“This story is a unique telling of the War of 1812 ... Thomas tells a gripping tale of a young man caught up in a deadly, horrifying war ... the author has thoroughly researched the war and writes of actual battles that ensued. The descriptions of the social aspects of the time are very revealing and disturbing as well.”
Naomi Theye,
The Historical Novel Society
~~~~~~~~~~~
“A real history book. I would use it in teaching a course on the War of 1812.”
Jean-Pierre Bois, Military Historian, Directeur
Le Centre de recherches sur l'histoire du monde atlantique
Université de Nantes, France
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“[the] story of Jacob, Nancy and Mary was very entertaining ... a great job of portraying the life of the infantryman on the line ...This would make a great movie
Leo Mednick
Independent Television Producer
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Thomas tells a human-centred tale set during [a] tumultuous time in our history ... the result of more than seven years of research and writing, the book captures the flavour of everyday existence.”
Steve Kannon
The Woolwich Observer
The Bloody Boy
Doug Thomas
Published by Doug Thomas at Smashwords
© 2010 Doug Thomas
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
Following its defeat in the American Revolutionary War, 1775-83, Great Britain divides the British North American Province of Québec into two provinces, Upper Canada and Lower Canada. Upper Canada becomes a refuge and home for many of the United Empire Loyalists who remained loyal to Great Britain during the 1775-83 war and subsequently to large numbers of Loyalists who emigrate from the new United States of America and renew their allegiance to King George III.
In the early 1800s, Great Britain is at war with Napoleon and uses the Royal Navy to blockade France, a major trading partner of the United States. The Royal Navy begins impressing seamen from American merchant ships into the Royal Navy. At the same time, Great Britain supplies arms to the First Nations Peoples who are at war with the United States of America.
For several years, the United States protests these actions without success. Finally, on June 18, 1812, the U.S. declares war on Great Britain—and invades Canada.
However, the United States is not united in this cause. The American invasion is piecemeal and focuses almost entirely on Upper Canada.
The British are greatly outnumbered, but are well organized under the leadership of Major General Isaac Brock, commander of the 49th Regiment and Military Governor of Upper Canada. The British forces are highly disciplined, professional soldiers. These troops are augmented by Fencibles, their Six Nations allies, Voltigeurs and the Upper Canadian Militia.
While this history unfolds, a young street urchin, Jacob, is arrested trying to steal apples in the streets of Chelmsford, England. By order of the Justice of the Peace, he becomes a kitchen boy with the contractor who feeds the 49th regiment in England and travels to York, Upper Canada with the 49th in 1803. Here, Jacob grows up, gains a surname, and a fiancée, Nancy. He becomes a soldier, sworn to defend Upper Canada and the woman he loves from the invading Americans.
Chapter 1 ~ Nancy’s Gift
August, 1812 ~York, Upper Canada
Jacob Baker stared at the berm in front of him. The irregular, broken grass was now wispy and the palest tan colour, bleached by the summer sun and by the lack of moisture. Even the rain that had fallen the day before had done little to add any life to it. This was the grass of the late Upper Canada summer. Here and there a patch of green supported a gawky white flower in some last defiance of the season. The blue of the sky was partially blocked by the shako visor beneath which his brown eyes were squarely set, unblinking and staring steadily forward, under solid eyebrows.
The noises surrounding Jacob were familiar—the flapping of the flag and the hollow thunk of the halyard against the wooden flag pole, the sounds of the York landing from the other side of the berm, the breathing of his fellow grenadiers—all sounds that had formed the background fabric of his life for the last nine years. At moments like this they seemed to dominate, to become the centre of his existence.
Someone coughed. Jacob tensed involuntarily. He would not move—could not move. Today, of all days, he would stay out of the sergeant’s book.
That sergeant was taking his sweet, bloody time walking down the ranks looking for any misdemeanor that would supply him with someone to serve as a vent for his foul humour; to give him the extra volunteers he needed to finish the jobs of the day.
Jacob dragged his mind away from the sounds and did a mental survey. Starting with his ankle length boots, he willed himself to believe that they were shiny black beneath the fine layer of dust that seemed on everything. His gaiters were as straight as they could be—the trousers they encased stretched to neatness. His tunic, patched though it was, had no wrinkles or twists. He forced himself to believe that it was clean and crisp even though every nerve in his body told him his shirt was soaked with nervous sweat. His equipment belts were absolutely aligned, just as they had been when he and Harry had checked each other’s gear agonizingly long minutes ago. They crossed in the exact centre of his body; the buckle that held them together was dead centre in his chest. Bronze, with its cast “49” standing out in deep contrast, it was as shiny as possible. His shako was upright, and straight on his head, holding its wine flash bravely straight up. His brown hair was tied back in a regulation tail, just above the stiff green collar of his tunic, but it straggled down the sides of his face to a level even with his earlobes and there ended in an abrupt, carefully trimmed line. In his left hand, his Bess was glistening, its white belt in perfect position. It rested exactly one inch from the outside of his left foot.
His mental inspection done, he turned his attention to the very edge of his vision in which he could just see the sergeant inspecting the grenadier two or three positions to his right. He could hear the sergeant’s voice clearly enough, but his mind would not assemble the words into anything resembling sense.
Nevertheless, that sound soon replaced the sounds of the fort and became the focus of his existence. It surrounded him and forced his attention to reviewing his stance. Carefully, he adjusted his body to make sure that his shoulders were positioned exactly, his arms perfectly straight and his musket at just the right angle. He made a small adjustment to the balance of the weight on his feet, and uncomfortable with it, re-adjusted it to its original distribution.
