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  Siege

  Jacqueline Pearce

  O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S

  Copyright © 2014 Jacqueline Pearce

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Pearce, Jacqueline, 1962-, author

  Siege / Jacqueline Pearce.

  (Orca currents)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0751-8 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0754-9 (bound).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0752-5 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0753-2 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8581.E26S53 2014 jC813’.6 C2014-901588-7

  C2014-901589-5

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935395

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Jason and his friends witness a crime at a War of 1812 reenactment camp.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by Danielle Naherniak

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  For my nieces and nephews

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Author’s note

  Chapter One

  Gunfire rings in my ears.

  “Second line…Fire!” Major Helston, our commanding officer, yells above the noise.

  I squeeze the trigger of my musket and…nothing happens. I try again.

  Poof. Gunpowder bursts in my face. A rotten-egg smell stings my nose.

  “Flash in the pan,” my cousin Sean says near my ear. Trust him to know the 1812 name for a gun misfire.

  According to the rules for this phony battle, a soldier whose gun doesn’t fire is a dead soldier. I glance behind me, hoping Major Helston hasn’t noticed my firing fail. But there he is, stepping out of the smoke like a devil in his red British officer’s uniform. His rust-colored cheek whiskers flare out like flames on either side of his face.

  “Soldier!” He lifts a beefy finger and points right at me. “You’re dead!”

  I clutch at my chest as if I’ve been shot and drop to the ground. This is so lame. Sean steps over my body as his line advances. I groan as if I’m not quite dead yet and shift position, trying to trip him. Instead, I snag his foot, and he kicks me in the ribs.

  “Serves you right,” he says as he marches on without me.

  I lie on the field as the rest of my battalion marches forward. Musket smoke rises around me, and I can’t see if there’s anyone else on the ground. I’m sweating in this hot uniform. There’s no shade, and it’s got to be ninety degrees out here. The grass under my cheek is dry and prickly, and a rock jabs into my hip. I think an ant is crawling up my pant leg. Why did I let Sean talk me into this?

  When Sean invited me camping with him in Canada this summer, reenactment camp was not what I had in mind. His family has an RV, so I thought we’d be at one of those big campgrounds with a swimming pool and miniature golf…and girls. And showers. And Internet access and electricity for recharging my phone. Although it doesn’t matter that we have no electricity and no Internet, since Major Hell Storm confiscated all our phones and devices. Because, of course, soldiers in 1812 did not have electronics.

  There wasn’t much I could do once I got to my aunt and uncle’s place in Toronto and found out where Sean planned to drag me. I couldn’t turn around and go back to Syracuse. My parents had already left for Switzerland and their big European cruise.

  “It’ll be fun, Jason,” Sean had said. “Like laser tag, but with muskets.”

  Right. At least with laser tag the guns work. And I’ve never had to spend the whole game lying on the ground dressed like an idiot and sweating like a pig. Sean didn’t mention the War of 1812 soldier uniforms until after his dad dropped us off at Old Fort Erie, and it was too late for me to back out. We don’t even get to wear the proper red coats (for the British and Canadian soldiers) or blue coats (for the Americans) until the big battle at the end of the week. Instead, we’ve all got baggy white shirts and white pants with suspenders. They call the pants breeches, and instead of a zipper, they have a flap with buttons. Kind of like the style pirates wore, I guess. But without the cool factor.

  I peer through the smoke, trying to make out the lines of play soldiers. Something bumps my foot. I look up past a pair of black officer’s boots and see a long tanned hand reach down through the smoke.

  “On your feet, soldier,” orders Lieutenant Gunner, our second in command.

  Chapter Two

  I take Lieutenant Gunner’s hand, and he pulls me up in one swift, strong movement. He’s tall, lean and way younger than Major Helston. He actually looks good in his tight-fitting red jacket and tall black hat with its shiny plate and white plume. He looks like an officer in a movie about the War of 1812.

  “You’ve recovered,” he says. “It’s a miracle!”

  He grins at me like we’re both in on the joke, and I smile back. Could it be that easy? I glance around for Major Helston.

  “Don’t worry about Helston,” Gunner says, as if he’s read my mind. “He won’t see us until the smoke’s cleared, and by then the battle will be over.” He nods toward my musket. “So what’s the problem?”

  I explain about my musket misfiring. He’s going to think I’m a real loser. Instead, he nods.

  “Pretty common with nineteenth-century muskets,” he says. “Make sure you clean it before you load it again.” He holds his own gun out to me. “Give this one a try. It’s primed and loaded.”

  I exchange my musket for his and take aim across the field. Through the rising smoke and bright orange blasts of musket fire, I see the white uniforms of the other soldiers. I can’t tell which side is which. I hesitate for a second, reminding myself that there are no bullets in the gun. Then I squeeze the trigger.

