Peter closed the door to his bedroom, shutting out the frail murmuring of his daughters in the kitchen. He leaned his broad back against the coarse wood and exhaled.
They’ll thank me, once it’s over, he thought.
He opened his eyes and made his way across the little room. Clothes were piled in one corner, and the sheets of the straw mattress were marred with stains like a soldier’s scars. He stopped in front of the old trunk that sat in the shadow of the mattress.
Peter threw open the dusty trunk and pulled out a pistol. His eyebrows arched down over his dark eyes, but the slightest smile turned the edges of his full lips. He ran his fingers over the glossy wood and rich gold embossments. This was his old pistol from when he fought in the Queen’s service—it’d lain hidden from that moment when he smuggled it in the carriage from Manhattan in 1812 until now. Now it was winter of 1837, and the pistol was as old and heavy as it had been then.
His smile vanished as he pulled the ammunition pouch from the trunk and counted the rounds. Four silvery balls as new as when he carried them in the war, and two rusted balls pulled from the chests of American soldiers. He’d chosen war, and war had destroyed him.
His hand clenched around the pistol grip. The Americans banished him—his family, that is. They banished his father and mother and his six siblings to Upper Canada where the winds howl and farming is nigh-impossible and doctors don’t arrive on time. Brushing away the tear that was collecting in the corner of his eye, Peter stuffed the pistol into his belt and shut the trunk.
The sun coughed from behind a kerchief of translucent clouds. A little light shone on the withered farmyard, with the crooked milk barn in the corner surrounded by the wilted wheat crop, and the farmhouse at the other corner with its porch frowning as if it were the loneliest house in the world. A single gravestone sat gloomily between the two.
Peter strode past the stone, never looking at it, over to the barn. A chilly wind swept his massive salt-and-pepper beard into two tusks flowing out from his hardened face. His thick coat was scabby red, and a brown kerchief adorned his neck.
He stepped into the dusty barn and looked down at his eldest daughter, who milked a white cow in the center of the room while little Thomas peeped into the pail beside her.
Peter stared at them for a moment, his mouth drawn up into a tight line. His heart slowly, meticulously pounded against the inside of his chest.
“Thomas,” he said, voice rumbling like it came from the bottom of the ocean.
Thomas lifted his head of black curly hair and trotted around the cow to where his father stood. He gazed up into his father’s dark face.
Peter knelt down before his son and drew him into an embrace, pressing the boy’s face into the thick brown kerchief. Thomas smiled as he smelled the rich earthiness of the perfumed kerchief.
Peter held his son a moment, stroking his curly head. The hard line of his lips began to break, and Peter let the tear slip out from his eye.
Peter slowly let go of his son and peered into his eyes, which were now even with his.
“I’m leaving,” Peter said, his face steeling again. But the tear still sat like a dewdrop on his cheek.
All was quiet except for the squeak of the cow’s udders in his eldest daughter’s hands.
Thomas gazed into his father’s eyes which were as blue as a storm at sea. “Why do you have to leave so much?” he said, very quietly.
Peter looked into his son’s eyes. They were blue as a silent sea. “I’m going to war,” Peter murmured.
“Why?” Tears were collecting in the corners of Thomas’ eyes. The little boy licked his dry lips.
Squeak, squeak, went the udders.
Peter bit his lip and directed his gaze up to the rafters. They need me. He snapped his eyes shut, picturing the face of his wife, red and sweating from the pox—but still beautiful, still his wife. Never again. Those laws, those men, must die.
Peter clenched his fists and looked at Thomas, the storm in his eyes rising to a tempest. “The Empire can’t protect us, Thomas. When the Americans banished your grandfather for being loyal to his country, the Regulars never showed up. We lost our home,” he said. “We lost your—” He swallowed, unable to bring himself to say the rest. He gripped Thomas’ frail shoulders. “But I won’t lose you,” he hissed. “The Empire won’t protect us, so I will.” He clenched his teeth, the tears flowing freely now. “I will protect you! I! Your Pa!”
“Papa!” Thomas bust into tears, reaching for his father.
