Billy Green Saves the Day. Ben Guyatt

Apologize.”

      “Sorry,” Billy mumbled.

      “You hardly touched your supper,” Isaac said, lightly tapping Billy with his foot. “Your sister’s cooking isn’t that bad, is it?”

      Levi grinned, pretending to shoot a musket. “He’s just mad because he can’t fight the Americans.”

      “That’s enough out of you, too,” Adam said sharply to Levi.

      Isaac rolled up his sleeve. “Let me tell you something, Billy. War isn’t what you want it to be. When I fought at Queenston Heights, well, let’s just say I saw men die horrible deaths.” He pointed at an awful scar. “This is what a bayonet can do to a man.”

      Billy jumped to his feet. “Do you always have to show me that stupid scar? You’ve had your turn! This war will be over by the time I see any action!”

      Adam stared hard at his younger son. “Watch your tongue! I’m not going to tell you again. Understand?” Billy lowered his head as Adam leaned forward in the chair. “Let’s get something straight, Billy. You’re not going to fight. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to stay. This family has suffered enough at the hands of the Americans.”

      Billy paced the porch. “You can’t have it both ways, Pa. You despise them, but you won’t let me fight!”

      “The subject is closed,” Adam said, and began rocking again.

      Slapping one of the beams holding up the roof of the porch, Billy said, “You’re the one who’s always telling me how your brother died and how the Yanks stole your land. I want to join the army!”

      “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you all those things. It was wrong ... I guess. But this much I do know, you’re not going to be in this war.” Adam relit his pipe as his eyes drifted off. “I made a promise to your mother. I took an oath on her deathbed that you would be free from the horrors of war, and I intend to keep my word.”

      “I’m so tired of being babied by you. It’s well within my rights to fight the enemy, for God’s sake!”

      Adam leaped from the chair and gripped Billy by the collar. He pushed his son to the wall and lifted him off his feet as Levi and Isaac tried to pull him off. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain again. Your mother died from years of child-bearing. You owe it to her to stay alive.”

      Billy wrestled free and gasped for air. “She was your wife. You want me to pay a debt I have nothing to do with. I didn’t ask to be born!”

      The last comment crushed Adam, and he slowly sank into the chair as Isaac and Levi looked away uneasily.

      “I’m ... I’m sorry, Pa. I didn’t mean that.”

      “Are you still seeing Sarah?” Adam asked after a long silence.

      “Yes ...” Billy shuffled his feet. “I ... I love her.”

      “I forbid you to see that girl.”

      “My personal life’s none of your business.”

      Adam slammed his fist against the chair’s arm, causing it to splinter. “She’s the daughter of an American sympathizer, Billy!”

      “What about you? You’re an American!”

      “I was an American, but I’m not anymore. It’s bad enough I had to beg the Crown for this three hundred acres of useless land, but to have to endure the likes of her and her father as neighbours — that’s unbearable!” Adam got up and started for the door.

      “I’m going to marry her whether you like it or not!” Billy cried, scrambling off the porch.

      “You do and I’ll disown you!” Adam shouted.

      Suddenly, Billy halted and turned toward his father. “Then find another son.” After that he disappeared into the darkness.

      There was an uncomfortable quiet until Adam glanced at Levi. “I want you to stay over and keep an eye on Billy for a few days. If the Americans get this far, Billy’s liable to do something stupid.”

      “I ... I got my own family to look after, Pa.”

      “This is your family,” Adam growled. “Just do it.” He went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

      At Burlington Heights, situated between the lake on one side and a marsh on the other, the British Army had turned a farm into a fortress. Earthworks were built and eleven guns were stationed behind them. The fields were cleared, trees were felled, and fences were broken to provide a clear firing range should the Americans attack.

      Inside a marquee tent, General Vincent sat at a desk with his head in his hands, staring at a piece of paper reviewing the numbers and names of the men killed, wounded, and captured at Fort George. He shoved the papers away, dipped a quill into an ink jar, and scribbled: “This position, though strong for any large body, is far too extensive for me to hope to make any successful stand against superior force understood to be advancing against me.”

      Vincent closed his private journal, retrieved a fresh piece of paper, and began to write his last will and testament, but stopped when there was a disturbance outside the tent. It burst open as a bedraggled, unshaven man in his late forties barged past the sentries.