  Bang!

  I feel the gun kick back in my hands as flame and smoke burst from the end of the barrel. Cool.

  “Reload, soldier,” Gunner orders. There is a note of amusement in his voice—like he’s not taking this stuff half as seriously as everyone else seems to be.

  I grin, thumb open the priming pan and take a paper cartridge from the cartridge box hanging at my side. I bite off the top of the cartridge, tap a bit of powder into the pan and then close the pan. I glance at Gunner to check that I’ve done it right, and he nods. Then I lower the musket butt to the ground and pour the rest of the powder down the barrel. I raise the gun, get in position and fire.

  Bang!


  Another perfect fire.

  “Well done,” says Gunner.

  I thank him and hand back the musket.

  “Not much point to being here if you don’t get to shoot,” he says.

  After the battle ends, I catch up to Sean outside the mess hall. It’s actually a big white tent set up outside the walls of the fort. Our sleeping tents are lined up at this end of the field too. And when I say field, I mean it. That’s all there is. There’s a dry ditch around the fort walls, and then a big, flat grassy area with some trees at one end. No swimming pool. No miniature golf. No junk-food store. No anything.

  Sean’s face is pink from sun and exertion. I notice his breeches are still white, while mine are stained with dirt and grass. He grins when he sees me.

  “That was cool, hey?” he says.

  I lift one eyebrow and don’t smile. “I wouldn’t know. I spent it lying on the ground.” For some reason, I don’t tell him about Lieutenant Gunner. Maybe I don’t want to admit that shooting a musket actually was pretty cool.

  Sean’s eyes drop to my musket, which I’m kind of leaning on like a crutch, with the muzzle pointed to the sky.

  “You’re supposed to hold it like this when you’re at rest,” he says, jiggling the gun on his shoulder. “If that was primed, it could discharge and shoot you in the face.”

  I scowl at him, and then I remember that I haven’t cleaned the gun yet. Quickly, I shift the musket to my shoulder. Sean is way too into this. He’s lucky he’s my favorite cousin.

  We leave our muskets propped next to an empty table and join the food line. The food laid out on a long table smells good. But they served us a few weird things last night when we arrived, so my expectations are not high. Behind the table is an older woman and a teenage girl who might be mother and daughter. They’re both wearing old-fashioned cloth caps and long dresses with aprons over top. We definitely will not be getting hamburgers or hot dogs.

  When I finally get to the table, I grab a plate and hold it up. Ahead of me, the woman serves Sean something that looks like beef stew.

  “Cock-a-leekie soup?” asks the girl. She holds a big wooden ladle over a large pot.

  “What?” I raise an eyebrow.

  She laughs, and I notice she has a dimple in one cheek. Strands of curly black hair escape from under her white cap.

  “I know,” she says. “Sounds rude, but it’s chicken soup.” She lifts the lid off the pot, and a delicious smell escapes with the steam.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll risk it.”

  I watch her ladle soup into a bowl. How does a cute girl like her end up in the middle of a bunch of nerds like this?

  “So, is this a summer job?” I ask as she hands me the bowl.

  “Job?” she echoes. Again, that cute dimple appears in her cheek. “My da’s stationed at the fort,” she says. “He’s in the King’s 8th Regiment. Ma and I stay in the barracks with him.” She nods toward the older woman.

  For a second I wonder if the girl is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but then I realize she is playing a part. I want to ask her more, but the guy behind me is getting impatient. She gives me a sort of wink as she turns to serve him. At least I think it’s a wink. Did I imagine it? She glances back at me, her dark eyes sparkling. Is she flirting with me, or laughing at me?

  I move on to the stew and then grab a couple of slices of bread and catch up to Sean. We find the table where we left our muskets and slide onto the bench seat.

  Carter and Arman, two guys we met yesterday, sit across from us. They remind me of those Muppets, Bert and Ernie. Carter, the one with the round head like Ernie, has brown hair gelled into short tufts on top of his head. I’m surprised the major didn’t confiscate his hair gel when he took our phones and stuff.

  “Dude, did you see all that smoke?” says Arman, the one with the long face. He looks like he could be from the Middle East, which doesn’t exactly fit the Bert and Ernie comparison. Or the North American War of 1812. But then, I’m part Ukrainian on my mom’s side, which doesn’t exactly fit either.

  “When they fought for real, how did they tell who they were shooting at?” Arman asks.

  Carter punches him in the shoulder. “Pretty hard to hit anyone when your gun doesn’t fire,” he jokes.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Arman says, punching him back.

  I’m relieved to hear that I wasn’t the only one with musket trouble. I notice there is a smudge of black down Arman’s cheek, which must be the result of the gunpowder flashing in his face. Do I have black on my face too? Is that why the girl was laughing at me?

