The Ballad of John MacLea

By A.J. MacKenzie

  A ring of spies, a battle of lies, and one man who can change the tide of war. The first War of 1812 Epic from the author of The Hunt for the North Star.
 
Stationed with British militia in Upper Canada in late 1812, Captain John MacLea is charting his own course against a background of uncertain loyalties and certain danger.
 
Tasked with routing out enemy agents and thwarting an elaborate espionage ring, MacLea soon discovers that there is a traitor in their ranks, organizing a devastating plot.
 
Events spiral out of control, culminating in a dramatic showdown aboard a captured American warship headed for the breach at Niagara Falls. Failure may mean the loss of the war . . . failure is not an option.
 
Gripping, compelling, and anchored in detailed historical research, The Ballad of John MacLea is a triumph, perfect for fans of Adrian Goldsworthy, Iain Gale and Bernard Cornwell.
 
Praise for the novels of A. J. MacKenzie
 
“Unputdownable . . . I was blown away.” —Angus Donald, international bestselling author of the Outlaw Chronicles
 
“Truly enthralling.” —Paul Doherty, author of Dark Queen Wary
 
“A rip-roaring story and devilish plot with outstanding historical detail.” —C. B. Hanley, author of the Mediaeval Mysteries series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781788633048

A.J. MacKenzie

A.J. Mackenzie is the pseudonym of Marilyn Livingstone and Morgen Witzel, an Anglo-Canadian husband-and-wife team of writers and historians. They write non-fiction history and management books under their own names, but ‘become’ A.J. MacKenzie when writing fiction. Morgen has an MA in renaissance diplomacy from the University of Victoria, but since the late 1990s has concentrated on writing books on leadership and management. Several of his books have been international best-sellers. Marilyn has a PhD in medieval economic history from the Queen’s University, Belfast. She is a musician who writes music and also plays in a silver band and sings in an a capella trio. They have written two books of medieval history together, and also several novels, including the Hardcastle & Chaytor mysteries set on Romney Marsh during the French Revolution. Marilyn Livingstone was diagnosed with cancer in 2022 and passed away in September 2023.

Book preview

The Ballad of John MacLea by A.J. MackenzieCanelo

To Mike, for coming up with the idea in the first place, and to Paul, for his constant belief and encouragement.

Plan of Niagara

Plan of Niagara

Niagara Frontier

Niagara Frontier

Province of Canada

Province of Canada

Chapter One

Another thunderous crash of musketry, very close at hand. Splinters flew from the boles of the oak trees, showering down around the two men as they crouched behind a fallen log. Sergeant Murray rose, sighted briefly down the long barrel of his own musket and pulled the trigger. The weapon boomed and belched smoke. Murray cursed, dodging sideways and rolling over to reload as two more enemy musket balls smacked into the log beside his head.

‘Missed,’ he said. ‘How many do you think there are?’

His companion, Captain John MacLea, sat up and fired, then ducked hastily as half a dozen American muskets roared in response. ‘Twenty or thirty,’ he said, tearing another cartridge open with his teeth and priming the pan of his musket. ‘More than enough. If this is a reconnaissance party, it’s a hell of a big one.’

‘The Americans never do things by halves,’ said the sergeant, ramming ball and wadding down the barrel of his musket and sitting up and cocking it. He squinted through drifting smoke into the low morning sun as he searched for a new target. ‘Eventually they must work out that there are only two of us, and then they’ll rush us.’

‘Or circle around and take us in the flank,’ said MacLea. He raised his head to see a figure in black shako and grey coatee with white bands of lace across the front dodging from one tree to another, fifty yards away. He crouched, sighting on the tree where the man was hiding. Five seconds passed; the American infantryman darted into the open once more and MacLea squeezed the trigger. The musket roared, recoil banging the wooden stock hard into his shoulder. Smoke obscured his view but he heard the scream of pain as his ball struck home. More enemy musket balls tore the air around him as he crouched down to reload. ‘Where in hell are the rest of the company?’

