Ridgeway

By Louise Clark

When Jaclyn Sinclair researches the Fenian Invasion of 1866, a little known incident in US and Canadian history, strange things start happening, showing her tantalizing glimpses of the past. The incidents grow in intensity until she is flung back in time to the day the invasion began. Taken prisoner, she is questioned by Sean O'Dell, one of the invading Fenians. Now she's stuck in 1866, in the middle of a historical event she knows far too much about, being interrogated by one of the most gorgeous men she's ever met. Anything can happen—and does. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saffron Place Publishing
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780987993861

Louise Clark

I have been writing for most of my life and have ventured into a variety of genres. I am currently focusing on three: Mystery / Mystery Romance (The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series and Recipe for Trouble, currently available in Radish Books and soon to be a standalone title available in e and print formats) Historical Romance (The Hearts of Rebellion Series) Time-travel Romance (Fighting Fate) and a Time-travel with romantic elements (Ridgeway, part of the now out of print Swept Through Time anthology and soon to be republished as a single title release in e and print.) I’ve also been published in contemporary romance and may tried my hand at it again in the future, but for now the other genres are keeping me busy. I have a newsletter I use to keep in touch. Click http://eepurl.com/b0mHNb to sign up. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pre-dawn, June 1, Present Day

The night air was cool, with a refreshing crispness that would melt away as the sun rose. Fort Erie was in the midst of an unexpected hot spell, one of those sudden weather patterns that would hit southern Ontario in the spring. After the long, hard winter the warmth was welcome, but unexpected.

Jaclyn Sinclair ran lightly down the stairs from the front porch of the bed and breakfast she’d stayed in overnight. She’d been in Fort Erie doing research, but this morning she had to return to Toronto. She wanted to get an early start on the commute in the hopes of missing the stop and go traffic of the morning rush.

At the foot of the stairs she paused, breathing deeply. Modern Fort Erie was a medium-sized town, whose roads were busy with traffic caused by people using the bridge that stretched across the Niagara River to Buffalo, New York, but at this early hour it was quiet. Jaclyn shut her eyes. As she listened to the silence she imagined the town as it must have been on a night like this a hundred and fifty years ago. Much smaller. Dirt roads. Honest citizens asleep in their beds.

An invading army crossing the nearby Niagara River in a fleet of privately owned boats.

Jaclyn opened her eyes and smiled ruefully. She’d spent weeks researching those invaders. They called themselves Fenians, transplanted Irishmen who had fought in the US Civil War, and their goal was to liberate Canada from the domination of the British. They’d launched their boats from a suburb of Buffalo, New York, on the American side of the Niagara, in the early hours of June 1, 1866. They landed on the Canadian side, stayed awhile, fought two battles, then left.

Jaclyn had come down to Fort Erie to find an echo of the invaders. She’d spent yesterday searching the area. She’d stopped awhile in the little town of Ridgeway where the battle had taken place on June the second. She’d visited Old Fort Erie, now a historic site, where the Fenians had licked their wounds that night as they made the final decision to go back to the US.

And she’d felt nothing. There were no ghosts in this ordinary little town. There was only a history largely forgotten except for a few fanatics like the nice guy who volunteered at the quaint museum in Ridgeway. This was a modern area, coping with modern problems like pollution, and drunk driving, and cross-border shopping.

Shrugging, Jaclyn decided she’d been letting this Fenian stuff get to her. She headed to her car, which she’d borrowed from her mother for the drive from Toronto to Fort Erie. It was parked a short distance up the quiet residential street and as she walked the cool night air seeped through the thin cotton of the long-sleeved white shirt she wore. Her black straight-legged slacks didn’t provide much more warmth, since yesterday she’d dressed for the heat of the day.

