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be in the way. I could even help,” I pleaded.
    â€œYou will be helping, but that help will be here. With so many men away in the militia there isn’t enough help to bring in the crops.”
    â€œYou mean I’ll be working here . . . on this farm?” I couldn’t believe it.
    â€œThat is correct. Part of the crop, ground into flour, will go back to you and your family as your wages. And part will go to other families in the area. Families that might go hungry this winter without the aid of Mr. DeCew. There’s not much point in winning this war if our crops are lost and our people starve, is there? Our farms are what we’ll have when it’s all over. So working here will help, won’t it?”
    â€œYes, sir . . . it will,” I acknowledged. And I couldn’t help thinking then of my Ma and the rest of my family, trying to work two farms with no men at home, not even me. What was I doing, dreaming of adventure, when they needed me so much? Part of me wanted to go back, but another part of me wanted to try my luck with the Bully Boys.
    â€œYou don’t look happy,” FitzGibbon observed.
    â€œIt’s just . . . just that I . . .”
    â€œYou want to be part of our expedition.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI remember how eager I was at your age. All I wanted was to leave behind my sleepy little village and find adventure. I enlisted when I was only two years older than you.”
    It sounded so exciting, and I wanted to be part of it all. Hadn’t I proved something back there in the store?
    FitzGibbon put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m certain the storekeeper has already gotten word to your mother that I’ve taken you away to a place of safety. And safety does not include you coming with me . . . especially with what we have planned next.”
    I was dying to know what he had planned, but it wasn’t my place to ask.
    FitzGibbon stopped at the door to the house and knocked. A woman, who was introduced to me as Mrs. DeCew, answered the door, and we were ushered into the kitchen, where Mr. DeCew joined us. He was older—and smaller—than I remembered. They were nice people and they made me feel comfortable and welcome. Mrs. DeCew then took me upstairs and showed me where I’d be sleeping. It was a big, spacious room—much bigger than the one I shared with my brother. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep without him pulling off the blankets and kicking me.
    When we returned to the kitchen, FitzGibbon was sitting at the table with Mr. DeCew and another man. Spread out in front of them was a large piece of paper, a roughly drawn map. They were talking very loudly and seemed to be in the middle of an argument. Who was this man that he would argue with FitzGibbon?
    FitzGibbon looked up. “Tommy, come, I want you to meet somebody. This is William Merritt, the leader of this militia division.”
    â€œI’m pleased to meet you,” I said as we shook hands.
    He didn’t look much older than me! I couldn’t believe that anybody that young could be in charge.
    I must have been staring because FitzGibbon said, with a smile, “Yes, he is very young,” and I felt myself blush.
    All three men laughed.
    â€œI get that all the time,” Mr. Merritt said. “I’m twenty.”
    Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze to the crude, sketched-out map on the table. It showed the Niagara River and the creeks leading into it, Fort George, Queenston, and on the American side, Fort Niagara and Lewiston. Just north of Lewistown was a red X.
    â€œThank goodness you’re not an American spy or you’d know our plans,” FitzGibbon said, pointing to the map. “X marks the spot.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to spy, honestly!” I said, alarmed.
    â€œIt’s all right, Thomas.” FitzGibbon chuckled. “I was just having fun with you.”
    â€œAre you really going to invade the States?” I asked in