They had been roused at dawn in their camp along the Queenston–Niagara road by a young lad almost incoherent with excitement. Looking out from a nearby farm, he had seen men in boats on the Niagara River to the east. What he had probably seen was a British patrol boat, but MacLea had decided to go and check for himself, taking his reliable sergeant along with him. The rest of the company had been told to stand to; if shots were fired, they were to come up quickly in support.

Ten minutes ago, just as the sun rose, MacLea and Murray had stumbled into an American patrol in thick woodland a hundred yards from the river bank, and the latter had opened fire at once. Now the Americans seemed to be growing in numbers by the minute, and there was still no sign of the rest of the company, the Stormont Rangers.

‘They’ve probably all deserted by now,’ said Murray cheerfully, reloading. ‘In all likelihood some of them are out there shooting at us. I don’t mind. There’s one or two of the bastards I’d quite like to plug.’ He fired again at another American infantryman, who threw up his arms and fell forward into the undergrowth forty yards away. ‘They’re getting closer, John.’

‘They are,’ said MacLea grimly. ‘We’ll have to run for it. You first.’ He waited until Murray had reloaded, and looked cautiously over the log to see two more American soldiers moving quickly through the woods out to the right, circling around their flank just as he had predicted. Two men had held off thirty for as long as possible; time was running out.

‘Go,’ he said softly. Murray needed no second telling, starting like a hare and sprinting through the trees back towards the Queenston Road. A dozen muskets roared, smoke billowing in the morning sunlight, the air now thick with sulphurous haze. MacLea rose up just as another American infantryman, this one in a blue coat, stepped out from behind a tree ten yards away and sighted on the running man’s back. Before he could pull the trigger, MacLea shot him through the chest and he staggered backwards with blood already staining his uniform.

Then it was MacLea’s turn. He rose and ran through the smoke, dodging between the trees, running at an angle to give the Americans a difficult target, expecting at any moment to feel the impact of a musket ball in his back. Splinters flew from the trees, twigs and leaves fell around him. Once he tripped on a tree root and nearly fell; staggering, he clutched at the tree just as more splinters exploded from the bole on the opposite side. That shot had come from ahead! He looked around the tree to see a dozen more men in a skirmish line ahead of him, moving steadily towards him. Whoever commands this lot is a clever bastard, he thought coldly. He sent a file around our flank right from the start.

There was no time to think further. His pursuers were crashing through the trees behind him. He drew his sword, gripping his musket in his left hand, and ran. ‘There’s another one!’ came the cry from ahead. ‘Get him, boys! Take him alive!’

You are welcome to try, thought MacLea. The first blue-coated soldier was in front of him, lunging at him with levelled musket, and MacLea hacked at him with his sword; the man screamed and fell back. MacLea did not stop to see what damage he had caused, for more of the Americans were upon him. He slashed at another, but the man parried the blow with the barrel of his musket and the sword snapped just below the hilt, blade spinning into the undergrowth. MacLea hurled the broken weapon into the soldier’s face and reversed his musket, turning and swinging it like an axe at a third man trying to jump him from behind. The wooden stock hit the other man on the jaw with a sickening crack and he too fell screaming. A fourth man raised his musket, trying to club MacLea. The captain rammed the barrel of his own musket into the midriff of the American, who gave a choking noise and staggered back, dropping his weapon.

The way was clear but there were still American soldiers crashing through the woods all around him. MacLea sprinted uphill to the west, hearing the roar of musketry begin again behind him. The Americans seemed to have abandoned the idea of taking a prisoner; now they were shooting wildly, their musket balls snicking through the leaves overhead.

It was only half a mile to the road, but it was half a mile uphill in the stifling heat of a July morning, and it seemed like an eternity before the trees began to thin ahead of him. MacLea staggered out onto the dusty road where his company were camped and sank to his knees, heart thudding in his chest and lungs shooting with pain as he sucked in great gulps of air. When he pulled off his shako, his black hair was sodden with sweat; his dark green tunic was soaked and grimy.

