Free The Bully Boys by Eric Walters Page B

asked. “Is he staying with you or coming with me?”
    FitzGibbon smiled. “Leave a fifth horse behind.”
    â€œThank you!” I cried. “Thank you!”
    â€œMake good speed, William. I’ll be done in thirty minutes and be by your side in less than forty.”
    Merritt left and we were alone again.
    â€œLet’s get started,” FitzGibbon said. “Tommy, I want you to pick up an axe and smash open all those barrels in the back. Be careful, though, they’re filled with whisky.”
    â€œBut wouldn’t it be better to destroy other things . . . food and clothing and blankets?” I suggested, gesturing to the still crammed shelves.
    â€œThat we are, Tommy,” he answered. “The whisky is just the best available fuel for the fire.”
    â€œFire?”
    â€œYes, we’re burning this blockhouse to the ground.”
    * * *
    FITZGIBBON, myself and two soldiers flew through the stores, smashing open the barrels of whisky. The air stank with the pungent smell of the alcohol. More than once one of the soldiers commented on the waste we were perpetrating. At first, I thought he meant setting fire to all the supplies, but really he meant the whisky spilling all over the floor.
    At the edges of the spilled whisky we placed black gunpowder, the bags torn open to allow the powder to spill out. Next, scraps of paper and clothing, ripped into shreds, were thrown around the room.
    â€œWell, here we go,” FitzGibbon said.
    He picked up one of the oil lamps and threw it toward a pile of alcohol-soaked cloth. The glass smashed noisily and the flames flashed free, catching the scraps instantly. A line of flames ran across the floor, seeking the spilled liquid. Although we were clear across the room, the resulting whoosh and rush of hot air shot back at us. I watched with fascination as the veins of fire raced around the room.
    â€œIt’s caught. We’d better get outside before any of the powder ignites,” FitzGibbon suggested.
    I’d forgotten all about that. The four of us rushed out the door and to the soldier who was waiting, musket in hand, watching both the horses and the roadway in both directions. We all climbed on the mounts and moved to the gate. I couldn’t help but think that this was the second time I’d stolen an American horse. I guess they couldn’t hang me more than once anyway.
    Looking back at the blockhouse there was nothing to see except a dim light shining through the one window facing our way.
    â€œAre you sure it caught?” one of the men asked.
    â€œOh, it caught for sure,” another answered. “It’ll just take a few—”
    His words were cut off by a massive explosion! My horse cried out and reared up on its hind legs. As I struggled to regain control there was a second explosion, louder than the first, followed almost immediately by what felt like a shower of hail. The force of the explosion had hurled debris into the air. My horse bucked again and rocketed forward through the gate, galloping wildly for a few seconds before I finally reined it in and it came to a halt.
    I turned back toward the blockhouse. The entire roof was gone, blown up, and monstrous flames shot up into the sky. It was an amazing sight! The closest thing I could even imagine was the description of Hell’s fires I’d heard from the minister’s pulpit in church.
    â€œWhat a glorious explosion!” FitzGibbon yelled fromatop his horse. “That would have been heard from the Falls all the way to Fort George and beyond! Now we have to make haste. I’d prefer not to be here when they come to see what happened.”
    I brought my horse over to where he and the other men waited and together we charged down the road, to catch the rest of the men, find the boats and get back to Canada.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œ S O HOW are you doing, Tommy?”
    I recognized FitzGibbon’s voice and quickly spun around. He