Shaking, Peter enfolded his son in a tight embrace. Tears streamed from both their eyes, but Peter felt no comfort.
Squeak, squeak, went the udders.
Slowly, shakily, Peter pushed his little Thomas away. He pursed his bearded lips and nodded to his son, his own words ringing in his ears. I will protect you.
And he rose to his feet.
“Take care of your sisters,” he said, walking over to the rack of farm tools that hung like an arsenal from the wall.
“When will you be back?” His eldest daughter’s voice shot out like a frozen bullet.
Peter stopped, trembling, his hand poised to take one of the tools from the wall. He exhaled, searching for words but not finding them. He knew there was nothing he could say that would revive his daughter’s love for him. He had been gone too many times. Yelled too many times. Failed to save Mamma.
So Peter said nothing. He knit his brows, sucked in a halting breath, and drew his mouth into an unfeeling line.
“Why do you have to go?” the voice stabbed out again.
Peter shut his eyes. “If we can win this rebellion, Upper Canada will be safe.”
“From what? Safe from what?” the tone had risen. Peter heard the creak of the stool sliding back, the little moan of the cows.
Peter turned around to see his eldest daughter standing, back straight, dark blue eyes boring up into his own. Her dress looked dirtier than he had remembered it. She held little Thomas’ hand, and her nostrils flared as she looked at her father.
“Why leave us?” she bit. “Why won’t you just be our father? That’s what Mamma—”
“Don’t speak of your mother like that!” Peter snapped, clenching his fists.
His daughter’s gaze never wavered. “Mamma cared for us; why won’t you?”
War will save us. War will kill the evil looming over our country in the form of an Empire who can’t protect her people. War will give you a rich house and safe land to farm. Peter thought all this but did not say it. It was futile. He had lost his wife and his daughter.
He turned to his eldest daughter, chest tight. “Elizabeth,” he whispered—a farewell. “Then go,” Elizabeth said. Her voice had dropped low, and her gaze followed it.
Peter could find no answer. It felt like someone had scratched the very membrane of his heart. He turned back to the rack of farm tools.
“Papa,” little Thomas whispered as his father picked out a massive pitchfork and walked out of the barn.
Peter ripped the perfumed kerchief from his neck and let it fall to the ground outside the barn. Thomas looked out into the withered yard. The pitchfork had been stabbed into the bare earth, and his father was fastening something around his neck: a blood-red kerchief. The gravestone stood beside him.
***
Samuel Lount watched the red-leaved maples lining the clearing, waiting. Suddenly, he saw a brick of a man with a heavy stride and massive beard walking up between the trees. He emerged into the clearing, glancing briefly at Samuel and the little company standing in the middle of the clearing. Samuel cracked a thin smile, his green, watery eyes shimmering.
“Peter!” he cried, walking over and slapping his friend on the back. Peter did nothing but grip his pitchfork tighter, so Samuel turned to their ragtag band.
Most of the men were middle-aged farmers, some of them veterans and all of them newfound haters of the Empire. They stood stone-faced in a half-circle facing Peter and Samuel. There were about fifteen of them, holding pitchforks, rusted cutlasses, and one or two rifles.
Samuel smiled at their little army. “Men, this is Peter Matthews!” he said, his high voice melting into the sudden wind. “Veteran of 1812 and the Empire’s war to regain the colonies!”
The men said nothing, their dusty faces expressionless.
“Shh! You’re too kind,” said Samuel as if there had been a standing ovation. “Peter will lead us to Don’s Bridge to raise a diversion. Van Egmond and his men sent to us from the Tavern.” Samuel frowned. “I hear that they’re having a time of it.”
Murmurs swept through the small crowd of men. “How many are we up against?” someone asked.
Samuel bit his thin lip and looked up. “Sixty, perhaps?” he said, his voice quiet. “I do not know.”
“We’ll die!” one of the men shouted, shaking a musket. “We’ll die and our children will be slaves of the Empire like we were.”
Peter gripped the pitchfork haft until his knuckles turned white. “No,” he said.
One of the men marched from the crowd to Peter and Samuel. Beneath a tattered tricorn hat, a single eye glared. He came up and leaned so close that Peter could smell rot on the man’s breath.