He looked around at the camp, which was exactly as he and Murray had left it an hour ago. The tents were still standing, fires still smouldered, there was even a cooking pot sitting beside one fire. Only one thing was different. Of the thirty-two men of the Stormont Rangers who had been encamped here there was now no sign, save for their footprints in the dust heading north towards Niagara.

‘The bastards have deserted!’ Rage came down like a red wall. MacLea knelt in the roadway, shaking with anger and humiliation. His entire command had run like rabbits at the first sound of gunfire… But the moment passed quickly. He could hear his pursuers advancing through the trees, a little more slowly and cautiously now, yelling to each other as they came. He had about a minute, he knew, before they were on top of him once more. Time to deal with the Stormont Rangers later; at the moment, he needed to survive.

Rising to his feet, he looked swiftly around. There was no sign of Murray, who was most likely dead or a prisoner. He shoved that thought aside; grief too would have to wait. To the north, the road to Niagara ran through open fields towards a farmhouse a mile away; there was no cover there. To the south towards Queenston it passed through a barley field and then another large stand of trees a quarter of a mile away. The green slopes of the steep escarpment above Queenston shimmered in the haze above the trees.

If I can get in amongst those woods, he thought, I can give them the slip and then get away and find help. There were other outposts along the river, men of the Lincoln and York militia, and an artillery battery further south towards Queenston at Vrooman’s Point. And surely the Americans would not pursue him far, not without knowing what forces opposed them… All of this passed through MacLea’s mind in a flash as he turned and gathered his aching limbs and began to run again, sprinting head down towards the trees.

He had covered perhaps a hundred and fifty yards when the Americans came running out onto the road by the deserted camp behind him and opened fire. He heard musket balls whirring in the air and shouts of ‘Get him! Kill him!’ and knew they were coming after him. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, he ran down the road past the barley field, more musket balls kicking up dust from the road in front. Reaching the point where the road ran into the woods, he turned and dived into the blessed, welcoming cover of the trees. He tripped again, rolled over in the dead leaves that carpeted the floor of the woodland – and sat up to stare into a round black hole, the muzzle of a musket, six inches from his forehead.

The face behind the musket was dark brown and grimly set. The other man rose to his feet, still covering MacLea. He was wearing breeches and an old ragged coat and battered hat, and he had the white armband of the Canadian militia tied around one sleeve. More silent dark men were rising from the undergrowth around him, all covering him with their weapons. Too winded to speak, MacLea simply raised his hands.

‘Hold fast there!’ someone roared. Another man came into view, this one with a white face – to be strictly accurate, thought MacLea, more of a claret-coloured one – in a faded blue uniform coat that had seen better days and had been tailored when its wearer was of considerably lesser girth. He carried a battered sword in one hand and a flask in the other. The rum on his breath could be smelt a dozen paces away.

‘Lower your pieces, lads, lower your pieces,’ he said jovially. ‘Can’t you see he’s one of ours?’ Slowly the muskets facing MacLea were lowered. ‘That’s better,’ said his rescuer. ‘Now then, sir, let us have some introductions, and then let’s hear what these damned knaves are doing on Canadian soil.’

He gestured towards the Americans, who could be seen advancing more cautiously now, a dozen men spread out in a skirmish line and coming over the barley field towards their position. ‘I’m Captain Gerrard, and these fine chaps are my company, Captain Gerrard’s Coloured Volunteers. The finest soldiers in Upper Canada, mark my words.’

The volunteers grinned, their earlier grimness quite gone, Gerrard bowed, and MacLea bobbed his head and said, ‘Captain MacLea, Stormont militia.’ Now that they had all deserted, he was damned if he would refer to them by the pompous title of ‘Stormont Rangers’ again. ‘My sergeant and I were out on patrol when we stumbled across a company of American infantry, come across the river. My guess is that they’re scouting for a landing place and looking for prisoners. They’ve either killed or taken my sergeant.’ He hesitated, groping for words as he tried not to think about what might have happened to Murray. ‘I would like to try to get him back.’