“Baker!”
The sergeant was directly in front of him, filling his view and his nostrils.
“Sergeant!”. He spoke the word, but heard it as if someone else had uttered it, relieved that his reflexes had spoken for him when he had been addressed.
“Let’s ‘ave a look at y’ur weapon.”
Without hesitation Jacob brought the musket up, transferred it to his right hand, angled it across his chest grasping it a third of the way from its muzzle with his left hand and offered it, at an exactly forty-five degree angle across his torso, to the sergeant. The sergeant glowered at him as he took it and inspected it, exploring the usual spots for collected grime or lack of attention. Then he stuck his finger down the bore and pulled it out.
Both he and Jacob stared at the finger—there was no sign of powder and just a hint of oil.
Jacob fought back a smile.
The sergeant glowered at him even more intensely. In a low voice, he filled Jacob’s face with his foul breath.
“Stayin’ out o’ the book so’s we can see Miss Nancy, are we? ... Drop the rod for me, then, Mr. Baker,” he shoved the weapon back into Jacob’s hands.
Jacob took it with no comment and no reaction. He simply set it down crisply with its muzzle directly in front of his chest. In one smooth motion, he pulled the tamping rod out of its holder and placed the end of it into the barrel. Aligning it without excess motion he let it drop into the barrel with a clean metallic ring, paused a second and withdrew it. He held it at eye level for the sergeant’s inspection. In spite of the sergeant taking his own sweet time looking at it, Jacob didn’t move. The sergeant could be a ruthless tyrant when provoked.
The sergeant’s stare seemed to go on forever—Jacob’s nose began to itch, exactly on the spot that bore the sergeant’s stare.
“Well, this time you might jus’ do it. As you were.”
Jacob replaced the rod in its holder smartly and reversed the original drill to restore the musket to its place along his side. His stare never moved.
The sergeant disappeared and Jacob could hear him talking to Harry beside him. Not a muscle relaxed. The Sergeant could suddenly come back to him if he felt like it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the sergeant looking over Harry’s gear.
Rumour had it that the married men, or at least those who would be taking their wives with them, might get all the duty tonight. The bachelors reasoned, hopefully, the sergeants might make sure that everyone like Jacob, who would be leaving someone behind, would get leave for the evening. Jacob didn’t wish Harry or any of the other married ones ill, but if it made the difference in him getting away to see Nancy.
The sergeant moved down the rank. Jacob waited until he was at least three men away before allowing himself to relax slightly. The futile little flowers dotting his beige horizon reclaimed his attention.
Inspection seemed to take forever. Every man fell under the sergeant’s scrutiny. The word had come down from Brock. No room for slackness. The 49th had to be shaped up. For the last year, they had been subjected to tougher and tougher discipline. The standards of drill had been tightened. The sergeants’ books had filled faster than they had ever done. There had been floggings, some of them quite severe. It was said that Brock felt that the regiment had too much time with too little to do since they had come to York. He wanted his command in top form for the battles which loomed. Jacob had simply worked harder at what he had to do. He had no idea why the officers where doing what they did. He just knew that it was easier to stay out of the sergeant’s book. By and large, he had managed it. A few minor infractions had kept him in the barracks on occasion, but the punishments had not been all that bad.
He thought of the actions of those unfortunates who had been flogged, and realized that they had been stupid. Their offences were acts of rebellion against a system they couldn’t beat.
“Company! ... Atten...tion!”
Jacob snapped to. The officers swept by him and down the rank hardly glancing at the details the sergeant had seen as justification for recognition in his book. It was as if they just wanted to get through with this parade and get on with the day. In a minute or two it was over.
A list of names was read by the sergeant. Jacob’s was not among them. He allowed himself a small breath of relief. However, his rough count told him there were not enough names to fill a standard duty roster. With extra preparations afoot, he was not assured of leave yet. The list was immediately followed by the command—“ Dis ... missed!”
Jacob melted out of position. He stood for a moment to be sure that he had heard correctly. By now, he could feel the sweat in his armpits. This inspection had been far more nerve wracking than any Jacob had known. Even when they had been inspected by Brock himself a few days before, Jacob had not been so tense. As soon as he was absolutely sure that he had avoided the book, he separated himself from the few who had not and began to make his way into the barracks.
A long building, packed full of bunks, the barrack was stuffy with the smell of sweaty wool combined with the odour of human bodies. Jacob made his way to his bunk and lowered the rope he hung his uniform on. Carefully he hung the belts on the rig he had made and then peeled off his tunic, hanging it on the cross bar over his great coat. Then he pulled everything back above the top bunk and tied the rope off on the wall peg.
His sweat-soaked shirt was next. He hung it on another peg against the wall.
He quickly ticked off the organization of the rest of the day. Inspection was over. Packing for the next day’s journey must begin soon. However, he was going to wear his spare shirt, which Jane Wilkin had washed for him, to see Nancy. The one hanging on the peg would have to be packed and that meant he would have to let it dry first. Grumbling to himself he returned to the shirt and spread it out over two pegs at the end of his bunk. Perhaps it would dry enough by the time he returned from his visit.
Shirtless, he walked to the end of the barracks and ladled a drink of water from the bucket there. It was warm, hardly fresh, but he felt the need for liquid.
It was now late afternoon. Shortly, the company would send its mess kettles to the kitchen for the evening ration. The heat was sapping everyone’s appetite, including Jacob’s, but he looked forward to the meal in order to fill time before his leave began and he could see Nancy.
