Prevost reckons only four thousand are willing to fight. After hearing stories like yours, I am convinced Sir George is an optimist.’
He looked hard at MacLea. ‘And we will receive no help from home. Bonaparte is about to invade Russia; indeed, he is probably already on his way to Moscow. He has pulled some of his best divisions and best generals out of Spain and sent them east. Our response has been to throw every available man and horse and gun into Spain, to take advantage of the French weakness there. For all practical purposes, we in Canada are on our own. And, Congress has just authorised President Madison to call out a hundred thousand militia for service against Canada, to reinforce the thirty thousand regulars he is already deploying.
‘Consequently, as I told our friend Lawrence, I need allies. In particular, I need the Indians. Tecumseh, the Shawnee war chief, is the one leader they will follow. I am sending an envoy to him, a man he knows and who speaks his language. I want you to escort that envoy to Tecumseh. Can I trust you, MacLea?’
The question was thrown at him quickly, and he had no time to think of an eloquent reply. In any case, he was not an eloquent man. He said simply, ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Suddenly Brock smiled. It was an utterly charming expression that was quite at odds with the picture of gloom and doom that he had just painted. MacLea realised that he had passed another test.
‘Of course,’ he repeated. ‘In fact, Captain MacLea, you are probably the only trustworthy man in Upper Canada. Macdonell is a lawyer; enough said there, I think. And as for me, I am as devious and slippery a character as you will ever meet… Speak of the devil, here is Macdonell. Did you find him, John? Ah, yes. Chief Norton, welcome. Come and meet Captain MacLea.’
MacLea turned. Macdonell was coming forward, drawing with him a slender man of medium height in plain buckskin trousers and open jacket. Rather surprisingly, he wore a vivid green waistcoat beneath the jacket, and a white linen shirt beneath that. His complexion was probably fair, overlaid by deep layers of suntan; he had deep-set brown eyes and a long nose in a rather ascetic face. MacLea thought he looked more like a Presbyterian minister than a Mohawk war chief.
He had heard of Norton; most people in Upper Canada had. Rumours about him were rife. He was a chief of the Mohawks of the Grand River to the west, but MacLea had met other Mohawks who claimed he was actually a white man who had adopted Indian ways. The captain bowed, and the other man did likewise, quite gracefully.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Captain MacLea,’ he said. His voice was a little on the high side, rather light and not particularly carrying, with a hint of Scottish burr. ‘Colonel Macdonell has told me of your highly successful action this morning. May I offer my congratulations, sir?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said MacLea, startled. ‘Captain Gerrard and his men deserve all the credit.’
General Brock cut in. ‘Norton, Captain MacLea will escort you to Amherstburg. MacLea, you will recruit a party of volunteers from the militia units stationed here. Captain Boydell will help you, and you may apply to Colonel Claus at Fort George if there is any equipment you lack. You will depart for Fort Erie, where you will take ship for Amherstburg. There you will assist Chief Norton to make contact with Chief Tecumseh of the Shawnee.’
He looked at Norton. ‘Do you understand your mission? Tecumseh is the key to everything. If he supports us, the other tribes will rise too, I am certain of it. Even your scurvy friends at the Grand River.’
Norton gazed back at the general, his face expressionless. ‘Your worship knows that I have tried to persuade them.’
‘Not hard enough,’ said Brock briskly. ‘Deliver your message, bring Tecumseh onto our side, and then go back to the Grand River and raise your people. I am going to York today to finish my business with the Upper Canada Assembly, and then I shall bring the army down to Amherstburg. I want your warriors along with me. There is no neutrality in this war, Norton; they must choose to fight for Britain, or against her. Tell them that. But first, deliver me the friendship of Tecumseh.’
He paused, watching the chief intently. ‘You know him as well as anyone. You fought together last year against Harrison. You can persuade him. Use some of your famed theological eloquence. “There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came for testimony, to bear witness to the light, that all might believe through him.” Be that man to Tecumseh.’
Norton bowed, not without irony. ‘Tecumseh is not a Christian,’ he said. ‘But I will do my best. I look forward to your company on the journey, Captain MacLea.’
He turned and walked with immense dignity from the common room. Brock watched him go for a moment, frowning, and then turned back to MacLea. ‘Very well, Captain, you have your orders. You should have an easy passage to Amherstburg. Our spies tell us that there are no American warships on Lake Erie.’
‘And after we find Tecumseh, sir?’
‘Remain at Amherstburg, and report to me when I arrive. Do this well, MacLea, and I will have further uses for you.’ He studied MacLea for a moment, and then he smiled again. ‘That is all,’ he said. The smile vanished, and he turned to speak quickly to Macdonell and then beckon forward another officer. MacLea turned and walked quietly from the room, out of the inn and into the hot midday sun.