‘Get him back!’ Gerrard roared in a voice that the advancing Americans could probably have heard. ‘We’ll do more than that! We’ll run those damned Yankee rascals back across the river where they belong! Won’t we, boys?’

The grins on the faces of the militiamen vanished and a low growl of anticipation ran around their ranks. Captain Gerrard took a long swig of rum, then offered the flask to MacLea, who refused hastily. Gerrard stoppered the flask carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his coat, then pointed his battered sword at the American skirmish line. ‘Come on, lads! Have at ’em!’ he roared. ‘On to glory! Huzza! Huzza!’

With surprising agility, Gerrard bounded away through the trees, brandishing his sword and hallooing steadily. His company gave a shout of combined rage, defiance and delight and ran after him, dashing out onto the road and opening fire wildly and enthusiastically. ‘Jesus wept,’ said Captain MacLea, but he picked up his musket and ran after them.

By the time he reached the road, the Americans were fleeing for their lives, the yelling militiamen pursuing them up the road. Back past the empty camp they ran, screaming and shooting, and then down the slope through the trees towards the river and past the bodies of the men MacLea and Murray had killed earlier. The Americans finally turned and made a stand not far from the river bank, and managed to fire one ragged volley before Gerrard’s men piled into them, firing their own muskets and then using the weapons as clubs.

Within a minute, the American line had broken. The survivors fled towards the shore; the militiamen followed, screaming like banshees as they chased their quarry down onto a narrow beach overhung with trees, where a big flat-bottomed bateau lay pulled up on the shore.

‘Quarter!’ came the cry. An American officer in a blue coat with gold epaulettes had tied a white kerchief to his sword and was waving it aloft. His men, some standing knee-deep in the river, began throwing down their arms. The militiamen came forward slowly, muskets levelled in clenched fists and fingers twitching on triggers, herding the prisoners together and snarling at any who failed to move quickly. One American made an angry gesture at his captors and at once fell, his skull fractured by a clubbed musket. MacLea heard a yell of pain from beyond the bateau and turned to see another American officer lying prone at the water’s edge twenty yards away, with two ragged militiamen standing over him kicking him savagely in the ribs.

‘Stop!’ MacLea was a soft-spoken man, but he could make his voice cut like a whip when he chose to do so. The two militiamen looked up, their dark faces full of rage and bloodlust, but they fell back before his hard eyes. ‘Get away from him!’ snapped MacLea.

Sullenly the two turned away, rejoining their comrades. MacLea knelt by the fallen officer. Blood was streaming from a hole in the American’s leg. ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘I owe you a debt, sir. I think they meant to finish me.’

‘Probably,’ agreed MacLea. He examined the wound, which looked painful but not too serious; it had been caused by a musket shot, but the ball had gone through the fleshy part of the thigh and did not look to have touched either artery or bone. The man had bled heavily, which MacLea knew from experience was a good thing; the blood would help to cleanse the wound. With no other material to hand, he cut away the officer’s trouser leg with his clasp knife and then tore the unbloodied fabric into strips, tying them around the leg as a bandage.

‘How bad is it?’ The man was gasping with pain.

‘Not too bad. You’ll walk again.’ Unless it became infected and gangrenous, which it all too easily could in this heat, no matter how clean the original wound was. Then the result would be amputation and, most likely, death.

‘A wagon will be sent from Fort George to collect you and the other wounded,’ said MacLea. ‘You will be well cared for.’

‘My thanks again.’ The officer looked at him, and despite his pain and narrow escape there was a decidedly cocky air about him. ‘I don’t expect I will be your guest for very long.’

‘No,’ said MacLea evenly. ‘You will probably be released as soon as there is an exchange of prisoners. May I have your name, sir?’

‘Lieutenant Van Schyven, 13th United States Infantry.’

‘MacLea, Stormont militia. You were scouting for a landing place, sir?’

‘I do not have to tell you that,’ said the other man sharply.

‘No, of course not,’ said MacLea, adding quietly to himself: but you just did.