When she reached the car, she opened the trunk. Her mother believed in being prepared for anything, so she kept all kinds of useful items stashed in there—bags for shopping; an emergency first aid kit with a thermal blanket and enough equipment to perform minor surgery; a pair of boots with thick soles that could be used for hiking or slogging through snow; a down jacket warm enough for a sudden freeze; an unused packet of fresh stockings in case of a run; and a v-necked vest made of light-weight black cloth that could be used to add a business-like look to a pair of trousers and a blouse. Even though the night air was cool, it was too warm for the winter jacket, so the vest, though it was more a fashion statement for her mother’s generation than a warm outer garment, would have to do.

She pulled on the vest and fastened the buttons. Being her mother’s, it was more than a little loose. She looked down at herself and grinned. With her short cropped hair and slight figure she could easily be mistaken for a boy in this getup.

She slammed the trunk closed then slipped into the driver’s seat, planning out her day. Since this was June first, the anniversary of the Fenian invasion, she’d stop at Frenchman’s Creek where they landed, walk along the bank and watch the sunrise before she started her trek to Toronto. She would pretend the invasion was actually taking place and imagine the shoreline as it must have looked in 1866, teaming with an army of Fenians intent on their quest.

As she switched on the ignition, the car’s engine roared in the night stillness. She slipped the car into gear and drove down the quiet residential street, heading out of Fort Erie.

Frenchman’s Creek was quiet in the pre-dawn cool. Jaclyn parked the car and switched off the headlights. Sliding out of the car, she shivered. She should have changed her sandals for the boots in the trunk when she put on the vest. The boots would keep her feet warm and that should help keep the rest of her warm too. Or so her mother said.

As Jaclyn slammed the car door behind her she though she heard a voice. She hesitated, listening intently, but there was nothing. She shrugged, telling herself that her imagination had kicked in. Shaking her head, she opened the trunk and pulled out the boots. Inside one was a pair of dark socks. She grinned. Her mother was nothing if not organized.

With the trunk lid open and providing a bit of light, she leaned against the car, slipped her foot from her sandal and pulled on a sock. Then she shoved her foot into the boot. With that finished, she did the same for the other foot then threw both sandals into the trunk. She slammed the lid down before bending to lace up the boots.

This time she didn’t imagine the voice swearing with admirable proficiency. She froze, sheltered in the shadow of the car, but far away from the safety of the ignition and gas pedal.

Another voice muttered something about keeping quiet.

Jaclyn’s heart started to pound.

Could the sounds be echoes of Fenian voices from so long ago? Like the voices she’d heard in the archives in Toronto that had driven her to take this trip down to the site of the invasion?

What if they weren’t?

It was far more likely that the voices belonged to be smugglers of some kind. Echoes of the past were frightening, but the voices of real live bad guys up to something illegal in the pre-dawn darkness were downright terrifying.

What to do?

They’d probably already seen the car. They couldn’t help it. She’d driven into the pullout with lights blazing and engine growling. Then she’d opened the door and the overhead light had come on, exposing her to any watching eyes. And after that she’d opened the trunk. More lights to silhouette her. So they must know she was here and they must be wondering what she was up to. What should she do if they made a move? Getting the car running again wasn’t an option. She had locked the door when she got out and it would take too long to unlock it, hop in, turn on the ignition, put the gear into reverse and get out of here.

What should she do?

Run. Cross the road and lose herself on the other side.

She looked down at her feet. The first thing to do was finish tying her boots. She’d go nowhere with her laces tripping her up.

She could hear the sound of water slapping off the side of a boat now and the quiet splash of an oar.

Why weren’t they using motors? Probably for the same reason they were they were speaking quietly. They didn’t want anyone to know what they were up to.

Oh God, she was all thumbs this morning. Why couldn’t she tie a decent bow?

She finished knotting her laces about the same time she heard the distinct clunk of wood hitting land. They were here! She’d lost her chance to make a bolt for safety across the roadway.

Cautiously she crept to the corner of the car. The small parking area was nearly at the edge of the bank. From the roadway to the river was a distance of no more than a few meters. Whoever was out there must be almost on top of her by now.

But she could see nothing.

The sounds continued. More thumps, more clunks as oars were stowed inside wooden boats, more voices. Her skin began to prickle.