His emotions about seeing her this evening were mixed. The thought of being unable to see her was unbearable, but saying goodbye to her would be very difficult. He actually shuddered when it occurred to him briefly that this might be the last time he would see her.
Jacob had most of his personal chores done and had also completed the company tasks to which he had been assigned, so what was really a short wait for the supper process seemed endless. He took his clean shirt from his pack and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in it. He lowered his tunic and took it outside for the sun to dry. He fiddled with his equipment, even going through the motions of wiping his musket off yet again.
Finally, he took out the small piece of cloth in which he had wrapped the gift he had made for Nancy. It seemed so inadequate. Would she like it? Was it the right thing to give her? Unwrapping it, he turned the small object over in his hands a few times, decided that it was too late for him to do anything about it and rewrapped it, placing it, very much against regulations, in his cartridge pouch so he would not forget it.
When supper came, cold meat and chunks of bread, he found that it tasted like sawdust. Only the habit of eating when food was available pushed him through mouthful after mouthful. Even so, he ate only half his ration.
The usual banter which accompanied the mess groups at meals was missing. A few half-hearted attempts to lighten the atmosphere faded in the face of little or no response. The whole barracks was subdued. Jacob was conscious of deep silences among the married couples as well. No-one actually said anything about it, but just beneath the surface, everyone felt that they were about to leave what had become their home. The tea, carelessly brewed by a fellow grenadier, tasted bitter and Jacob did not finish it, but washed his mouth with another ladle of tepid water.
He spent the last half hour or so walking around outside the barracks waiting for the sergeant to confirm that they had leave. He found himself staring at the kitchen building and thought how remote it seemed now. He had spent the first six years of his life in York working in that building, moving out only when he had been accepted as a grenadier.
He wandered over to one of the berms which he had focused on during inspection. It seemed as if they had been there since the beginning of time, but Jacob also remembered working in the ditches which were on the other side of those great mounds of earth. Every shovel full of earth must have been cursed by one grimy grenadier or another. It had been part of the dog work which lapses in the standards of inspection had brought. “Work detail”—slave detail really. These ditches and berms surrounded the army buildings and the government buildings as the only defensive positions. The place had been named “Fort York”. As far as Jacob could tell this was a an attempt to foster local pride and bravado for the tiny village.
The square seemed strangely empty. A few days ago, they had been mustered to welcome Brock home. The energy of that day, boots and buckles polished with the enthusiasm of victory, and the relief that the Americans were not invincible had brought the company out for Brock’s inspection briskly.
Jacob remembered forming up in the parade square, called to order from their chattering about the details of the victory at Fort Detroit, and marching through the streets of York escorting Brock astride his great stallion, Alfred. The cheers of the of York’s inhabitants had greeted them as they marched with increasing enthusiasm to the legislature buildings.
There seemed to be energy then. Confidence that the war could be won. Now there seemed instead to be a grim reality. Brock had rushed off to Kingston leaving orders for the three companies of the 49th to move to Fort George. The common wisdom which filtered down from the junior officers to the men was that Brock felt the Americans would attack there in retaliation for Detroit.
Jacob saw the corporal coming back from his meeting with the sergeant and walked back to the barracks building to hear the names of those who had been granted leave. This same corporal had reassured him that he would get leave if he kept out of the sergeant’s book, but Jacob still felt a surge of relief as the duty list was read without his name.
In some hurry, he grabbed his tunic and ran inside to put on his gear and get on his way to Nancy as quickly as he could. Fortunately, his tunic had lost most of the sweat to the sun and breeze. Jacob found the details of adding his equipment belts irksome and he muttered mild curses as nothing seemed to fit the way it usually did. In June, they had been given standing orders to travel with weapons at all times, on duty or not. In the first days of the war, this had seemed appropriate and Jacob was aware that the local villagers seemed reassured as he and his fellow grenadiers had gone about their personal business in York, fully armed. Now it seemed a bit much. After he had straightened his belts for the third or fourth time, he gave up in exasperation and decided that they were good enough. He grabbed his musket and started out the door.
Jane Wilkin, Harry’s wife, stepped forward to him as he passed the double bunk which they had claimed as married quarters, “Jacob, say goodbye to Nancy for us, now.”
He stopped and nodded to her, “I’ll do that. She’d a liked to seen you before we left.” Smiling he gave her a mock salute, turned and strode out the door. Jane and Nancy got along well and the four of them had spent some happy free afternoons in York together.
Jacob could see the oxen returning from carrying supplies to the little boats which they would embark on tomorrow. Their heads were down as they patiently plodded off the distance to their sheds, stirring up the fine dust with their hooves to settle on boots and clothing. Behind them they dragged the empty carts which seemed to rumble and clump all over the colony. Their drivers were slumped in their seats, ready for a late evening meal.
Somehow the town seemed strange to Jacob. In addition to the changed attitudes brought on by the lack of action against the enemy, there was a grim sense that the winter would be a hard one. Already, supplies were being watched carefully. The cargo ships had been fewer and much of their space had been taken up with war supplies.
Even beyond this there was a sense that York was somehow different. This isolated little village that had surrounded him with familiarity for nine years seemed suddenly apart from him. Jacob had not anticipated that leaving would have this effect.
The road along the lake was not the most direct route, but he chose it anyway. Somehow he felt that it would delay his leaving. The dust, which had been there since he remembered, coated his black boots as he walked along. The long grass of the common which he would cross before he got to the house where Nancy lived would clean them off. He was thankful that it was not mud, the only alternative at this time of year.