He heard a shout, and another of the militiamen came running through the trees. ‘Sir! Come quick, come quick! We found your sergeant!’

MacLea rose quickly. ‘Is he alive?’

‘Just as much as you and me, sir! He’s had a knock on the head, but he’s all right.’ The messenger, a dark, ragged young man of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was smiling broadly, clearly pleased to be the bearer of good news. He pointed up the hill. ‘He’s up there in the trees, sir.’

‘What’s your name, laddie?’

‘Crabbe, sir. Moses Crabbe.’

‘Mr Crabbe, I’ll trouble you to look after this officer and make certain no harm comes to him until the hospital wagon arrives. Give him some water if he needs it.’ Crabbe sketched a rough salute and took up a position to guard the wounded man, and MacLea walked quickly along the bank and into the trees.

Alec Murray was sitting up against the bole of a beech tree, drinking rum from Captain Gerrard’s flask. MacLea knelt down beside him, conscious that he was shaking a little with relief. Murray was his closest friend; indeed, if MacLea was honest with himself, one of his very few friends. Alec had arrived in Stormont County about a year after MacLea and bought the plot of land next to his own. He had come over soon after to borrow tools; later, MacLea had given him a hand felling trees and building a log farmhouse. After that they had often worked together, clearing land, gathering firewood, planting and harvesting crops, looking after cattle, helping each other to forge a living in Upper Canada’s sweltering summer heat and winter blizzards and ice.

In many ways they were quite unalike. Physically, they were contrasting specimens of Scottish Highlander; Murray was a big, stocky man with a blunt square visage and a shock of sandy hair, while MacLea was slim and dark with a hard-planed face and green eyes that did not often give much away. Temperamentally they were opposites too. While Murray was gregarious and cheerful, a born story-teller, MacLea was quiet and often remote. But they had farming in common, and military experience too; Murray had been a corporal in the Black Watch before, like MacLea, he had taken a bounty and sought out a more peaceful life in Canada.

Over the years, their respect for each other had deepened into a warm and genuine friendship. Now MacLea thought that the sight of Alec sitting up and drinking rum was one of the finest things he had ever seen.

‘What the deuce happened to you?’ he asked, deliberately keeping his voice light.

‘They jumped me,’ said Murray ruefully. ‘There were only about eight of them and I was handling everything quite nicely, but then one sneaked up and clouted me from behind. Damned underhand Yankee trick, I call it.’

‘Not very sporting,’ agreed the captain. Their eyes met, and MacLea smiled. ‘Very glad to see you alive, Alec.’

‘Likewise, John. What happened?’

MacLea told him briefly about his flight, the encounter with Gerrard’s men and the counterattack that followed. ‘You were right about the company,’ he added quietly. ‘They’ve cleared out. Every damned one.’

‘Oh,’ said Murray, staring at him. ‘Well, good riddance. I suppose.’ He looked worriedly at his commander, who smiled suddenly and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

‘You’re right. We can win the war without them. Can you walk?’

Murray tried to stand but wavered, and MacLea pressed him back down. ‘Stay here,’ he said gently. ‘Get a bit of rest. I’m going back to Niagara and will send a wagon to fetch you and the other wounded.’

‘It’s not the knock on the head that’s making me dizzy,’ said the other man, handing him the flask. ‘It’s this bloody firewater. Get it away from me, will you? John… God bless you for coming back.’

MacLea smiled and touched the other man’s shoulder again, then took the flask and went in search of Captain Gerrard, whom he found standing by the water’s edge gazing across the fast-flowing river to the American shore five hundred yards away. The portly man retrieved his flask and took a long swig, swallowing steadily as he consumed several ounces of neat rum in one go, then lowered the flask and hiccuped violently.

‘I am in your debt, sir,’ said MacLea quietly. ‘What are your losses?’

‘Half a dozen fellows down wounded, no more.’ Another swig, and MacLea waited for the hiccups to end.

‘I am curious,’ he said. ‘What brought you and your men out?’