She scuttled to the other side of the car, now desperately hoping that the sounds she was hearing really did belong to modern desperados, but increasingly afraid that they did not.

Again, there was nothing to see, but now she heard the scuffle of men climbing from boats and scrambling up the riverbank.

Despite the crisp morning air, Jaclyn was sweating now. Her breath was coming in hard painful gasps and her stomach had knotted with fear. She settled behind the car and willed herself to think.

The voices were clearer now. Form up over there, by that tree, one said and Jaclyn thought she was going to be sick as she heard the tromp of feet. The deep, husky voice had had a lilt to it, an Irish lilt overlaid with just the hint of an American drawl. She put her head down between her knees and groaned. No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening.

When she’d stopped here yesterday this had been a pretty little spot on the edge of the Niagara River. Cars had driven along the road, birds sang and the houses across the way were reassuringly modern in appearance. There were no voices with Irish rhythms, no ghostly feet marching, no invisible boats being rowed across the pretty river.

Or were the boats invisible after all? As she peered around the side of the car she thought she could see the flash of moonlight on a wet oar raised as a boat prepared to land.

This was worse than the sensations she’d had in Toronto. Then she’d held a photo and heard voices, touched a newspaper and known the emotions of the militia commander, smelled the acrid reek of gunpowder. Now her sensitivity, or whatever it was, had developed one step further. All of her previous reactions seemed to be combining into one terrifying whole.

Jaclyn was shaking. Whether the sounds she heard were those of modern thugs up to no good, or Fenian invaders with an equally negative agenda, it was time for her to get out of here.

Taking a deep breath and then another, she jumped to her feet and bolted for the road and the safety of the buildings on the other side.

Behind her that Irish voice shouted, You there! Halt!

Jaclyn didn’t break stride.

She was almost across the road when something hard hit her behind the knees. Arms wrapped around her legs and she went down with a crash that knocked the breath from her body and turned the night even darker than before.

She lay still and prayed for help.

Chapter 2

Help didn’t come. Rough hands grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. A male face with pale skin and eyes bright with curiosity peered at her through the pre-dawn darkness.

Jacqui began to tremble. She had half convinced herself that an army of Fenian specters had rowed across the Niagara River, but ghosts didn’t have hands that held on with the strength of living muscle. Ghosts were insubstantial. They flitted through walls and passed through people leaving nothing but a shiver behind. Everyone knew that.

This man had dark hair, hefty shoulders, and short legs. She put the heel of her hand against his shoulder and pushed. Her hand met hard flesh under the collarless white shirt he was wearing. Images of brutal criminals outraged by a witness to some midnight wrongdoing filled Jaclyn’s panic-stricken mind. This couldn’t be happening to her. Let go of me!

Oh ho! Hey Sarge, sure’n I landed me a little trout. What do you think I should do with it?

The Irish inflection in his voice didn’t mean anything. Nor did the faded blue trousers held up with black suspenders. Or the peaked cap that looked remarkably like ones Union soldiers wore during the American Civil War. He wasn’t a ghostly apparition. He was real and he was hanging on to her arm and she was scared witless.

She tugged against his hold. The man tightened his grip. He was grinning now and some of his fellows had formed a circle around them. Digging at his fingers, Jacqui tried to pry them loose at the same time as she arched her back and twisted away from him.

The bastard only laughed. This one’s a fighting fish. Never tell me I’ll have to throw it back!

The men around them were laughing too. One issued a catcall, another hooted, as if the little scene was the main act in the center ring of a traveling circus that had just come to town.

The noise stopped abruptly. Jaclyn made one last frantic heave and broke free. She looked around, seeking an opening, a way of escape, but all she saw was a burley man who had entered the inner circle and was standing with his hands on his hips.

Private Quinn! Stop fooling around and secure that lad at once!

Somehow Quinn managed to salute at the same time as he once again caught Jacqui’s arm. Yes, sir!