  I glance over at the food table, but the girl isn’t there anymore. My eyes rove over the rows of guys in white soldier costumes. Do I look as stupid as they do?

  “Hey,” says Arman. “You know we’re sitting right on a spot where people actually died?”

  “So?” says Sean. “There was fighting all over the Niagara area in the War of 1812.”

  “Yeah, but some of the bloodiest was right here,” Arman says. “Over three thousand guys were injured or killed when the British, the Canadian militia and First Nations warriors tried to take the fort back from the Americans.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Sean says. Of course, he would.

  “Have you heard about the ghosts?” asks Carter.

  “Ghosts?” I repeat skeptically.

  “Well…” Carter lowers his voice and leans toward us. “There were these two American soldiers camped near the fort. One guy was giving the other one a shave.”

  “You know, with one of those long sharp razors,” Arman adds.

  “Then suddenly,” continues Carter, “a British cannon ball comes flying in, and ffttt—” He swipes his hand past Arman’s neck.

  “So,” Arman finishes, “the dude getting shaved loses his head. The other one loses his hand.”

  “Jeez!” I groan, half disgusted, half laughing.

  “It’s true,” Sean says. “I heard people have seen a headless ghost and a handless ghost wandering around the fort.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “And they’re not the only ghosts,” says a voice from behind me. I jump as a water jug smacks down on the table by my elbow.

  The guys all laugh. I turn around to see the girl in the old-fashioned cap and dress, a mocking grin on her face.

  Chapter Three

  It’s dark by ten o’clock, which means we’re all in our tents attempting to sleep. At home I’d be up for hours yet, watching TV or playing online games with friends. But without electricity, there’s not much to do.

  I wonder where that girl from the mess hall is now. Is she back home, maybe texting her friends about all the nerdy idiots at reenactment camp? I shift around in my sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable. It’s stinking hot, so I unzip the bag and throw it open, knocking off the scratchy old blanket that’s meant to hide the sleeping bag and air mattress from passing tourists. I hear the buzz of a mosquito and smile as Sean swears and rustles deeper into his sleeping bag next to me. He is a magnet for mosquitoes. They fly into the tent, sniff the air (or whatever mosquitoes do) and head straight for him.

  I sigh with exaggerated contentment as I stretch out my bare arms and rest them behind my head.

  “Jerk!” Sean grumbles into his sleeping bag. “I need some bug spray!”

  “Not very 1812 of you,” I say.

  He swears again. I smirk and listen to him thrash around. It’s almost completely black inside the tent. I can just make out his lumpy form and darker shadows in the corners where we’ve piled our stuff. I try to close my eyes, but they pop open. How do they expect us to fall asleep this early? I stare at the dark ceiling, wishing I had my cell phone and could play some games.

  “Psst…” A loud whisper comes from outside the tent. “You guys awake?”

  “Of course we’re awake,” I whisper back.

  A dark head pokes between the tent flaps.

  “Dudes,” says Arman, “wanna go ghost hunting?”

  I groan. “A
re you kidding?”

  “What? Are you scared?” says Arman. “You seemed pretty shaken up when we talked about ghosts at dinner.”

  I bunch up the scratchy blanket and throw it at his head. “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”

  “Are they coming, or not?” Carter whispers from behind Arman.

  Sean sighs loudly.

  “Anything’s better than being eaten alive by mosquitoes,” he grumbles as he climbs out of his sleeping bag.

  “There are more mosquitoes out there,” I point out.

  “Then we’ll have to keep moving,” says Sean. “Maybe we can break into the office and find some bug spray.”

  I laugh. “Now you’re talking!” If we can get into the office, maybe I can find my phone.

  A few minutes later, we’re scaling the back wall of the fort—or at least, attempting to. It’s taller than it looks.

  “Don’t grab my head!” Sean complains as I use him as a step ladder.

  “Well, hold still!”

  He crouches, bracing himself against the stone wall. I lift one foot to his shoulder, and then the other.

  “Ouch! Your feet are digging in!” He protests.

  “I can’t help it,” I say. “Try to stand up, so I can reach higher.”

  We wobble for a moment like a double-decker newborn calf. Then I stretch one hand for the top of the wall and scrabble for a handhold with the other. I shift my feet for better balance.

  Sean groans. Then he tips sideways, and we both fall. Sean lands on the grass, and I land on Sean. He swears and pushes me off. I start rolling into the ditch that surrounds the fort, but Carter grabs my arm.

  “Shhh!” Arman hisses, coming up beside us. I can just make out his face in the shadows.

  “Where’ve you been?” I snap as I pick myself up off the ground. I hold out my hand to Sean, and he knocks it away.

  “While you guys were clowning around,” Arman says, “I was doing recon.”

  “What?”

  “Reconnaissance. You know. Looking around.”

  “So?” I ask. This guy takes way too long to get to the point.