Your Eyes Only

By G. L. Morgan

Sergeant Giles Cameron, 3^rd Regiment York Militia

City of York, Upper Canada

15 May, 1813

My dearest,

            It is hard to believe that less than three weeks have passed since Fort York was lost.  It feels like years.  You could not possibly imagine the city; it is no longer how you knew it.  Many of the doors, and most of the windows, are broken.  The parliament buildings were burnt to the ground, and Dr. Cunningham’s medical tools were stolen.  He is absolutely furious, and Mrs. Cunningham has been railing on about the loss of her mother’s silver dinner service.  I am not sure which of them is more upset, and I think, perhaps, they have misvalued what has been taken.  Despite this, they have been very good to me.  I am quite well, now—or, rather, as well as I can be.    

            It is raining; the droplets spatter the shutters of my little upstairs bedroom, and hiss in the fire when they find their way down the chimney.  The wind is so loud that I can hardly hear Mrs. Cunningham complaining downstairs, and there is a strong draft near the window.  Somehow, though, it seems an apt night on which to write of such things—more suited to the events than was the climate on 26 April. 

Do you remember that night?  There was a glorious sunset that turned the surface of the lake to blazing orange, rippling to gold where the wind ruffled the water.  The waves looked to be made of fire, and ought to have melted the frozen ground upon which they broke.  Would that they had been, for then the cannons at the fort would not have been mired in ice, and might have served our men better, despite their age.  Do you know (Charles Denison told me) that one of the cannons is almost two hundred years old?  It was used by Cromwell’s men in the English Civil War—and such a weapon was our defense against the Americans!  With artillery like this, and such an incompetent commander as Sir Roger Sheaffe (Mr. McNab told Reverend Strachan, and the reverend told us ladies, that Sir Roger is no commander at all) is it any surprise we lost?

          I wonder what the sentry on the Scarborough Bluffs must have thought when he saw those fourteen ships sail over the horizon, for  with the water the colour of fire, they must have looked like the vessels of the devil himself.  What did you think when you heard the sound of the warning shot?  Were you afraid, Giles?  I was.  When the sound of that single shot thumped in my breast, and the bells of St. James began almost at once to echo the warning, I was desperately afraid.

            I went to my bed early that night, finding Mrs. Cunningham’s constant speculation turned my stomach with dread.  I could not sleep.  Instead, I lay awake, staring up at the rafters, and picturing over them, as if painted on a sheet of glass between me and the ceiling, the terrible ships moving into the bay.  How close, I wondered, would they be able to get?  I knew, even then, that the only answer that mattered was too close. 

I went the next morning, lightheaded with lack of sleep, to the McGill house, where many of the young ladies and their children had gathered.   From the upstairs window, we could see the Union Jack bravely streaming over the fort.  We could also feel the reverberations of the cannons and the sharp spatter of the musket fire.  My friends were no comfort to me; they wanted to pretend that nothing was amiss, and sent the little girls upstairs to watch the flag, while they drank tea.  I could not bear their chatter, so I went to sit with the children.

Little Agnes Campbell and I sat together, she in my lap, keeping our eyes trained on the flag.  I wish I could have seen the colours I helped to make, and which the eldest Miss Powel presented to your regiment at St. James in March.  Then, at least, I would have known where you fought—would have been able to picture you standing bravely on the hill with your friends, with your musket pointed at the American invaders.  But you must have been close to the lake or perhaps behind the hill, for the colours were not to be seen.

            I was restless with nerves, but did not notice until my fidgeting began to bother the little girl.  She asked me why I was unable to sit still, and added, in a perfect imitation of her mother, “Do you need to use the privy, Annie?” 

I did not want to frighten her, so I said “Yes,” and left her.  My friends—Miss Powell, Mary Baldwin, and others—were still sitting in the drawing room with Reverend Strachan, still chattering for all the world as if a battle was not raging and their loved ones were not in danger.  I could not bear to join them, Giles—to pretend that you were safe.  I went outside and paced in the orchard.  The leaves had come out overnight, pale green and tiny.  They were lovely.  There, though, the sound of the fighting seemed doubly close, and I soon found that I could not stand to wait.

            Do not fault me, Giles, for what I did next, for I did it out of fear and love.  Without hat or coat or gloves, I left the orchard and made my way down Lot Street toward the fort.  The wildly flapping Union Jack came and went from sight, as trees or hills or buildings obscured it momentarily.  I turned onto Yonge Street and headed south, passing the McLean house, where I could see both Mr. McLean and his wife in the parlour, presumably trying, like the women at the McGill house, to pretend that nothing was wrong.  I know he must have been aching to help all of you, as he fought so valiantly at Queenston Heights.  His wound had not yet completely healed, though he spared it little heed when necessity called.  I hope you do not hold his failure to be with the regiment against him. 

            It took me the better part of an hour, walking as I was, to even approach the fort, and all the while the sound of artillery grew louder.  The musket fire was constant, and so near that when the road began to tremble with the thunder of hooves, it took me some time to mark the difference.  When I did, I looked up.

            Charles Denison was there, on the big grey horse he loves so much.  He was sweating and stained with black powder, eyes wild as his horse’s, and looking as surprised as I felt.

            He is normally a polite young man, but in that moment he forgot himself.  He called me by my Christian name and asked why I was there.  You would not have recognized his voice, Giles, so cracked was it from shouting and breathing in smoke.

            I grasped his stirrup, the leather startlingly cold beneath my fingers, despite its nearness to the horse.  I demanded to know if you were all right. 

