the barn, set the weapons aside, and began piling sacks of flour. “I said the answer is no! Get to work!”
Billy started lugging the bags and stacking them against the wall. “I hear there are soldiers my age fighting on both sides.”
“That may be so, but I’m not their father. Let their parents worry about them.”
“A lot of people say the Americans could even come here to Stoney Creek and take over this country.”
Adam threw the sack in his hands against the wall, causing an explosion of white powder. “It’s not going to happen! It’s just a stupid rumour.” He pointed at his son. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time. There will be no more talk of the war in my house!”
“I’m not a child! I’m a man, Pa!”
“Then start acting like one! No man wants war!” Adam snatched one of the muskets. “My brothers were jailed during the Yankee Revolution and one of them died there! This gun doesn’t solve anything!”
“Don’t you want to fight for your country?”
Adam’s eyes flared with rage, but he quickly regained his composure. “I did … I just backed the wrong side.”
“You told me they stole six thousand acres from you in New Jersey because you supported the British. Now you’ve got three hundred in Canada. What if the Yankees do come here? We have to fight.” Billy lowered his head. “And I want to help.”
Billy’s father sat on one of the stacks and massaged his sore neck. “I’ve seen war, son. It’s not glamorous. It’s not exciting. It’s bloody and it’s something you want to forget but never can.”
“You can’t stop me … you just can’t!” Billy cried as he ran out of the barn.
“Billy! Billy!” Adam shouted. He tried to catch his son but could only watch as the teenager disappeared into the long grass.
At dawn the distant sounds of birds cooing and the gentle lapping of waves could be heard. Mist rolled in from Lake Ontario, frequently allowing brief glimpses of the smouldering Fort George.
A few seagulls pecked at the sand for food until the boom of a cannon shattered the serenity. Another burst followed and offered a quick flash of brilliant orange from somewhere amid the haze.
“Man your guns!” Brigadier-General John Vincent yelled with an Irish accent as another cannonball whistled overhead and exploded, sparking more fires. “Get the women and children back to the basements! Quickly now!”
The dashing officer assisted a young woman and her child as a flame-engulfed beam fell from the ceiling, narrowly missing them. Then a wall collapsed, catapulting a handful of screaming British soldiers through the air, their clothes ablaze.
Vincent scrambled up a stairway, retrieved his scope, and peered at the lake. Looming on the calm waters, he saw a flotilla of troop carriers headed toward the shore. Swiftly, he turned and spotted one of his officers. “I was wrong! The invasion’s coming from the shore! Prepare the men!”
Inside one of the American vessels ammunition handlers withdrew a red-hot cannonball from a furnace and carried it in an iron cradle to the gun. The glowing sphere was rammed inside, followed by the wad. Then the weapon was fired and the process was repeated.
At another cannon a canvas bag was loaded with rocks, metal slugs, and shards of glass. An American officer watched as white and black British soldiers marched on the beach. “Send them the grapeshot!” he commanded as the bag was stuffed into the cannon. “Fire when ready!”
The grapeshot sprayed the British infantry, cutting, slicing, and detaching limbs. Blood-curdling screams pierced the mist. The Americans hurriedly disembarked from their small boats and waded ashore as more ordnance bombarded Fort George.
“This is your chance, boys!” a British officer with a Scottish accent screamed as his troops ran to meet the enemy. “After two bloody days of those Yanks shelling us, it’s time to get even!”
The British regulars and militiamen splashed into the water and bayoneted several Americans, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The melee turned the water a cloudy red while men from both armies fought hand-to-hand as bayonets cracked bone and musket balls pierced flesh. Outnumbered, the remaining British hastily retreated, some dragging their wounded comrades beside them.
Vincent watched in horror as a thirteen-year-old British soldier was stabbed in the chest and cried for his mother. A few survivors pleaded for help as some drowned in the shallow water. He scanned the dead and dying on the beach before spying thousands of American troops appearing through the smoke and mist.
“I thought we could hold it,” he whispered sadly to himself, sinking to the floor. “I thought they’d attack from across the river.” His glazed stare focused on the British flag flapping in the breeze. Oblivious to the burning fort and terrorized inhabitants, Vincent closed his eyes, trying to block out the screams of men, women, and children and the constant racket of cannons and muskets. He trembled uncontrollably and gritted his teeth while beads of sweat rolled off his forehead. Then he jumped to his feet with new resolve.
“Get word to Colonel Harvey! Sound the retreat! Abandon the fort! Burn the munitions and spike the guns! Do it now! We haven’t much time!” He looked through his scope again, training the lens on Winder and Chandler, the two American generals. They were proudly stepping ashore, wearing black cocked hats with gold epaulettes on their coats with silver stars. “We’ll meet again, gentlemen,” Vincent muttered, collapsing his eyepiece with an expert slap of his hand before running off.
Sarah Foote, a fresh-faced young teen with blond hair, meandered along a well-worn path leading from her small wooden house. She struggled through some bushes into a clearing and then began to run, her heart pounding, lungs burning. Dry knee-high grass crackled beneath her feet, and she began to slow her pace until she finally halted.
Breathless, Sarah closed her deep blue eyes and sat on a fallen tree. She listened to her heavy breathing and fanned herself with one hand before opening the locket around her neck. Sarah studied the strands of brown hair inside and closed it again upon hearing an owl.
A forced smile broke across her face as hands covered her eyes from behind. “I knew it was you,” she said as Billy Green plopped beside her. “Owls don’t hoot in the middle of the day.”
Billy stared at her and edged closer, his lips pursed, but Sarah playfully pushed him off the log. Then she darted away, carrying the hem of her dress as Billy gave chase. “A suitor should court me properly,” she said, laughing.
Pursuing her through the meadow and around some trees, Billy gently tackled her to the ground. They engaged in a soft kiss beneath the heavy canopy of foliage before he leaned on one elbow and caressed her face. “We need to talk.”
Sarah sat up, obviously troubled. “I can’t stay long. I have chores to do.”
Annoyed, Billy gathered some stones and threw them aimlessly. “You deserve a life of your own ... away from your father and his beliefs.”
“He needs me.”
“I need you, too. It’s been two years, Sarah. I didn’t even know my mother.”
Sarah fingered the locket around her neck.