All day long he had completed his tasks in a kind of confusion caused by the excitement of the moment and by the sadness which his departure would cause. Leaving Nancy was tough enough, but this was also his home. He had grown up here. He had become a grenadier here. He had met Nancy here.
The 49th had come to York in 1803 with a little cook’s helper in tow, semi-adopted by the mess contractor who had travelled with them. In fact, many older members of the regiment, who had been twenty or less when they had arrived, were married to local girls—even had families. A few men who had been even older had retired on pension. Jacob had heard some had signed up again as fencibles, volunteering as auxiliary troops for the duration of the approaching war.
As he looked out across the harbour at the lighthouse, he could remember the day he had first seen York. After the long voyage across the Atlantic and up the St. Lawrence River, they had all been relieved to arrive at the Quebec citadel and disappointed to discover that they were not to stay there, but would be going on to Kingston and York. Jacob remembered that none of the men he was able to talk to had known anything about the place, but had said it must have a citadel like Quebec since it was the capital of some place called Upper Canada.
He could remember standing on an upturned bucket so he could look over the railing of the ship as they had rounded the the long curved point which formed York’s harbour. The ship’s rail had been full of men eager for a glimpse of their new posting. He remembered the shocked silence when York had appeared from behind the seemingly endless forest which had mocked them from Kingston on. They saw a clearing with a few clapboard buildings, a half completed block house and a tiny jetty which would not have done justice to the smallest fishing village in Britain.
However, for Jacob it was a great adventure, a chance to stretch his legs ashore even if the first few hours were a constant trek from the ship to the building the kitchen had been assigned to. As a cook’s helper, he had little real time to himself and this time had been reduced even further by the events of landing. Still, the landing was a thing of wonder. He had been mightily sick of the ship’s motion, tired of the endless green forest along the shore and unsettled by the increasingly ugly mood of the men he was required to serve, by the time the little ship had come to a stop at the end of the jetty.
His memory of the arrival at York was interrupted by a shout, “Hey there, get outa that.”
He did not really see the lads who were the target of the command. There had been, perhaps, a momentary flash of shirt tail showing out from the raucous laughter. Whatever it was, it triggered his strongest childhood memory.
It had been a long time since he had let it overcome him like this. Even the dusty streets of York, so different from the streets in his mind, did nothing to stop it. They meekly faded into the background as a perfunctory guide to his walking as he once more relived the fearful morning so many years before.
The little clapboard buildings bathed in the late afternoon summer light of Upper Canada were replaced by the dank alley in Chelmsford—a light drizzle made Jacob shudder as if it were really there. In the greyness of the scene he could see Mary’s face as if it were yesterday, pale and wisp like against the dark wet of the old buildings. Her face was turned up toward him just as it had been in all the dreams he had not been able to stop. He could feel himself shake her.
Mary simply stared up at Jacob. She had often stared at him like this since their pa had died. It was as if she felt that he too would disappear if she so much as took her eyes off him. Jacob repeated his warning.
“Keep quiet or I can’t get us food.”
He waited for some response. She stared.
The mist continued to drift through the alley filled with the sounds of the market onto which it opened. It was still early morning. Jacob found himself listening for sounds of customers in the market. His plan depended on the bustle of crowds, but there were only the familiar sounds of vendors preparing their carts and wares. He heard none of the raucous calls of vendors trying to tempt buyers.
“Mary, do you understand?” He shook her gently and thought that she had nodded a tiny bit. He hoped that she understood, but he could not be certain. With a sigh he turned and, taking her hand, walked through the mist toward the market.
Jacob was certain of very few things in those days. He was certain that his name was Jacob, that his sister’s name was Mary, that he would never see his father again just as he had never seen his mother after the men had carried her limp wrapped body away. Above all, he was certain that he was hungry and if he was hungry so was Mary.
Any food that had been left in the grimy little room that they had called home while their father had lived was gone. A neighbour or two had given them some, but not much. Now they had nothing.
At eight, Jacob’s childish efforts at somehow replacing his father in the workforce of the market had met with kind rejections or unkind mirth, and he had been hampered by Mary’s refusal to leave his side.
The two waifs in Jacob’s mind came now to the end of the alley which opened onto the market square. It was partially blocked, as it usually was, by large barrels. Once in a while, a wagon came and cleared the barrels, but today they were stacked well over Jacob’s head. He knew that they would provide the hiding place he needed. There was just room between the barrels and the wall they overlapped for him and his sister to slide through. This placed him where he could see the fruit vendor’s cart clearly while hidden from view. Jacob had tested this hiding place and knew it worked.
When the time was right, with the vendor distracted by a customer, he was sure he could slip out from his hiding spot and nick an apple or two from the tempting pile on the near end of the cart. He had no idea what would happen if he was caught, but he knew he was hungry and that Mary was hungry. For the plan to work, she had to remain behind the barrels and stay quiet.
He cautioned her with a finger to his lips once again and once again got the same silent stare. Then he led her into the narrow space behind the barrels. As quietly as possible, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feel of the brick wall as it scraped and rasped across his back, he worked his way to the end of the barrels. Once there, he peered carefully around them to take his first look at the fruit vendor’s cart.
Everything was in place but the vendor was busily arranging things on the cart. He would have to wait until a customer appeared. As he scanned the market, his eyes confirmed what his ears had heard and his heart sank. There were few shoppers about. The wet weather had kept most of them indoors. Only a handful were there and they were at the far end of the square. The wait promised to be a long one. Would Mary hold her peace long enough?