Fighting against the man’s renewed hold, it took a moment or two for the sergeant’s words to make sense. ‘Secure that lad’ he’d said. That lad! They thought she was a boy, not a girl. This lunatic didn’t want to rape her, he wanted to know what she was up to. She stopped and took a better look at the men surrounding her.

The sergeant was dressed in a dark blue tunic worn over trousers of the same color. There was a white stripe down the outside of the trouser legs. The men who crowded around were wearing a mix of clothing. Some were dressed as the sergeant was, in what appeared to be a soldier’s uniform from the nineteenth century. Others wore combinations consisting of trousers, collarless shirts or tee-shirts, suspenders, and occasionally a vest or coat. The colors of the trousers and coats tended toward dark blue or black, although a few men sported a jaunty Irish green jacket. Some wore caps while others were bareheaded. Abundant whiskers, the kind she’d seen in pictures while doing her research, were very much in evidence, as were luxurious mustaches adorning the upper lip.

What are you lot doing lollygagging at Quinn when there’s work to be done? the sergeant said in a low voice that carried surprisingly well. Corporal McArthur! Form up your unit and report to Colonel Starr. Immediately!

Oh God. The military—Private Quinn, Corporal McArthur, Colonel Starr.

Could it be possible? Had she somehow slipped into the past? That would mean time-travel was possible and ghosts could materialize into living people. Yeah, right.

No, somehow she’d stumbled into a manic historical re-enactment that nobody had thought to tell her about yesterday. Sure, that was it. These men weren’t dangerous criminals; they were participants in a pageant.

As she warmed to the idea, she found reasons to support it. McArthur hadn’t made it into the history books, but Private Quinn and Colonel Starr had. In her research she’d discovered that Owen Starr had been the second-in-command of the Fenian invasion force that had entered Ontario, or Canada West as it was then called, in the small hours of the morning of June 1, 1866. Daniel Quinn had been captured during the invasion. His trial was well documented.

Starr and Quinn were both men with ‘histories’ accessible to researchers. An enthusiastic re-enactor could assume either man’s identity and represent him in a recreation of the event. Which left the question of McArthur. She hadn’t found his name in her research. Then who was he?

An idea dawned. He might be a composite of the non-commissioned officers who participated in the invasion. After all, a re-enactment couldn’t depict each and every one of the men who had invaded Canada West on June 1, 1866. Estimates of the size of the invasion force varied from eight hundred to fifteen hundred Fenian soldiers. Re-enactments might attract a couple of hundred people who then had to represent both sides.

As the company under Corporal McArthur marched off, the sergeant turned his attention to Jaclyn. What’s your name, boy?

That was a pretty good question. Even if this was a bunch of history buffs re-enacting the Fenian invasion, there were still way too many men hanging about and no women in sight. Caution definitely made sense. So what should she call herself? If she picked a male name she liked, but wasn’t used to, she’d probably forget to respond to it if they should happen to call her. On the other hand—

I asked you a question, boyo!

The sergeant’s shout made Jacqui jump. It also annoyed her. She lifted her chin and glared at him. What’s yours?

I told you he was a spunky one, Private Quinn said with pride, as if her response somehow had something to do with him.

The sergeant studied her thoughtfully. My name’s McCabe. Sergeant Seamus McCabe of the Seventeenth Kentucky, commanded by Colonel Owen Starr.

Jaclyn looked at the sergeant. His clothes were right, like uniforms she’d seen in a hundred civil war movies. Moreover, the cloth had been artistically faded, so that it seemed to have been worn through all weather. Her nose twitched. Even better, it had the ripe aroma of a garment that hadn’t been cleaned in a long, long time. Jaclyn swallowed.

Well? the sergeant barked. I’m waiting.

She had to hand it to him, this guy really got into the spirit of the event. Okay, if he wanted to play Fenian invader, she’d go along with him and be an outraged local. When daybreak came and she could find her car she’d wave these too earnest re-enactors good-bye and take off.

