A Campfollower's Tale
By Brenda Lightfoot
The sun is just rising above the trees and the drums are calling the men to arms.
My husband fumbles for his tunic while I shiver in the early morning chill. The sergeant
is screaming orders and with a hasty embrace my husband runs to form up with his
comrades. The air crackles with excitement. The enemy is near and the King's men must
advance to meet them. I watch with eyes that have already seen the price paid in
the name of victory. Dressing quickly, I gather together our belongings. Already
camp is breaking and I must be ready to move at a moment's notice. Drawing my cloak tight, I move
through the camp in search of my friend Victoria. There would be a roaring fire and
hot tea just outside her tent and I need both to ward off the chill that envelopes
me as musket fire echoes in the still of the morning. Standing as close to the fire as
I dare, my thoughts reflect on the uncommon circumstances that have brought me here.
I was the second daughter born into the Butler family. Baptized Mary, I grew to adulthood
in the small settlement of Clarkson near Lake Ontario. My parents had come here to
live shortly after the American rebellion. Being Empire Loyalists, they came north
to remain under a monarchy. In my seventeenth year I had the good fortune to attract
the attentions of Abel Howard, whose family owned land near the town of York. Being
of a strong and independent nature, Mr. Howard chose to make his own way rather than
labour on the family farm. We wed shortly after he had secured an apprenticeship at
Skinner's Mill, on the Don River. In the spring of 1813 the Americans advanced to
attack York. I was a bride of only two months when the call to arms came. Mr. Howard
did not hesitate to do his duty.
My husband joined with Captain Kerby's Company garrisoned at Fort York. I did not
question his decision to place my name in the lottery that would determine what wives
could go with their men. On a warm April morning we all gathered outside the east
Blockhouse near Garrison Creek. My eyes searched the ranks for a glimpse of Mr. Howard.
Just to see his face would give me courage. My heart was pounding so hard I felt
I would not live to hear the next name called. I still relive the moment when the
Company Adjutant drew from a hat the one piece of paper that might change my life forever. Closing
my eyes tight I fought to keep from swooning. I heard my name called as if from a
great distance. I wonder now if God had been answering my prayer, or just playing
some cruel joke. I was not among the wives whose wailing echoed around the fort as the
officer withdrew. I didn't know it then, but my joy at being chosen came at a tremendous
cost.
That same evening a musket shot from Gibraltar Point signaled the sighting of enemy
ships. There was great activity as soldiers formed up to march out or scattered about
the garrison for sentry duty. I could see the excitement, even cheerfulness, as they
readied to fight the Americans. Huddled in the door of the Blockhouse I watched with
fascination the eagerness exhibited by men preparing for battle. I didn't understand
but recognized they did this for King and country.
As I tried to settle for the night I yearned for the seclusion of my own bedchamber.
How could one sleep surrounded by the snuffling and snoring of so many strangers?
Lying in the bunk allotted to me I tried hard not to listen to the whisperings around
me. Mr. Howard was on patrol, leaving me to spend my first night alone. The light of
a small lantern barely penetrated the overpowering darkness that seemed stifling.
The smell of unwashed bodies was pervasive. Drawing a blanket close to my face I
quickly gulped back the small cries that wanted to escape from my throat. I did not want to greet
my husband with eyes swollen from weeping. I was the wife of a soldier now.
Dawn brought with it the sound of guns coming from the direction of the lake. A high
wind lashed around those gathered outside to wait. The barrage of cannon fire intensified
as the day wore on. The threat of immediate invasion caused a commotion among the soldiers left behind. They herded us quickly through the west gate while close by
the drums could be heard frantically beating the retreat. Volleys of musket fire
reverberated in all directions and an unnatural fog rolled over the palisades. Without
warning, an incredible thunderbolt rent the air. Looking up, I watched as a huge black
cloud rose to the heavens and wreckage stormed down from out of nowhere. In horror
I beheld one of our escorts, crushed beneath a huge block. Before I could even grasp
the enormity of what had happened I felt someone shove me roughly from behind. Gathering
my wits about me I fled as fast as I could away from that poor mans appalling death.
With a fear I could barely contain, I made for the woods with the other women and
children. It seemed an eternity before we sighted one of our patrols in the distance. I
prayed to God that Mr. Howard would be among those left alive. With our meager belongings
clasped tight we straggled out to meet them. The battle had not gone well for the
British and we retreated east from York under orders from General Sheaffe. We took a
quick respite on the shores of the Don River, two miles from where I began my married
life. Relief at seeing Abel alive and unharmed drove away any feelings of regret
I might have felt at leaving my home. It would be the end of summer before I passed this
way again.
I was fortunate to fall in with a woman named Victoria Simmons. Without her strength
and comfort I would not have made it from Kingston to Newark. At the start, the army
moved slowly and camped with regularity. As time went on I found myself travelling
in weather that was becoming increasingly cold and wet. It was her words of encouragement
that got me to the next encampment where a hot mug of tea helped dispel the ever-present
chill.
Living under canvas came as a shock to me. The intimacies of married life became common
knowledge. I recall my initial disgust at hearing crude remarks bandied about by
the soldiers in the mornings. With disbelief, I discovered that my future was dependent on gaining the favours of one of these men. If my husband was to die I had two days
in which to secure another, or be left to fend for myself without the protection
of the army. Mr. Howard encouraged me to accept the little gallantries bestowed by
the still-unwed soldiers who entreated me to wash their shirts or sew a button on a tunic.
This afforded me an opportunity to earn a bit of coin for the purpose of procuring
fresh provisions whenever we passed a farm or village. The rations allotted were
barely edible and meant only to sustain the body. When a newly plucked chicken or
piece of unsalted beef found its way into the pot it was cause for celebration. I would take
uncommon delight in the look on Mr. Howard's face each time I was able to secure
one of these small luxuries. With each day as tedious as the one before, the slightest
departure from routine was excuse for a little merriment.