“Matthews,” he hissed, “you know what will happen if the Regulars take us alive. To fight this battle isn’t a light choice. Why not tell the men?”
Peter’s eyes burned with a hard inner flame. “They already know,” he spat. “We’re committing treason because it could save our children.” Peter’s nostrils flared, and the other man’s single eye grew wide. Peter thrust him back with the haft of his pitchfork. “The Empire betrayed us,” he said, “Let’s not betray one another.”
The one-eyed man stumbled backward a pace. He paused a moment before nodding and marching back into the grim cluster of men.
The wind hissed over the clearing, the trees surrounding them flailing their leaves like drowning soldiers.
Peter turned to Samuel. “Let’s march,” he said.
Samuel nodded, flexing his thin fingers. “Now, men,” he said, raising his hands, “to the rebellion! Freedom for our children!”
“Freedom for our children!” the men echoed. Peter said nothing.
The river stretched like a slithering brown snake across the grey landscape. Winter was just beginning, but only a few patches of snow and red-leaved trees painted the otherwise barren plain. From his perch on the top of a stray boulder, Peter could see down to Mackenzie’s Tavern squatting in a little maple valley. It was just a mile or so beyond the bridge. Don’s Bridge.
Wood beams bulged against the brick structure in such a way you would’ve thought that the architect had torn the trees screaming from their roots and wove them in with their archenemies.
The air was still, but Peter could just catch the sight of smoke rising on the horizon. He turned and looked down at Samuel and the other men huddled beneath the boulder.
“It’s time,” he said. “Our diversion.”
Samuel cracked a smile. “Freedom for our children!” he cried, and the men took it up.
Samuel and the men rushed out in two thin streams around the boulder, jogging out
toward the bridge. Peter stood atop the boulder a moment, watching the men—his men—charge out to battle. He held his pitchfork in one hand, and the other hand rested on his pistol. He exhaled. Freedom for our children. And he leapt off the boulder to join them.
***
It only took a few minutes for Peter to reach the bridge. Handing his pitchfork to one of the men, Peter leapt up the crooked steps of the bridge. He picked up stray bits of straw fallen from passing carts. Samuel barked an order or two, so the men dug up bits of dry grass and leaves and piled them up against the far base of the bridge. They all moved quietly, their thoughts unheard, the only sound the soft hiss of the flowing river.
An armload in hand, Peter jumped off the steps onto the far side of the bridge where Samuel and the other men waited. The grass and leaves stood up in a little triangular mound like a sail, yellowed and bruised after a storm. Peter threw the straw onto this and took a step back.
“Light it up,” he said.
Samuel smiled and pulled a tinderbox from his coat pocket. Kneeling down before the mound like a catechumen about to be baptized, he struck the flint with his knife. A spark caught a bit of hay and ate it. The infant flame found another bit of hay to eat, and soon its feast began with fury. The hungry red fire grew outward like blood from a wound, consuming the little mound.
Then it caught the twisted wood, and the bridge began to shiver.
Peter turned to the man who still held his pitchfork and asked for it back. The man relinquished it, and Peter examined it. The sharp fork-ends, the wood worn smooth with use. When the Regulars came, this would do far better than a gun in close quarters. He turned back to the growing blaze.
As the smoke began to rise, Peter leaned on the pitchfork. His expression was cold beneath his massive beard, and the blue in his eyes swirled like an arctic storm. His forehead wrinkled in anger and fear; fear that this war would not save his children.
Don’s Bridge flamed, crackling and creaking in the afternoon sun. The fire drowned out the sound of the river, till it was all that Peter could hear. Bits of stone and burning wood dropped steaming from the bridge into the river. Peter turned his back on the blaze and focused his gaze on the Tavern, its crumpled roof just peeking out of the valley.
They waited, each passing moment drawn out like a man’s final breaths. The crackling fire, the slight hiss of the wind and the steaming river, and the heavy breathing of the men filled Peter’s ears. He tried to listen for the sound of gunshots in the distance, but the fire was too loud.
But what was that? Peter squinted at the far end of the field, which fell off into the
Tavern’s valley. The edge was only about a musket shot away and unobstructed, so Peter could see it clearly.
