Free The Bully Boys by Eric Walters

if I joined them now.
    As I approached, the six men at the gate split off into two groups. Three went up the road toward Lewiston while the others went down the road in the direction of Fort Niagara.
    Immediately I knew what was being done: pickets were being sent out to guard the approaches to the blockhouse, to warn of approaching soldiers. There was no telling how far afield the sounds of the battle had travelled.
    I braced myself and then peeked through the gate. Other torches had been lit and I could clearly see the ground between the wall and the blockhouse. There were American soldiers, at least twenty, standing in the open, their arms in the air, with a ring of militia and redcoats standing guard, muskets at the ready. There were a few blue-coats lying on the ground beside the others— wounded, I guessed.
    I’d seen one of our men go down at the gate. Was itFitzGibbon, or Merritt, or one of the others? I had to find out.
    I stepped in through the gate and stumbled. I looked back. I’d tripped over the legs of a man lying on the ground.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I stammered.
    â€œSave your breath, he won’t be hearing you.”
    I turned around to face the voice. It was one of our men, Jennings. I didn’t understand what he meant until I looked closer at the fallen soldier. He wore a blue American uniform. The front was smeared with the red of blood.
    â€œIs he . . . ?”
    â€œHe’d better be dead,” the soldier offered.
    I stepped back from the corpse, still staring at his face. His eyes were open, staring blankly up into the night sky. All at once my stomach gave a flip.
    â€œYour first battle, son?” he asked.
    I nodded. “The Lieutenant, is he . . . is he . . . ?”
    â€œHe’s fine. I think bullets bend around that man.”
    â€œBut I saw somebody fall.”
    â€œGarrett caught one in the shoulder . . . not serious. Only two wounded, none killed.”
    â€œWhere is the Lieutenant?” I asked.
    â€œInside the blockhouse,” he answered, motioning to the front door of the building. “Go in and see for yourself.”
    As I walked I tried not to stare at the American prisoners, but the groaning of one of the men lying on the ground drew my gaze. Another soldier was binding his leg with a blood-stained cloth.
    I opened the door and looked inside. It was brightly lit,with oil lamps positioned all around. Shelves crammed with provisions lined the walls from top to bottom and divided the large room. Barrels and sacks and wooden crates were piled in the aisles. It reminded me of Mr. McCann’s store, before the war, except it was bigger, stocked with even more supplies.
    â€œHold the door!” a soldier called out.
    I pulled it wide open and he exited the building carrying a half dozen muskets. No sooner had he passed than two more men came with similar loads. I found a broom and wedged it in against the door so it would remain open. Two more men came, carrying between them a wooden crate. Judging from the strained looks on their faces it must have been very heavy. Glancing around at the abundance I quickly realized there was no possible way that we could make off with all of these supplies.
    In the corner, hovering over a desk, stood FitzGibbon and Merritt and another soldier. As I got closer I realized there was also a fourth man, dressed in a blue American uniform, who was sitting at the desk. Together the four of them were going through a large book. I moved closer— close enough to see and hear without being right there on top of them.
    It quickly became apparent that the American was the supply officer for the blockhouse. He knew all of the contents of the building and where they were stored. FitzGibbon and Merritt were politely asking him questions and he was giving them answers. FitzGibbon would then have soldiers sent to those locations to remove the supplies.Mainly he was asking about weapons and ammunition and powder.