Clay aggressively nodded his approval and patted his pistol. “The president is right. Only war will restore America’s honour in light of these British transgressions.”
“Here, here!” Congressman Calhoun said, pounding the desk to demonstrate his support.
Clinton stared at the Constitution. “War Hawks — every one of you,” he whispered before turning to confront the men. “Many of the militias won’t even fight outside their own states. New England won’t stand for this and neither will Congress. And you, Mr. President, why don’t you call this what it really is — Mr. Madison’s War?”
The president wheeled to retaliate, but William Eustis, the secretary of war, stood up. “Actually, Mr. Vice President, Upper Canada has many American migrants who are sympathetic to our cause. The entire area is weakly defended and thinly populated, I might add.”
Clinton raised his cane and pointed it at Eustis. “Those aren’t good enough reasons for spilling innocent blood. As a surgeon, you should know that. Haven’t you seen enough killing?”
Eustis ignored Clinton and turned his attention to the president. “Scouting numbers suggest there are fewer than five thousand British troops in North America. Besides, England is too preoccupied with Napoleon to defend such a vast area.”
Clinton shuffled over to Madison and placed a hand on his shoulder. “James, please listen to me. I know we’ve had our differences, but justifying this folly to the citizens of our country will be impossible. Some of their relatives live in Upper Canada, and they’ll undoubtedly be caught in the middle. And what about the slaves? They could revolt and side against us. Do you really want to go down in history as the man responsible for such madness?”
Madison slowly removed Clinton’s hand. “Now you call me James? Go home, George. Go home and let men who love their country do their work.”
Clinton searched Madison’s eyes for a moment, but the president simply looked away. The vice president leaned closer. “You are a small, small man, James. Maybe that’s why you and Napoleon have so much in common.”
“Get out!” Madison barked.
Clinton limped toward the door. “The Loyalists are still angry for being robbed of their land and possessions during the Revolution, gentlemen,” he said as a burning ember from the hearth leaped to the floor. “If they ally themselves with the Indians, there will be more trouble than you bargained for. I promise you that.”
Madison stepped on the ember and crushed it with his shoe. “Perhaps you should join them, George.” He gestured at the wisp of smoke curling from beneath his foot.
“How dare you!” Clinton cried, storming toward the president. When the vice president faltered and nearly lost his balance, a few Cabinet members steadied him. “I was a brigadier general in the Revolution! You have no right to speak to me that way!”
Madison smiled thinly. “Maybe it’s time for you to retire, George.”
An uneasy silence filled the room until Jefferson turned from the window. The aging former president poured a glass of wine. “As the Republican Party founder, I can confidently state that the acquisition of Canada is a mere matter of marching. And that, good sirs, is precisely what I intend to tell Congress.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the annexation of Britain’s crown jewel. Let the cannons roar.” The men cheerily clinked their glasses as Clinton exited the room.
Surprised by the vice president’s sudden appearance, Dolley Madison hid the box of snuff she was using and handed Clinton his cloak. “Good night, George. It was a pleasure to see you again.”
Clinton glanced at her sabre leaning against the wall. “I’d sleep with that under my bed if I were you,” he said quietly as he closed the White House front doors behind him. The wind was blowing hard now, and a wicked bolt of lightning flashed over the horizon, followed by the crash of thunder. “Fools!” he muttered to himself. “God forgive us!”
A twig snapped and the young black bear swung its head to locate the noise but soon returned to eating raspberries. The bruin finished gorging and lumbered farther along in search of more food. Pushing through the thick brush, the beast flushed a flock of birds from a small tree. After that everything was silent again. The bear slightly raised its great head to sniff the air. In an instant it turned and reared up on its hind legs. The animal let out a frightening roar, saliva dripping from its mouth.
Billy Green, a teenage lad, stood a few yards away, holding a musket. His piercing brown eyes stared directly at the bear. With a swing of its head, the animal dug at the earth with razor-sharp claws and bellowed again, but Billy stood his ground, his finger slowly wrapping around the trigger.
The beast dropped to all fours and inched closer but suddenly stopped, its eyes locked on Billy’s. “I’ve been following you for almost an hour and you didn’t even know,” Billy whispered as he reached into a pocket. “I was always downwind. I haven’t seen you before. You haven’t been away from your mama for long, have you?” He retrieved a piece of beef jerky and held out the meat with steady hands. “Come on, boy, you can have it.”
The animal took a few guarded steps and menacingly rolled its head. Letting loose with another blood-chilling roar, the bear returned to its hind feet, mere inches from Billy. The teenager could feel the creature’s hot breath against his face as the bear searched his eyes for a sign of aggression or weakness. Then the beast gently took the jerky from Billy’s hand and darted off into the thicket.
Billy exhaled deeply and checked his hands. They were beginning to tremble.
“You keep doing that and one of these days you won’t be coming home,” Adam Green said.
Billy wheeled around to find his father on a ridge, aiming a musket. “Did you see him, Pa? He was beautiful!”
Adam waved at his son to join him on the ridge. “I almost had to kill him, and that would have been your fault.”
Billy climbed the steep hill and stood beside Adam, glancing at their farmhouse close by. “I could’ve shot him, but I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”
His father wiped sweat from his brow. “Animals are as unpredictable as people, Billy. And I thought I told you there was work to be done this morning. That flour mill isn’t going to run itself. We’ve got orders to fill.”
Billy kicked at some pebbles. “I know but … but it’s boring.”
Adam pivoted and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Listen, Billy, that boring mill keeps food on the table and a roof over your head for our family. Understand?”
Billy wrapped an arm around his father as they continued walking. “Yes, sir.” He studied Adam’s leathery face. His father was only fifty, but he looked much older. “You miss New Jersey, don’t you, Pa?”
“I miss your mother more,” Adam said, looking skyward. “That’s why we owe it to her to keep working. She would’ve wanted it that way.”
Billy stopped walking and licked his nervous lips. “Pa … I want to join the militia.”
Adam’s face darkened, and he grabbed the musket from Billy’s hand. “We’ve already discussed