Sitting about the fire in the evenings helped to strengthen my friendship with Mrs.
Simmons. The flames‚ light would flicker across her face, marking the furrows and
lines that told a tale of hardship. She was no stranger to the rigors of camp life.
Her words of wisdom guided me through many arduous moments. I still remember her kindness
tome when my husband volunteered to be one of the Forlorn Hope in a forthcoming raid
on Fort Niagara. Being the first soldiers to engage the enemy, the chances of survival
were remote.
It was a bitter cold December night and only Victoria's arms wrapped tight around
me staved off the dread that encircled my heart. Holding back tears that threatened
to trickle down my face I allowed her to draw me back to the warmth of the fire.
I could not have survived that night without her companionship. The morning brought reports
of our astounding victory in routing the Americans. Captain Kerby had garnered glory
for his men by being the first officer to enter the fort. Later accounts painted
a vivid portrait of drummers beating out the British Grenadiers from the rooftop of a structure
known as the French castle.
A leg wound from a musket ball resulted in our staying on at Fort George for the rest
of winter. The rest of the company was to travel back to York, there to regroup as
a battalion. They would return in the spring, better trained for use in the front
lines. Sorrow felt in parting from my friend became easier, tempered with the understanding
that we would meet again. In the beginning, tending to my husbands injury occupied
most of my time. He had a natural fear of surgeons, who would simply cut off any
limbs that displayed signs of being rotten. One would hear tales of soldiers screaming
for a quick death when faced with the blade. Very few survived the ordeal of having
a leg or arm brutally severed from the rest of their body.
I had some knowledge of poultices that could draw poison and used this skill to affect
a complete recovery of Mr. Howard's leg. I am of the belief that our respect and
affection strengthened as a result of my diligent care. Shamefully, I feel only a
little bitterness towards the man who shot my husband. If not for his bad aim, I would not
have had this opportunity to reacquaint myself with having a solid roof over my head
and wood floors to walk on.
I became accustomed to spending most of my time in the soldiers barracks. Winter seemed
to vent all its fury on us, making it difficult to venture anywhere outdoors. With
so many families forced to live together, tempers grew short and petty grievances
a daily occurrence. On many occasions, Mr. Howard would endeavor to reconcile our stay
here, with promises of exacting revenge on the very next American that came into
view. Our situation became increasingly severe when rations began to dwindle. Each
day found more of us suffering from the ague. I had the misfortune to fall ill myself, but
managed to avoid the lingering weakness that plagued most of the soldiers. The arrival
of warmer weather brought a decided improvement in both body and spirit. Fear that
American forces would overrun the fort rallied many of the soldiers to resume their duties.
Accounts detailing the total devastation of the town of St. Davids caused a tremendous
uproar in every quarter. One could hardly give credence to stories of women and children being driven from their homes. This brought about a greater determination
to repulse the enemy.
The beginning of summer marked the return of the Incorporated Militia under the command
of Lieutenant-Colonel Robinson. Mr. Howard was impatient to resume his duties and
I soon found myself encamped on the banks of Four Mile Creek. With our men away almost every day on patrol, the cool waters of the creek proved inviting to many of the
wives wanting to escape the summer heat. Sitting near the water's edge, I would find
relief in wetting my dress and letting it dry in the hot sun. Evenings proved no
better as swarms of tiny pests tormented a body to distraction. Standing in the smoke of the
fire, or smearing mud on the bites provided some ease. There was no escape from the
battle we waged with natures army.
Each time Mr. Howard left camp I would take particular care to wish him well. Knowing
that he might not come back made this ritual all the more significant. Returning
to our tent late one evening, I felt alarm at discovering he'd gone, with no word
having passed between us. Sleep eluded me all that night and only the distant sounds of artillery
fire roused me from my palliasse. I joined the other women in the early light at
the edge of camp. Victoria's apparent calm drew me immediately to her side. Her soft words helped to keep panic at bay as we endeavored to wait out the day. The moon
was sitting low in the sky when word reached us that the Incorporated had suffered
severe casualties. Those of us who could, set off in the direction of Lundy's Lane
in the hope of finding loved ones still alive.
Remembrance of what I saw that night still has the power to haunt me. The moons light
barely penetrated the drifting smoke that shrouded the scene in ghostly garments.
Sounds of moaning came from all directions. I made my way past the dark silhouette
of a church. How ironic that God's house should stand guard here. Stumbling, I fell onto
the lifeless body of what appeared to be a young drummer boy. Even in the dark it
was apparent his face was gone, scrubbed away by some unearthly hand. I could not
stop the bile that rose in my throat. I covered my mouth in horror at the thought that this
was once someone's son.
Hands reached out of the dark to grab my dress as I tried to escape the smell of black
powder mixed with the scent of death. I could not bring myself to join the other
women in stripping the dead of their clothes. Amidst the trees of an orchard, I struggled to come to grips with the carnage that became clearer in the early light of dawn.
Bodies in red tunics and gray jackets mingled with dead animals in a grotesque pattern.
I cannot recall walking back to camp. My senses reeled from the pain of our victory, paid for in the blood of so many good men.
Victoria's hand on my arm draws me back to the present, and with a weak smile I join
the ranks of the campfollowers moving out. Both Abel and I have survived the scars
inflicted that night at Lundy‚s Lane. With the good fortune God saw fit to send our
way, we will welcome our first child in the spring. The war cannot last forever and I
look forward to the time when I will be just the miller‚s wife, living on the banks
of the Don River.
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