What seemed an eternity elapsed, Jacob tensed for action. The vendor next to his target came over to talk and the apple vendor moved to the far end of his cart and soon the two involved in a loud conversation about the bad weather and other matters. the vendor’s back was turned on the apples. Jacob motioned Mary to stay there and moved out from behind the barrels to the point where he could run forward and seize the red food that was now so close. The vendor continued to talk.
Jacob took a few quick strides forward, reached up and grabbed one apple in each hand. In one motion he turned and started back to the cover of the barrels. Part way through his stride he tripped over Mary who hollered in pain and surprise. He fell to one knee, an apple slipped from his grasp and rolled back toward the cart. He reached for it and was able to recapture it, but, as he did so, he could see the vendor already moving toward him.
Desperately, he folded the apples into the crook of his arm and tried to pull Mary up off the cobblestones to lead her behind the barrels. She was still stunned and did not respond immediately to his tugs. He had her almost on her feet but could feel the vendor very close.
“’ey there. Wot you doin’?”
Mary seemed to gather her wits and Jacob thought for a brief instant that they might elude the fat man who now loomed over them. Just as he began to move toward the barrels a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder. Pain lanced into him and he let go of Mary’s hand to twist free. The hand squeezed tighter and the pain intensified.
“’old on there, you!”
Jacob twisted and turned with all his strength, but only succeeded in dropping the apples. Mary was now crying at full volume and Jacob could sense a general commotion around him. After one last desperate lunge, he fell, borne down by the weight of the hand on his shoulder.
“Steal my apples would ye?”. The vendor had now pulled Jacob around to face his angry twisted face. “Well, we’ll ‘ave none o’ that.”
The man’s hand was raised to strike. Jacob caught a glimpse of the closed fist just before it slammed sideways across his cheek bone.
The market became a dark, stinging place.
He had never been hit so hard. Even his drunken pa had never closed his fist before he struck. His left eye felt as if it would pop out of his skull.
Mary shrieked. The sound penetrated the pulsating roar that filled his head. He shook the darkness off in time to see the fist raised again. It began to descend and Jacob simply went limp, knowing it was futile to duck.
The blow never fell. A new voice reached into his terror.
“That’s enough, man. You’ll kill the lad.”
Jacob opened his eyes slowly to see a green-cuff, red sleeve and massive hand clutching the arm of the vendor in a struggle for control. The hold on his shoulder relaxed and he fell on all fours to the cobbles. Gasping for breath and trying to focus on something, anything that was not spinning, throbbing, fading in and out of the stinging darkness, he heard the vendor’s voice again.
“’e nicked my apples. ‘e’s a bloomin’ thief. I’ll not have my apples nicked.”
“Yes, I seen wot he done. It’s for the justice now. You stand away or I’ll ‘ave you one like you gave ‘im.”
Jacob managed to turn his head enough to see the blurry image of a large man in a red tunic shove the vendor back toward the cart as if he were Jacob’s size. The vendor protested some, but was cautioned by a friend and moved in the direction he was shoved.
“You be sure he don’t come round here a stealin’ again then!”
The large red tunic stared at the man for a moment and then turned to Jacob.
“ ‘ere then, lad, on your feet.” The great, meaty hand extended out of the green cuff and closed on Jacob’s arm. The grasp was firm, but not painful. Jacob was lifted into the air and suspended there until his reflexes lowered his feet to take the pressure off his arm. The market twisted, whirled and faded toward blackness again. Jacob’s ears were ringing. His head now felt as if it were full of wool.
Mary’s cries had drifted off to sobs and he felt her clutching his leg.
He was turned toward the face under the black military hat. The face nodded toward the two apples on the ground.
“Did you nick them apples? Answer smart now.”
Jacob felt himself nod dully. “Me ‘n Mary is ‘ungry.” The soldier looked down at Mary.
“Where’s your folks? Your daddy work around here?”
Jacob tried to answer but found the words difficult. Finally he managed “dead” and stared silently at the man.
“Your mother, then?”
Jacob stared at him hopelessly. Why didn’t this soldier know. Everybody must know. Finally, he swallowed and half breathed, “dead, too”.
The soldier’s eyes widened. “How long?”
“Mother long ago. Daddy,” Jacob struggled to count the days, “a few days ago.”
The soldier looked around at the crowd that had gathered. “Anybody know these little ‘uns?”
A man in the crowd moved forward a hesitant step. “They’s old John’s, Sergeant. He died last fortnight. His missus—months ago. I don’t guess them kids ‘as eaten much lately.”
Jacob noticed the white stripes on the soldier’s sleeve for the first time. His father had told him about the markings.
“Wot’s your name, son and your sister’s?” The sergeant looked at him.
“Jacob ... she’s Mary.” He looked down at his sister who by now had managed to cling to his free arm, her cries faded for lack of energy, her eyes fixed on the sergeant. Jacob’s head throbbed and he could feel sore spots on his knees where they had hit the ground.
“Wot’s your family name?” The sergeant looked tired when he asked this. Jacob stared at him. He had no idea what the man meant. His father had called him Jacob. His sister’s name was Mary. What could the man mean by “family” name? He shrugged.
The sergeant looked around at the crowd. “Anybody here know?”
No-one did. Family names were not commonly used in the streets of Chelmsford. If the government asked, they were given, but Jacob’s father never thought it important to tell him what his was. The sergeant knew this and had realized even as he asked the question what the answer would likely be.