            He shook his head, and for a moment I feared he meant you had been lost, but he soon relieved my worry, if only a little.  I will never forget his words.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t.  I’m sorry, Annie, it’s a shambles out there.  I just don’t know.”  And without another word, he leaned out of the saddle and thrust a bundle of embroidered silk into my arms.  He told me to keep it safe, and wheeled the horse so sharply that he tore the stirrup from my fingers.  Glancing back, he said that it looked as if they would have no choice but to surrender, then added that the men of the regiment would be damned before they saw the colours lost.  Then he was gone, thundering back up the road, the drumbeat of the horse’s hooves blending into the rattle of musket fire.  I was alone in the street.

            I stared down at the crimson silk and the delicate stitching, so much of which I had done myself.  He had given me a task—something to do beyond sitting and waiting.  “Deeds speak.”  It is your regimental motto.  I turned back the way I had come, and ran.

            It took me nearly ten minutes to reach the McLean house, by which time, dear Giles, you can imagine the state I was in.  My dress was soiled with sweat and mud, my hair coming down, and my face all flushed.  I burst into the house without bothering to knock, stumbling to a stop in the foyer. 

Mr McLean and his wife emerged from the parlour, and he caught me by the arm, for I was so tired from my run that I must have looked ready to collapse.

            In wordless answer to their questions, I held out the bundled militia colours.  Mrs. McLean went white, but Mr. McLean, like the officer he is, sprang to action.  He took the colours from me and wrapped them round himself.  He had not been wearing his coat, having not expected company, but he put it on now, buttoning the garment to hold the precious colours to his breast—safely concealed.  He kissed his wife, unashamedly, then turned to me.   He said that we would take the colours back to the McGill house, where we made them, and where they could be hidden on the vast grounds.  Taking me by the arm, he drew me outside and around the house to the stables.

            He bridled his horse, but did not bother to saddle it.  Mounting, he drew me up behind him.  “Hold fast,” he said, and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. 

I have never ridden so fast in all my life!  What had taken me more than half an hour to traverse on foot—and you know, my dear, that I do not walk slowly—took less than fifteen minutes. 

We were just turning off Yonge Street and onto Lot, when it happened.  I felt it first, a great thump deep in the core of my stomach that made my vision pulse once in response.  Then the ground seemed to shudder, the horse stumbled, and, finally, I heard the explosion.

            Mr. McLean wheeled the horse, and we stared together at an entirely unfathomable sight.  Did you see it, Giles?  Did you see the great mass of the magazine lifted into the air like a dollhouse?  Did you see it swell, impossibly, then break apart into flaming chunks of masonry big as wagons?  Did you see them fall to earth?  I pray, for your sake, that you did not.   

            Mr. McLean looked at me, and his eyes were round and dark as the inside of a cannon.  With the fort destroyed, it would not take the Americans long to invade the city proper.  He told me to keep watch, and As soon as I saw the enemy, to run the rest of the way to the McGills’ to warn them.

            I was so stunned I did as I was told.  Slipping off the back of the horse, I stood in the middle of Lot Street and watched Mr. McLean gallop away without me.  I waited, my eyes fixed on the far end of the road, on the sky above the buildings on the west side of Yonge Street, as if the great bulk of the magazine still hovered there.  I was numb, Giles.  I felt nothing—not fear, or dread, or even grief for the men I knew must have died in such a blast.  Even when the Union Jack was lowered and the American flag run up, I felt nothing. 

            When the troops appeared at the corner, I turned and fled, bursting into the McGill house as I had burst in on Mr. and Mrs. McLean.  Miss Powell stood in the middle of the room, face flushed and eyes blazing, shouting at Mr. Mclean, who was holding the colours in his arms.

            She accused him of cowardice, and demanded to know why, after all the work we had put into the flag, the men had sent it back to us.  I hesitated, Giles, in the doorway, and heard Mr. McLean, quite distraught by Miss Powel’s words, shout that he had rather face the Americans than words such as hers.

It was at this point that I interrupted with my news.  Mr. McLean snatched up a length of canvas from two little girls who were practicing their sewing and, leaving them wide-eyed, hurried out into the orchard.  I followed, passing on his heels through the gate that lets out onto the woods.  There, beneath an old beech tree, we buried the colours to keep them safe from the Americans.

            Reverend Strachan convinced Mr. McLean to ride east to Kingston, to help Sir Roger and his army in retreat.  I came home with Dr. and Mrs. Cunningham, who have been a comfort to me.

            A week ago, the Americans finally departed, paroling the militia, as there was no room for prisoners in their ships.  It has been quiet since.  I went back to the woods today, alone, and stood in the cool shade of the beech, over the place where we buried the colours.  The woods smell very much like the cemetery—green and sweet, with the dark undertones of rich earth.  It felt like a desecration to dig the colours up again, but they were needed.  You are needed, too, Giles, and I wish it were as easy to resurrect the dead as it is to resurrect morale.

I took the colours to Reverend Strachan, and he returned them, with much rejoicing, to the officers of your regiment.  Mr. McLean is being called a hero for his part in the preservation.  I have said nothing to anyone but you of the part I played, and I have told you only because I know it would have brought you pleasure—or at least amusement—in life.  In a moment, when I have finished, I will put this letter on the fire.  It is for your eyes only.  Perhaps the smoke will carry my words to you in Heaven, and you will find amusement there, too.  Whatever the case, just writing this has made me feel close to you.  I leave you, now, in the hope that we will be together again.  Until then, I remain,

Your loving fiancée,

Annie Foster

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