That still left the issue of a male name. She’d like to be Aaron—she’d always admired that name—but it didn’t sound very Protestant Establishment in the mid-nineteenth century. Richard was a nice name, but she was sure to get Dick and all the inevitable sexual jokes that went along with it. Keeping this bunch’s minds as far away from sex as possible seemed to be a good idea. Then there was—

Give him a cuff, Quinn. Maybe that’ll loosen his tongue.

Indignation made her spit out, You’ve got some bloody nerve! Quinn raised his free hand. She glared at him. Jack, she muttered, choosing the short nickname her family sometimes used.

He speaks! McCabe said amiably. Well lad, where does your da live?

Jacqui decided she didn’t like McCabe’s attitude and contemplated another lengthy silence. Still, there was Quinn with his fist poised to strike. She had better say something or she risked being hit. That was taking re-enactment a little far. Hereabouts.

A muscle twitched in McCabe’s cheek. Jaclyn couldn’t be sure if it signified amusement or temper. She decided to prepare for the worst and braced herself for the promised cuff.

McCabe eyed her impassively as she planted her feet more firmly, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in raw defiance. The muscle jumped again. Jaclyn glared at him.

He turned to the private. Quinn, form up with the rest of the company and take the prisoner with you. I’ll send a message to Colonel O’Neill and ask for instructions on what to do with him.

Quinn saluted. Yes, sir!

McCabe headed off in another direction, apparently looking for more members of his company. With a shock Jaclyn realized that there were shadowy forms all around her and that the night was alive with the sounds of men’s voices, hushed, but still clear in the pre-dawn quiet. Some were giving orders, others were grunting, still others swearing or laughing. There must be hundreds of people involved in this re-enactment and it seemed that they’d actually gone to the trouble of going over to the US side of the river so they could cross back in small boats as the Fenians had done so many years before. These were obviously dedicated people.

She felt a tug on her arm. Come along then, my lad, and no lollin’ about!

Quinn shifted his hold to her wrist and set off at a determined pace. With no other option, Jaclyn reluctantly tagged along behind.

IN THE PAST MONTH JACLYN had become an expert on all things Fenian. She’d spent seven-hour days, five days a week at the provincial archives digging through letters, court documents, newspapers, and memoirs. She’d even discovered that one of her ancestors had been a member of a Canadian Volunteer militia unit that fought the Fenians. As she tromped behind the re-enactor playing Private Quinn, she figured she was as knowledgeable as he was.

A third year university student, she was researching the Fenian invasion of 1866 for one of her history profs. As summer employment went, this was about as prime a job as she could get. As an added bonus, the job offer had been completely unexpected.

The professor, Anthony Perlaine, was not what Jacqui thought of as a dynamic teacher. He was a stocky man well into middle age and carrying too much weight around his middle. His black hair was still thick, but shot through with silver. It curled over the collar of the checked shirts he usually wore.

Though Perlaine might look scruffy with his worn jeans, casual shirts and unstyled hair, he had a reputation that glowed in the history field.

There was no e-learning in his course, no computer visuals to emphasize his points. He stood behind a lectern at the front of the classroom and spoke for the full two-hour class. His voice was clear, but quiet, forcing his students to listen with full attention if they wanted to catch what he said.

And they did, because what Perlaine talked about in class wasn’t in a textbook, or even in any published works on the topic. It all came from the primary research he’d done on the subject and conclusions he’d drawn from that research.

Jaclyn worked hard in his class. Well, she worked hard in all of her classes, but there was something in the way Perlaine taught that had her brain jumping with possibilities.

On a Friday morning, two weeks before exams, Perlaine stopped her on her way out of the lecture hall. Miss Sinclair, do you have any classes this afternoon? Can you come to my office at four o’clock?

Jaclyn blinked. Sure. Not a problem. Um, can you tell me what this is about?

Perlaine smiled. Four p.m. Miss Sinclair. Please don’t be late.

Jaclyn wasn’t late. In fact, she was early. Which meant she had to wait, but that was okay.

She stood in the hallway not far from Perlaine’s open door and listened to the murmur of his voice on the phone. He must have realized she was there, because shortly after the talking ended he appeared in his doorway. Miss Sinclair, thank you for waiting.