Gerrard chuckled. He had about him the air of a man coming out of his club after a particularly good dinner. ‘Always march towards the sound of the guns,’ he said. ‘Ain’t that how the saying goes? We were out on patrol from Queenston, coming down past Vrooman’s Point. When we heard shooting, we came on at the double. What did I tell you?’

He gave MacLea an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘I said these were good lads, good soldiers, hey? They fight like lions, my lads.’ He leant forward, reeking of rum, and added confidentially, ‘They’re all runaway slaves, you know. You should see the scars on some of the poor devils’ backs. They never knew what freedom was until they came to Upper Canada. Now they have work, homes of their own, farms; some of them have wives and children. And if the damned Yankees take over, they will lose everything. They will go back to being slaves, or worse. That’s why they fight so well, you know. The more a man has to lose, the harder he fights.’

Gerrard nodded slowly. ‘But it also means that when their blood is up, they remember past wrongs. And then sometimes they don’t always behave like gentlemen.’

MacLea nodded. ‘I would not expect them to,’ he said. His own reaction to the men beating Lieutenant Van Schyven had been automatic, born out of an instinctive revulsion. In MacLea’s mind, there was nothing wrong with fighting opponents who were able to fight back, but violence against those who could not defend themselves was abhorrent. On the other hand, he thought, I have not suffered as some of Gerrard’s men have. ‘Sir, Mr Murray and I are deeply in your debt. With your consent, I shall now go to Fort George and report. Will you be so good as to guard the prisoners until orders come?’

‘It’ll be my pleasure.’ Gerrard yawned. ‘Might have a little rest too. It’s been a long day, what?’

---

It was then about nine o’clock in the morning of the 29th of July in the year 1812, and Canada had been at war for a little over a month. John MacLea walked north along the dusty road towards Fort George some five miles away, brooding over the loss of his company.

He had been rather proud of the Stormont Rangers. Properly speaking, they were – had been – the flank company of the militia regiment of Stormont County. Unlike ordinary militiamen, who turned out once a year for assemblies, drank a great deal of rum, swapped obscene stories and did a little half-hearted drill, flank companies turned out six times annually and were supposed to be more professional. In practice, this meant that they drank somewhat more rum but also did a great deal more drill. MacLea had worked his reluctant militiamen until they could march in step and load and fire a musket in about thirty seconds – not as fast as regulars, but fast enough – and at least look like soldiers.

Unlike most militia, they had also been provided with rifle green uniforms, the largesse of old Colonel Mackintosh, the commander of the Stormont militia. It was the colonel who had christened the flank company the Stormont Rangers in honour of Butler’s Rangers, the famous unit of scouts with which he had served during the American Revolution.

But the men had complained about coming to Niagara, maintaining that their terms of service meant they were not obliged to serve outside of Stormont County – MacLea had never been able to determine whether this was true – and the first desertions had begun within a week of arrival. At least one man, he was fairly certain, had swum the river to join the Americans. Now the rest had simply slipped away and were heading back to their homes.

Captain Gerrard was right, MacLea reflected as he walked on through the rising heat. The more a man had to lose, the harder he would fight. Gerrard’s black militiamen would scrap like terriers because they had everything to lose. But for the ordinary Canadian, life under American rule would likely go on much as before. Many of them had been born in the former American colonies and then emigrated north; they had friends and family south of the border. Many probably had more in common with the Americans than they did with their British overlords. The Stormont Rangers were a case in point. Half its members were American émigrés, some arriving in Upper Canada only a few years ago.

His company were farmers, not soldiers. It was nearly harvest time; their homes and fields and families called to them, and that call had proved stronger than the call of duty. He could understand this; he had a farm himself. But that did not excuse the fact that men he knew and trusted, some of them his own neighbours, had run away and abandoned him and Alec Murray in the face of the enemy. It would be a long time before he could forgive that.

And now, too, he had to tell his own superior officers that he had lost his entire first command. He swore, bitterly and freely, and walked on towards Fort George wishing that a hole would open before his feet and swallow him up in the earth.

Chapter Two

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