“Well then,” he broke the silence he had generated with his question, “Where do you live?”
“Up there.” Jacob indicated a vague spot through the barrels.
“Come on, lad, let’s get your things. You’ll not be back here for a while.
The sergeant seemed familiar with the alley because he led Jacob firmly around the barrels and into the alley without hesitation. Mary came along as if she were a part of Jacob’s arm and the threesome, or rather the towering sergeant with two tiny extra appendages, moved awkwardly toward the dirty little hole in the wall they called home. Part way there the sergeant looked at Jacob and spoke quietly.
“’ow’s your ‘ed, lad. You took a right smack there.”
“It ‘urts some—it’s gettin’ better. What’ll you do with us?”
“We’ll get your things and then it’s down the street to the justice. He’ll decide wot to do with you. But, it’s sure you can’t live here alone no more.”
They arrived at the little door and went inside. The place was filled with the red uniform that released his arm. Jacob looked around unsure of what he was supposed to do.
“Gather up, lad. Get everythin’ in a bundle. Yours and ‘ers. We ‘aven’t got all day.”
Numbly, Jacob went over to the little box in which he kept everything he owned. Another shirt and a small coat. He did the same for Mary’s things. A neighbour had cleared out his father’s things saying they could be used by someone else. Jacob still felt uncomfortable with that, but he was unsure what to do about it.
“That’s it, then?” the sergeant looked at the pitiful collection of nothing. Jacob nodded. Then he thought again. He moved over to the little cupboard and looked inside. It was still there, tattered and dusty, but there. Carefully, he shook the shawl and wrapped it around Mary’s shoulders. For a moment, he could remember his mother wearing it and could almost see her face again. He looked at the sergeant and nodded again.
The sergeant’s attention was attracted by another object in the closet. It was a red tunic similar to the one the sergeant was wearing except that it was threadbare and filthy. Jacob had not touched it because he knew better. His father had beaten him on the one occasion that he had taken it out of the closet. Now the sergeant moved forward and took it off its peg.
“Y’ur daddy was a soldier?,” he turned the tunic over several times, looking at the crudely sewn patches and in particular at the jagged stitching down the left sleeve. It looked as if it had been torn or cut hurriedly and then later sewn up by someone who knew how to make it stay together, but not to look right.
Jacob had to think about the question. Yes, he remembered his father putting the tunic on in his drunken ramblings. He remembered him going through some strange ritual of movements, shouting some kind of nonsense. Jacob could remember fragments of it—“eyes front—port arms” none of it made any sense. Finally, he just nodded numbly to the sergeant.
The sergeant held up the sleeve of the tunic and looked at the filthy worn cuff which in the light showed itself to be the same green colour as that on the sergeant’s sleeves. “In the 49th, too. Is this all there is?”
Jacob nodded again. Now he remembered that there had been some white belts and a shiny big button attached to them. “Pa’ took the belts and the buttons away. He never brung ‘em back.”
“Y’ur daddy drink some?”—The sergeant knew the answer and didn’t wait for any reply from Jacob. “Prob’ly sold his gear for ale. He ‘ad a bad arm didn’t ‘e, son?”
Jacob remembered his pa’s frustration at not being able to do much with his left arm and the misshapen appearance of it and nodded dully.
“You always live here?”
Jacob shook his head. They had come here just before Mary was born. Jacob could vaguely remember living with other people. His father had gone away often and after one of these absences had returned with his arm all wrapped in dirty white bandages. They had come here shortly after that. He couldn’t figure out how to tell the sergeant all that. His head was throbbing and he was weakened by the struggle he had undergone.
“A soldier named John. Well this ain’t a new tunic. He weren’t in the army lately,” the sergeant shook his head, “Let out when he was wounded. Prob’ly at Copenhagen or Egremont”
He turned the tunic over in his hands shaking his head and finally wrapped it into a bundle which he grasped in one large hand.
“Well, let’s be off. I don’t know where you’re goin’ but it won’t be worse than this.”
They retraced their steps down the alley and made their way across the market square. All the way the sergeant held onto Jacob’s arm, but without much pressure and in such a way that he had little trouble walking. Their pace was slow because of Mary until halfway across the square, the sergeant stopped and picked her up holding her in his left arm while he guided Jacob with his right. Then they moved along more briskly and were soon well up a street which led away from the market into an area of town which Jacob did not know well at all. After a few moments, he was completely lost in a different world.
Jacob started as his mind returned to the dusty sun of York. By now, his semi-conscious pace had brought him along the shore to the landing. It was a bustling place as the sappers and artificers loaded the regiment’s gear into the boats. He paused to watch the new cook and his helpers load provisions.
With a glance at the sun, he realized he must pick up his pace if he were to get to Nancy’s soon enough to have any time with her. He turned and strode more purposefully along the dusty path which continued along the shore until he came to Yonge Street. He turned away from the lake and walked up what had become the main street of the village.
He had chosen this route out of sentiment for it was on this street that he had met Nancy three years before. He had been to town to order a new pair of boots to replace the poorly made British pair he had been issued with a sturdier Canadian pair from the local boot maker. His first few pays as a grenadier had given him enough surplus to just manage the purchase.
As he had turned up Yonge Street looking for the bootmaker’s sign he came upon a young woman trying to get a bag of flour into a wagon. She was not up to the task either in height or in strength.
Without thinking, he stepped forward, lifted it out of her hands and into the wagon.