Jaclyn straightened and pulled away from the concrete block wall she’d been leaning on. The building that housed the history department had been new in the 1960s. There were no elegant granite staircases or hallways with beautifully wrought plaster cornices in the history building. In its time it had been the most modern of modern buildings. Jaclyn had always thought that a wonderful irony. Like history itself, the building was simply yesterday’s news pushed aside by today’s crisis.

She followed Perlaine into his office. It was a square cubbyhole crammed full of bookcases, so that the desk and visitor’s chair barely fit into the limited space that remained. Jaclyn noticed not all the books were on Canadian history. That surprised her, although why she couldn’t be sure. She supposed the books on the British Empire and nineteenth century America were logical extensions of his subject, but ancient Rome?

Turning, she gingerly lifted a couple of books off the visitor’s chair so she could sit down. It was a good thing she had no hips to speak of, or she would never have made it in the small space.

Not sure where in this crowded office she ought to put the books she’d evicted from the chair, she ended up holding them on her lap. They were vintage copies of two of Donald Creighton’s seminal works on Canadian history. That too surprised her. She wouldn’t have expected Perlaine to abandon Creighton’s works to a pile on a chair.

The desk was set up so that Perlaine sat with his back to the window. Not surprising, perhaps, when his view was of a vast expanse of parking lot. A little nervous about the prof’s demand for a meeting, Jaclyn took refuge in wondering if the same cars parked in the same places every day while she waited to Perlaine to open the conversation.

You must have wondered why I wanted to see you today.

Jaclyn jumped and refocused. I assumed it had something to do with our tutorial next week, she said cautiously, thought she’d already dismissed the idea. If he’d wanted to talk about the tutorial, he’d have done so after the class. That he hadn’t told her this afternoon’s meeting was about something else all together.

Perlaine raised his eyebrows. Jaclyn had the feeling that he’d seen through her. Have you thought about your future direction once you graduate?

Jaclyn was a third year student, so the question wasn’t unreasonable. It was unexpected, however. I haven’t quite decided yet.

He nodded encouragingly.

She drew a deep breath. I’d thought I would apply for law school. Or maybe take an MBA.

Perlaine sat back in his chair. With the light behind him Jaclyn found it difficult to read his expression. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he sat there saying nothing. It made her nervous.

And yet, you’re a history major.

She leaned forward. The Creighton tomes slipped to a dangerous angle, almost escaping from the precarious safety of her lap. That’s because I love history! A friend of my dad’s is a lawyer. He told me that if you want to go into law a general education is better than a specialized one, like a pre-law program. So I decided to do a major in history.

Have you ever thought of continuing in the field? Taking a graduate degree?

Jaclyn frowned. No.

Ah, Perlaine said, leaving Jaclyn puzzled. He straightened in his chair and pulled it closer to his desk. I asked you here today because I had an opportunity I thought you might be interested in.

An opportunity?

He nodded. Earlier this week, I was approached by the CEO of a Canadian manufacturing company which has commissioned a corporate history. They have hired a professional writer to compile the book, but they also need extensive research done. The work is to be completed my mid-August, so it would be a summer job for an interested student. I would like to recommend you for the post.

Jaclyn stared at him. Now she understood why he’d asked about her career aspirations. This was a prime assignment for someone who planned to go on in the field. So why had he asked her? On the other hand, it could be an interesting job. And lawyers were always doing research for their cases, so the experience would be useful. Sounds great. Can you tell me a bit more?

The company has an extensive archive in their Toronto headquarters. You’d be working with those files, making notes, compiling research reports under the direction of the author. Payment is project-based, rather than an hourly salary.

The amount he named would pay her living expenses for the next school year. She grinned at Perlaine. Who do I talk to and when do I start?

He smiled back, clearly pleased. I’ll send you an e-mail with the details.

Great. She shifted the Creighton books, ready to relinquish sole occupancy of the chair back to them.

There’s one more thing, Perlaine said.

