War of 1812 an image I couldn’t get out of my brain.
I didn’t like him or his steely eyes. There was something cruel, hidden behind his genial façade.
I know people. I’m a teacher and have to deal with people every day.
If anyone knows normal, it’s me—and I can tell you Tom Hill was not normal—No, not by a long shot.
I knew it the moment I met him.
I had been driving along the Lake Erie coastline searching out historic places of interest.
When I saw the roadside plaque announcing a fort, I couldn’t resist.
I had spent a golden day enjoying the last of the fall colors and no doubt was feeling satiated—the same way one feels after some grand feast—too full for dessert, I suppose.
But then, came the sign and the prospect of the fort.
It was enticing and as I said, too delicious to resist.
I pulled into the lot and parked close to a small modern building that was the administrative center and bore a sign advertising tours.
The lot was virtually empty, save for one or two cars and I wondered if the facility were closed.
I decided to try anyway and to my surprise, the door was open. I walked into a large reception area and a man came out from behind the counter and shook my hand.
“I’m Tom Hill. Welcome to the Fort.”
“Jeff Atkins,” I smiled.
There was an embarrassed silence. We stood there, neither of us saying a word, until I finally broke the ice.
“I was wanting to see the Fort—are there any tours today?”
The man winced. “Unfortunately, our tour guide suffered a broken hip—nasty fall. She won’t be back for several months.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,”
I was unable to hide my obvious disappointment at not being able to see the site.
The man glanced at the clock. “A quarter to five—we close in fifteen minutes.”
Again, I looked disappointed. “Perhaps someday I’ll be back.” I turned to leave.
“No, wait—perhaps I’ll be able to help. I’ve conducted tours before—I’ll shut down a few minutes early and give you a personally guided tour of the Fort.”
I brightened. “That’s awfully generous of you—how much is the tour?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that—I’d be glad to show you around—it’s been too long for me to guarantee the quality of my presentation anyway, but I’ll do my best.”
I was flabbergasted and delighted.
I waited while he went about shutting off lights and locking doors.
He then accompanied me out, setting the alarm system as he exited the building.
“Shall we begin with the palisade?”
“Of course, whatever you feel is appropriate,” I replied.
He led me up a long steep embankment, past a few mortars dug into the hill, until we arrived at a windswept promontory, marked by a line of dark circles set into the ground.
“That’s all that’s left of the palisade that was the original line of defence against the British.”
“You must be referring to the War of 1812,” I ventured.
“Exactly,” the man replied, with a glint in his eye.
“There used to be a line of Griffen guns up here—light cannon on wheels that had a range of almost two kilometers.”
“That could kill a man,” I deadpanned.
He didn’t laugh.
“A shot from one of those could carry off a man’s head—it happened once or twice and led to legends round about of headless soldiers haunting the Fort.”
I grimaced. I always hated war and weaponry—it was just one more example of man’s inhumanity to man.
“Over here, “ he continued blandly, “Were some twelve pound cannons with a smooth bore.”
“A smooth bore—was that important?” I was almost afraid to hear.
“Well, a smooth bore certainly improved the range. One of these cannons could launch a ball just over a mile.”
I looked down the hill and out to the lake.
In my mind’s eye, I could see British ships of war, their masts being brought down upon the heads of hapless sailors.
Smoke from the cannon blasts filled the air along with the shrieks of the wounded and the din of battle.
I glanced over at Tom Hill.
He was smiling, transfixed—staring off into space as I had been, seeing the same battle and the same death.
My golden day had at last eluded me and in its place, the sky above was gray and threatening.
A cold, raw wind sprang up from off the lake and carried with it a clammy mist that pierced to the bone.
I shivered, turning up the collar of my windbreaker.
Tom Hill stood glorying in the icy blast, his spare hair tousled and punished by the wind. He seemed oblivious.
“It was a complete slaughter,” he said, “ the British troops were caught in a cross fire and the shelling went on all night.”
He was smiling. I felt sick at heart.
The very ground beneath my feet had turned to stone and the waters of the inlet were now gunmetal gray.
He was dead to all else—shut in with his dreams of glory and smoke and carnage.
I can’t tell you how I felt.
I’ve never been to war or hurt a living thing.
Somehow this century-old conflict had come alive, as if time had deliberately stopped so the memory of the butchery would never be lost.
I felt ill—heart sick, to be precise. I couldn’t speak—I was so overcome with grief at the waste.
I don’t recall saying anything to Tom. Somehow I found my way back down the embankment to the parking lot, where I immediately got into my car and drove off.
Out on the highway, I turned up the car’s heater to full heat, but couldn’t get warm.
I shivered for hours afterward.
Worse than the shivering and the freezing though, was an image I couldn’t get out of my brain.
I pictured a lonely, windswept palisade, somehow still enduring the sights and sounds of war, and Tom Hill, coat open, hair blown by the wind, braving the icy blasts—and smiling.
https://goo.gl/images/Ts8GbS, https://goo.gl/images/H7BhYe, https://goo.gl/images/hXEqVi,
https://goo.gl/images/n7MmXc