“Thank you —Sir.” had been her first words to him. He could still remember the dryness in his throat as he looked at her fully for the first time.
Framed by auburn hair swept back and tucked under a white bonnet, her face was finely molded with a tiny nose, slightly upturned. Smile lines punctuated her face and her eyebrows were slightly raised above green eyes that sparkled as they looked up at him.
“It ain’t sir, ma’am. It’s—uh—private.”
He had never been sure whether her little laugh and smile had been at his awkward response or just her own nervousness.
“In that case, it ain’t ma’am neither—it’s Nancy.” she had replied, and—it’s Private -?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Wot’s your name, private?” She was smiling quizzically at him now.
“Oh—uh—Jacob—Private Jacob Baker.”
“Well, I thank you, Private Jacob Baker for your help. But, I think you’d better dust yourself off before some officer sees you.
He remembered looking down at his bright red tunic, still new and still a novelty. He could also remember feeling the blush in his face as he brushed the white powder from it.
Jacob also remembered that he was suddenly desperate to continue the conversation. “I didn’t hear your last name ma’am—uh—Nancy.”
She looked at him squarely for a moment. “How long have you been a soldier?”
“I been a grenadier for more’n a month now, I guess.”
“A month. And what were you before that?”
“Cook’s helper, ma’am.”
“For how long?”
“Since I was a boy. Always been, I guess.”
“So now you’re a soldier who has come to town to spend his pay on ale and impress the ladies with your new red tunic.,” her voice was as impish as her eyes
“No, ma’am. I come to buy some boots.”
“Boots.”
Jacob could see them both staring at his sad looking footwear. They had been foisted on the British army by a dishonest supplier, and had already lost much of their shape from getting wet. The boot black seemed only a thin cover over the weak leather.
After an eternity of seconds, she had spoken. “I can see why.”
He couldn’t remember what prompted him to say it, but he had, “And you are in town to trick some young soldier into throwing flour into a wagon for you.”
She had chuckled. “Of course. Mind you, my mistress will be put out with me if I don’t get back to help her finish the rest of the shopping. That’s why it’s just Nancy. I am a servant, not a lady.”
Jacob couldn’t recall the rest of the conversation, but he did remember his anxious search for her again. Finally, after a week or two he managed to find her in much the same place and they had been seeing each other ever since.
When he came to King Street he turned right again and walked past the jail toward Nancy’s place of employment. He looked at the little building and marvelled at how small it seemed compared to the first courthouse and jail he had seen as a child.
Sergeant Stone had taken his ragged little charges down one street, another street and then another until any vague connection that Jacob was able to make with his home territory was completely smudged in a blur of grey faceless buildings. Finally, they came to a large building with three steps up to its door. The Sergeant swept them up the steps as if Mary weighed nothing and Jacob was hardly there. He opened the door, motioned Jacob in and followed with Mary. Jacob had never been in such a place and he gawked around at the massive walls and high ceilings. It seemed to him like a market square that someone had built a roof over.
“Here we are.” The sergeant had come to a stop in front of a desk at which sat a squat, heavier version of himself. The figure looked up and took in the strange threesome in front of him.
“Well, well, Mr. Stone, what ‘ave you brought for us, now?”
The sergeant set Mary down and she scurried to Jacob’s side, seizing his arm again.
“These two was stealin’ apples in the market. Orphans, it seems. All they own is on their backs and in ‘is ‘ands.”
“My, my. And you arrested these all by yourself. Does bravery know no bounds—Names?” His quill was poised.
“Jacob and Mary,” the sergeant paused. “No family names.”
The man at the desk shrugged as if it mattered little to him. “Stealin’ apples.” He dragged this latter out to match the speed of his writing.
“His nibs has a real criminal with ‘im now. A cutpurse. Like as not this ‘un’ll be in that line of work before long.” He nodded at Jacob. “Well what about it, lad? Are you the next cutpurse of this district?” He chuckled.
Jacob had no idea what the man meant. He vaguely recalled something about cutpurses from his father, but could not remember what it was. He was pretty sure he was not going to be one, though, since he had no idea how to become one.
The sergeant half chuckled. “These two are more ‘ungry than criminal, I think.” Then he turned to Jacob.
“In a few minutes, I ‘as to take you in there and the justice will decide wot to do with you. Speak when yer spoken to and save us all a lot of trouble by answerin’ as best you can. With any luck ‘e’ll be in fair humour an yu’ll just get a warning and some place better to live. Try to stand straight when you speak to him. Understand?”
Jacob nodded although he was not exactly sure. He was certain that he was still hungry, but that was about all. Mary clung even closer to him.
The sergeant led them over to a little bench jammed against the wall, set the grimy tunic on it and helped Mary up onto it. Jacob took the hint and sat on the bench too. They waited there for a few minutes. Jacob gazed around the hall still fascinated by the sheer size of it and wondering how they got the ceiling up that high. The man at the desk continued to make notes and Mary continued to cling.
Suddenly, the door burst open and two soldiers struggled through with a blur of thrusting arms and legs between them. The man who owned them was cursing and hollering something about injustice and how he would make do for the justice when he got free. With a sudden burst of energy he managed to get free of one soldier and almost free of the other.
Jacob wasn’t entirely sure what happened next because it was so fast. Sergeant Stone took a stride or two forward, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck with one hand and bounced him into the wall. There was a grunt of air from the man’s lungs and he slumped to the floor.
Just as quickly, the two soldiers were on top of him and hauled him to his feet with his arms locked behind his back, his feet barely touching the floor.