Oh. She sank back onto the hard seat. The tone of Perlaine’s voice had changed. It was cautious, wary. If she didn’t know better, she might have said, worried.

I am working on a monograph on the motivators for Confederation.

Yes?

I have funding for a student researcher. I know you live in Toronto. After the semester ends I’d like you to do some primary research at the provincial archives. The work shouldn’t take more than six weeks, so it wouldn’t interfere with the other project.

What would I be working on?

The Fenian invasion of Canada West in June 1866. I want you to research how the invasion affected the people of the region and the future of Canada. He added a project fee that her recalculating her summer employment income and deciding she might actually have enough to pay all her expenses, including tuition, for the next year and still have something left over.

That thought cinched it. I’d be very pleased to work with you on the project, Professor.

Good. I’ll send you the paperwork.

The meeting was clearly over. She stood, carefully putting the Donald Creighton books back on the chair. It wasn’t until she was out of the building, hurrying toward the student pub where she was meeting friends that a basic question occurred to her.

Who the hell were the Fenians, anyway?

Chapter 3

Standing on the Canadian shore of the Niagara River, Major Sean O’Dell had not felt so alive in months. When he was demobilized in ’65 he’d been so numb he didn’t even feel relief that his four years of bloody, gut-wrenching war were finally over. In the months that followed, however, he’d discovered that civilian life also had its drawbacks, particularly unemployment.

His unit had been in Tennessee when the order to disband came from Washington. The whole regiment had been released on the spot. Each man was given enough money to allow him to travel back to the place where he’d joined up, and some of the lads did use it to go home. Others, like him, with no real home to go to, decided to stay where they were and use the transportation money as a stake for the future.

On the surface this was a good idea, but demobilization meant there were a hell of a lot of men looking for work all at once. Sean was one of many with no skills but marching, drilling, and killing. From time to time he found work, but nothing he wanted to stick at, or that he was good at doing, so unemployment became a way of life.

For a man used to constant activity, accustomed to being in command, the frustration was intense. On one dark, drunken day he accepted an invitation to join a meeting of the Fenian Brotherhood in his area and among that group of Irish patriots he’d found structure and respect, the warmth of a community, and the promise of a future. That was why, when the call to mobilize came, he had taken the train from Knoxville, Tennessee, north to Buffalo, New York, then squeezed into a small boat with a dozen other men and crossed a river to land on the shore of Britain’s North American colony.

He looked around him. The darkness was slowly greying into sunrise so shapes were becoming distinct. The night air was perfumed with the delightful fragrance of flowers and he had a sense of trees set in orderly rows. He must be at the edge of an orchard, once carefully tended and certainly well kept. Standing nearby was a small group of men. All were dressed as he was in Union blue, most wearing the low-crowned hat of cavalry officers. Sean knew this, for they were the core of the Fenian invasion force and he had been with them since before darkness had fallen the day before.

A voice tinged with more than a hint of desperation broke into his thoughts. Colonel John O’Neill, commander of the Fenian Expeditionary Force. Colonel Starr, did O’Day deliver the maps to you?

Owen Starr, a stocky man with blunt features in a square face, saluted smartly. No sir! It was not my place to discuss plans with Mr. O’Day, sir! I was charged with seeing to the embarkation, Colonel.

Sean wondered if Starr was playing games. O’Neill been given command of the Fenian forces at the last moment when a general from Fenian headquarters in New York City didn’t arrive. His elevation hadn’t set well with many of the senior staff, from organizers through officers. Starr was one of those who had protested the appointment and he had the look of a man hungry for power.

Haggerty? O’Neill was saying, Did you receive a package containing maps from Mr. O’Day?

No sir, Captain Haggerty said. Like Sean, he had been assigned as an aide to Colonel O’Neill. He appeared to be loyal to his commander.

O’Dell?

Sean shook his head. I’m afraid not, sir.

O’Neill tapped the thick packet he was holding against his palm. He was a thin man, not above average height, with a narrow intelligent face and the gleam of a true believer in his dark eyes. The packet contained his orders from the Fenian executive council, but it didn’t