Red. Red as blood and wearing heavy white wigs. A bitter smile crept to his lips. The Queen’s Regulars—former protectors, new enemies. There were about twenty of them.
Peter shifted his grip on the pitchfork, leaning forward. “Charge,” he said, barely above a whisper.
He bolted, not knowing whether the men followed. His feet pounded the dry ground and his heart thumped in his ears. His nostrils flared as he kept his eyes locked on the small crop of red-coated soldiers who had emerged from the valley. They knelt in a line like a wound across the valley’s back. Their rifles were down, and Peter remembered what it felt like to be shot. He slowed up a moment and glanced behind him. The fifteen men and Samuel came puffing up behind him, their eyes hard and their teeth bared.
Peter ran on a bit, watching the Regulars to see if they would fire. They’d never fire without an order, as he had learned when he had fought alongside them. But the order could come at any moment. A mounted officer carrying a saber crested the rise and rode up behind the line of soldiers. Peter’s gaze flicked about for some sort of shelter. A few lone trees and rocks dotted the field, but that was all.
The officer raised his saber. Peter dove onto the ground, holding the pitchfork out like a bar for balance.
The first volley erupted. Peter had his eyes shut, but he could hear it: the death-snap of musket balls ripping through the air. He heard the faint puff of a ball crashing into the earth.
Someone screamed. Peter grit his teeth, his fingers curling tighter around the pitchfork haft. They could not lose this war. Not this time.
Peter’s eyes shot open and he jumped to his feet. Without a backward glance he charged, waving the pitchfork, quickly closing the gap between rebels and Regulars as they slowly reloaded.
To Peter, the red line of living, breathing men had become a red line of faceless animals; a wound on the scarred back of Canada. Children must be kept inside as long as these creatures were allowed to roam and eat freely.
Peter made eye contact with the officer, and the other man screamed something to his soldiers. But Peter didn’t hear, though he was only ten paces away. Peter saw the nearest soldier cock his rifle and meticulously bring it up to his shoulder. Before his finger could close on the trigger, a pitchfork had already stabbed deep into his neck and temple.
Peter yanked the fork out of the dead soldier. He dimly saw the other Regulars rise, wielding their bayoneted rifles. Sound seemed to dissipate. Motion seemed to slow. Peter deflected a bayonet swipe and saw Samuel march up and stab the soldier with a knife. Suddenly there was red on more than the Regulars’ coats. Peter could feel the horse galloping. He turned, seeing the officer ride down upon him, saber poised to take a rebel neck. It descended, and Peter struck at it with his fork. The clang of metal sounded, and the saber was on the ground. The officer galloped on a step or two, and Peter’s hand went to his hip. He flipped up his coattail and grasped what was tucked into his belt. He drew the preloaded old pistol and cocked it as he brought it up. The officer’s massive white wig bobbed as he fled the scene, and before he had ridden twenty paces the white wig was no longer white.
Peter exhaled, nostrils flared his pistol still aimed at the now-dead officer.
Victory. Freedom. Freedom for our children. The freedom they need but don’t want.
There was a scream—the high scream of a man who has never known work—and Peter knew the last soldier had been killed. He felt a hand with long fingers grip his shoulder.
“Ha,” huffed Samuel. His voice sounded warbly and far away. Peter could smell the blood on his face. “Success!” Samuel announced.
Peter nodded grimly. A small victory, but it could turn the tide. Make the idiot Queen think about her laws.
He slowly lowered his pistol and returned it to his belt. He turned to Samuel, who grinned, but this time the smile did not quite reach his eyes. Still holding the pitchfork in his left hand, Peter placed his right hand on Samuel’s shoulder.
“Let’s see how Van Egmond and the boys at the Tavern are,” he said. “Excellent,” said Samuel.
The two turned toward the roof of the Tavern, still wrinkled and peeking above the field’s edge. Slowly they walked, and silent.
And the rest of the sixty followed.
Peter had hardly taken five steps when a red tide of soldiers flowed up onto the field.