The man at the desk finished writing and got up without haste. He picked up the book he had written Jacob and Mary’s names in and disappeared through the door closing it behind him. But for the raspy breathing of the pinioned prisoner, silence descended on the hall again.
“Soon, now.” the sergeant spoke.
He was right. Only a moment or two elapsed before the desk man emerged again.
“Well, sergeant, you’re getting a fine knack for bein’ on the spot. This fellow is for you. Seems ‘e’s chosen to serve King and Country rather’n Jailer and cell.”
He took something out of the a drawer in the desk and held it out to the sergeant.
The sergeant looked disgusted, shook his head, muttered something Jacob could not hear and stepped over to the desk. Jacob realized just as the sergeant took the object that it was a coin. Then the sergeamt walked back over to the man who had regained his breath but half dangled between the still angered soldiers. For a few seconds he stared down into the man’s eyes with contempt and then spoke.
“Wot did you say this loyal soldier’s name was?” he asked the clerk without shifting his stare.
“Simon—Simon Jones.”
“All right, Simon Jones, ‘old out your ‘and.”
The man stared at him and complied slowly with a little help from the soldier holding that arm. Sergeant Stone slapped the coin into his hand so hard that the man’s reflexes closed his fingers over it in a grasp of pain.
“You ‘ave taken the King’s shillin’. Yo’r Private Jones now.”
The man stared at him, still shocked by his two encounters with Sergeant Stone.
The sergeant reached inside his tunic and took out a small book and held it up in the man’s face.
“Do you see this little book?” He waited until the man nodded. “Good”.
The sergeant pulled a pencil stub from the middle of the book and pointed to the stripes on his sleeve.
“See these stripes, Mr. Jones?” He held his sleeve up in front of the man’s eyes. The man nodded warily again.
“Very good. Now listen carefully and we’ll ‘ave no more trouble. These stripes mean I’m a sergeant—God to you. You are now a private and (he wrote deliberately in the little book) your name is now in my book. Do you know wot that means?”
The man looked confused.
“No? Well let me explain.” He held the book in front of the cut-purse’s eyes. “The next time I write anything under your name in my little book, you’re off to the floggin’ tree. Understand?” Simon Jones shuddered at the mere mention of the flogging tree but he managed to nod. Behave yourself, be a good little soldier, do as these lads ask you and you stay out of my book.
The sergeant smiled, nodded and turned back to the children. Then, as if he had just remembered something, he turned back to Simon Jones who jumped as if he had been stricken. “Just so you know—the two gentlemen ‘olding onto you will not find themselves in my book for anything they do if you make a nuisance o’ yourself while I’m busy with ‘is ‘onour.” He looked smilingly at each of the soldiers in turn. They returned his smile and hiked Simon a little higher off the ground.
He turned, then, to the children and seeing that they were cowering against the wall, he knelt down to them. “It’s all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you while I’m around.”
The desk man looked at Jacob. “You’d best behave yourself from now on young fellow or you’ll find yourself in the sergeant’s book some day. Now, in you go and let’s not see any more of you.”
“Come on.” The sergeant picked up Mary and the tunic and took Jacob gently by the arm. They moved through the door which was held open by the desk man and into a room which was smaller but still had the same amazingly high ceiling as the hall outside. At the far end of the room was a raised area and on it was a large heavy desk. Behind it sat a man with long curly white hair dressed in black robes. He was writing as they walked across the floor toward him. As if by magic he seemed to know when they were directly in front of them and looked up. For a moment he looked at them, his eyes moving from Jacob to Mary and back again.
“Well, sergeant, what have you brought us?” His eyebrows raised slightly.
“M’lord, This is Jacob and ‘is sister Mary. Jacob was caught stealin’ apples down to the old market. I think they’s mostly hungry and prob’ly scared. Their daddy was a soldier until he was wounded. Him and the childrens’ ma are both dead. All they own is on their backs or in ‘is hands.”
The justice looked at Jacob for a moment. “Is the sergeant right, lad? Did you steal apples?”
Jacob’s mouth was suddenly dry. He knew he should answer and wanted to, but his open mouth refused to produce sound.
“Come, come, lad. I’ve things to do here. Did you steal the apples?”
Jacob nodded and managed to force his voice to work. “Yes.” he croaked.
“How many apples?”
“Two.” Jacob heard his own voice rather than used it and it continued, “One for Mary, one for me.”
“What happened to your face? It is all red and swollen.”
Jacob was surprised to hear that, although now that he had been reminded the pain returned to his cheek bone. He tried to remember.
The sergeant broke in. “The apple seller clouted him, Sir. Closed fist.”
The justice raised his eyebrows again. “Sergeant, are you really sure it is necessary to fill this court with street urchins who steal apples because they are hungry?”
“No, Sir, but the merchants in the market ‘ave been complainin’ ‘bout thiefs lately. They wants us to do somethin’. These two ‘ad no real ‘ome to go to anyway so I thought I could get them out of there and into someplace better and keep the vendors happy. The rules say I ‘as to bring them to you, Sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Well, I don’t think jail is going to do much here except teach this young ‘un some really nasty tricks. What are we going to do with them?” He looked thoughtful.
Then, as if he had forgotten something, he spoke to Jacob, “Now, young fellow, you know you can’t go around stealing apples. It’s wrong. Do you know that?”
Jacob nodded. By now he was completely confused. Who was this strange man and what could he do to him—to Mary? Jacob shuddered.
The man looked at Jacob for a moment and then at the wall and finally at the sergeant.