He stood for a few minutes in front of the veranda, gazing down the street over the rippling waters of the river to the far point where the guns of Fort Niagara pointed menacingly at the town. He had arrived less than an hour earlier, full of black gloom. Now, after just a short time in Brock’s company, he felt a stirring of optimism. Of one thing at least he was now quite certain: Upper Canada would not fall without a fight. Whatever else happened, Brock would remain resolute and would fight to the end.
And furthermore, laddie, he said to himself, you yourself had best prepare to be in the thick of it. Whatever ‘uses’ His Excellency has for you, they are unlikely to be good for your health.
He took off his shako and ran a hand through his black hair. Few men could have had so many turns of fortune in the course of a single day, he thought wryly. The disappearance of his company still rankled, and probably would for some time, but it no longer seemed to matter quite so much. He had fresh orders now, a new task to think about. First of all, he needed to find volunteers from the militia companies to make up Norton’s escort. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped out into the street.
He heard a yell of alarm and the screech of a wagon’s brake suddenly applied. Lost in thought, he had nearly walked in front of a dray loaded with timber. The driver, leaning on the brake with one hand and hauling hard on the reins of his team with the other, ignored MacLea’s uniform and swore at him. Holding up a hand in apology, MacLea stepped backwards and bumped hard into someone passing behind him on foot. He muttered to himself at his own clumsiness and turned and bowed, apologising once more.
‘That is quite all right, sir,’ said a soft female voice. ‘There is no harm done.’
MacLea looked up. The person he had jostled was standing a few feet away, regarding him quietly. The first thing he noticed was that she was wearing a sensible gown in a material of a dark colour, and some sort of bonnet tied with a white ribbon under her chin, and that she was holding a rather dainty parasol to keep the sun off her head. The parasol impressed him particularly. She had spoken with a lilting cadence and a distinct accent: French, perhaps? Her skin was neither black nor white, but it could not exactly be called brown either.
He looked at her, and then realised how he himself must appear: dirty, unshaven, stinking of dust and gun smoke. How typical, he thought. I meet the most elegant woman west of Montreal, and I look like a scarecrow.
‘Yet I must apologise all the same,’ he said. ‘I was entirely careless, and I might easily have caused you harm. I could have trodden on your foot, or… or something.’
She smiled suddenly; she seemed to find him amusing. ‘But you did not,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, sir, you must have a care for yourself. You might well have been badly hurt, had you walked out in front of that dray.’
‘That is of no importance,’ he said, suddenly feeling rather lost for words.
Her smile deepened. ‘The driver of the dray might not agree with you. Nor the horse.’
Now he was getting well out of his depth. He bowed again, and said as formally as he could under the circumstances, ‘Madame, I am Captain John MacLea. May I have the honour of knowing your name?’
‘I am Madame Josephine Lafitte,’ she said, curtseying briefly but elegantly.
He bowed again. He had been right about her origins, he thought. But what on earth was a rather refined Creole lady from the south doing in a frontier town like Niagara? What could possibly have brought her here? She looked like someone used to mingling in society, but there was precious little of that to be found here. He realised then that she was studying him too, her head tilted a little to one side, and this puzzled him.
For her part, Josephine Lafitte was equally curious. Their encounter had been no accident. She had seen the dishevelled officer in rifle green come out of General Brock’s temporary headquarters and stand lost in thought. Not recognising him, she had approached to get a closer look at him and perhaps learn who he was. She had been a little discomfited at first when he bumped into her, for she had been hoping to pass by unobserved, but the accident had also given her the opportunity to study the stranger at close quarters.
She saw a man a little older than herself, slim but strong and with capable hands. His face was rather thin too, with a long, straight nose, a thin, set mouth, and deep green eyes that regarded the world with a certain amount of reserve from beneath level black brows. His skin was darkened by the sun, and there were little crow’s-feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Here is a face that could be very grim, she thought, yet perhaps it could also show great kindness; and she who had never known much kindness from men gave a sudden inward shiver.
He was not one of Brock’s staff; she knew all of them. He was not a regular officer. That meant he was likely to be some no-account militia commander, coming out of headquarters after receiving his orders. Probably, she thought; but it was worth keeping an eye on him all the same.
She tilted her parasol. ‘Good day, Captain MacLea.’
‘Good day, Madame Lafitte,’ he said. Unsettled by her gaze, he had run out of things to say. He scrabbled around for conventional pleasantries to fill the gap. ‘I hope that one day we may meet again. In… happier circumstances.’
She smiled at him again. ‘I do not find our present circumstances particularly unhappy,’ she said. She walked past him with a gentle swish of skirts and a lingering hint of scent, leaving Captain John MacLea more puzzled than ever. He watched her go for a moment, and then turned to walk back down the street towards Fort George.