Half of them were mounted. They ran like bears to the kill, swords flashing in the sunlight, eyes and mouths open and red-rimmed. They were no longer soldiers. They were death itself, galloping, grinning, opening their maw to receive Peter’s very soul.
Peter felt as if he had been frozen to the dry earth. Not even his eyelids moved.
And yet his hand was shaking violently as it clutched the pitchfork. Why? He knew what it was like to be outnumbered. He knew what it was like to meet newer, more powerful foes. Why was this different? Why was Peter Matthews shaking? Samuel should shake. The one-eyed man should shake. But not him! Not Peter Matthews!
His teeth were chattering, though he was not cold. He clenched his chattering teeth. Peter brought his right hand over to join the left in gripping the bloody pitchfork. He leaned forward, muscles tense. Peter Matthews’s last stand, he thought ruefully.
But the soldiers were already upon him. Their swords were already raised.
“God, be with my children,” Peter whispered as the nearest soldier brought his sword down.
But it was the hilt—not the blade—of the soldier’s sword that struck him in the temple.
***
Peter awoke—awoke to a cold dark room of grey stone as he had every morning for the past four months, shackles tight to his wrists and bright yellow light sliding in to mock him. It had been a whole winter of long nights—since the defeat at the Tavern. He glanced to his right. Samuel lay curled up in the corner, his long legs wrapped up like a knot in a rope.
Peter stared at his friend, silent. But Peter was not thinking of Samuel. He was thinking of his children at home: his eldest daughter milking the cow, and little Thomas peeping into the pail. Every day he had thought of them since his capture, and every night he dreamed of them. Of how he could’ve been with them.
A door unlocked from somewhere deep within the prison. Samuel groaned and began to awake. Peter said nothing, listening to the clicking footsteps of an Imperial officer.
Samuel yawned, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. “Where…?” he moaned, glancing sleepily around him.
The footsteps grew louder until at last, a well-dressed officer stopped in front of their cell.
He peered down at the two prisoners with small black eyes. His white wig stuck out like horns from beneath his black hat. His coat was red as blood and he held a parchment in his hands.
The officer cleared his throat, and Peter shut his eyes, a lump forming in his own. “‘For treason, Peter Matthews and Samuel Lount are hereby sentenced to hang this morning of the 12th of April, the year of our Lord 1838…’”
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That was so vividly written. . . . the emotions of conflict, how war can change human beings to monsters in our eyes. I loved the metaphors (“The sun coughed from behind a kerchief of translucent clouds”, the line about the tavern). And the battle was especially well-written: I could feel and imagine what was going on though the descriptions were not graphic.
Wow, thanks, Sarah! I’m so glad you enjoyed the story! Metaphors are the best. :)
This is very good. It drew me from one line to the next as I read it out loud to my husband. Family history is always intriguing, but all the more when so descriptively presented. You truly have a gift of writing. I’m in the process of reading your book, “Outlaw Blood.” Who knows, maybe you’ll accelerate to the top of my “favorite authors list.” After all, for a moment, I could feel the heart of Peter and pictured his last stand as if I were in the field watching. Well done.
Thanks so much, Aunt Carol! Family history is indeed really fascinating–I’m surprised there was so much info on Peter. I think on Wikipedia it said someone’s made a movie about the story, with the focus on Samuel Lount, who is I think a little bit better documented historically.
Hahah it would be an honor to make it onto that list!
I love this story so much, Noah! Such skillful writing- the creative metaphors are so good; this is one of my favorite things you’ve written so far! ;D
Thanks, Levi! I really appreciate that!
I didn’t know about my (6th?) great-grandfather until today. Great job Noah. I’m also in the middle of Outlaw Blood. You’ve done a remarkable job for your first novella, but I’m not surprised! And I’m certain you’ll become a fantastic filmmaker, too. I’m also impressed with the skill level of your marketing. I’m looking forward to what comes next for you!
Thanks, Gay Lynn! Peter Matthews has such a cool story! Tragic, but cool. I’m thinking of naming one of my future kids after him, hahah.
I really appreciate the compliments! And I’m so glad you’re enjoying Outlaw Blood! You’ll have to tell me what you think of the ending!