[fan fic] Eighteen-Twelve
Title: Eighteen-Twelve
Characters/Pairings: Canada, America, England, historical figures, France in mention.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: WAR. Blood. General angst.
Summary: The War of 1812 was mostly a landgrab. One that failed and proved Canada's differences to America.
Canada was not really in charge of his lands, and he knew it. Technically he owned a patch of land in Upper Canada (it felt so strange to own part of himself that way) and he did what he wanted with it, growing a garden and climbing the nearby trees. He was only thirteen, after all, and while he had a grasp of how the politics of being a colony worked, he hadn’t really bothered to worry about them. England was supporting him and handling all the difficult stuff, and that’s all that really mattered.
Over the years his soreness about being taken from France had vanished, although he clung to his French language and culture as best as he could. At least England had learned to accept that part of him.
Canada had the body of a thirteen-year-old, and about the interests of foreign affairs as one, too. So it was much later in the year 1803, when America came to visit him and see the maples turn red, that he found out about the Louisiana Purchase.
“Yeah, France’s a pretty good guy,” America said. “Now I have a whole bunch of new land to deal with and it really wasn’t that expensive and…”
“France… sold you all that land?” Canada asked, horrified. The implications were obvious.
“Well, it was really his boss that sold it to my boss, but same difference,” America said, shrugging. The new territory had added to his already impressive height (only a little, though) and made poor teenaged Canada feel very small and weak in comparison. “His boss is so short, though, apparently!” America laughed and failed to notice the troubled expression skimming on his twin’s face.
If France had been willing to part with all that land, maybe he was lucky to have been taken in by England when he was. Otherwise, he could’ve been sold without a word in his direction, as well. And as much as Canada loved his brother, was thankful for the trade and the fact he banished loneliness with his visits (England hadn’t visited at all in years), he didn’t want to become part of the brash nation.
That evening Canada wrote England a letter saying how grateful he was that he was not going to be sold. He burned it the next morning.
----
Canada spent much of his time in Upper Canada, but he also had a home in Lower Canada (it still felt odd to think that he was divided into upper and lower) that he spent most of his spring in. The maples there were just as beautiful and fun to climb and he grew wildflowers in the back and kept it a secret from his brother. The sweet smells that he experienced first thing in the morning from those bright blossoms helped to chase his mild but increasingly frequent headaches away.
Kumajirou walked alongside the boy as he ventured into Lower Canada’s capital, needing to see what was happening in the government. There was a great amount of fuss coming from the building that was Canada’s destination, papers flying and shouting in English and French (he was suddenly glad he knew both).
“What’s happening?” he asked, turning to Kumajirou. The polar bear stared up at him mutely and sat down. Canada patiently leaned down and pulled the bear into his arms with something that could’ve been a giggle, except at the last moment it was choked by a pounding in his head. Internal strife, a sensation he was becoming very familiar with.
Through questions ad careful listening to the shouting Canada gathered that his French assembly was no longer tolerant of the fact they were overruled by the British council. They were demanding a responsible government. One that was made up of the officials the French-Canadians had elected. It sounded like the government England had back at his place. At least, that was how England had described it.
The strife continued in Lower Canada for a while, from 1806 to 1811, and although violence never really sprang up the tensions were enough to make Canada’s head hurt.
Finally, things were settled with the arrival of a man named George Prevost, who spoke English and French with equal fluency and made compromises with the French-Canadians. They were given some, but not all, of what they wanted, and once satisfied the young colony’s head stopped pounding and he was able to get back to work earnestly on his wildflowers.
----
America was cursing more than Canada had ever heard before in his life when he went down south to visit his older twin.
“The Chesapeake! England’s men boarded the Chesapeake and arrested Americans!” he shouted when Canada asked what was wrong between his cursing like a sailor.
It was 1807, Canada’s head hurt like hell, and America was ranting about England.
“Not to mention he’s blockaded all my trade with Francis!” He was pacing now, using Canada as an excuse to complain about England. “I’m a neutral trader!” His hands flew into the air and flopped back down at his sides.
“Father must have his reasons,” Canada tried to reason softly.
“Shut up, Matt,” America snapped, and the little boy did, although he looked at his twin resentfully. But America didn’t say anything else, just looked at his brother and thought maybe he should be offering the rights to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness to him as well.
“Say, how ‘bout you join me?” America asked lightly, as if he had not just snapped at Canada.
“What?” Canada asked, wondering if perhaps America had… actually, he couldn’t find an excuse for that out-of-the-blue statement.
“Well, we’re neighbours, and we real alike, although I’m more awesome, and if we were one country--”
“No,” Canada said immediately, his eyes lighting up in alarm at the words “one country”. America turned to him, shocked. But Canada shook his head and stepped back a little. “No,” he repeated.
“B-But Matt, don’t you want to be free?” America asked, trying to recover from the blow of his brother more or less rejecting him. “Why wouldn’t you want to get rid of England?”
“I like Arthur,” Canada pronounced softly. He repeated it in French, just to irritate his twin. “He treats me well when I behave,” the sideways glance at America on that word was not missed, “and he respects my wish to be French and English.” America might’ve snapped back that he did, too, but that would’ve been a lie. As long as he could remember he was insisting Canada stick to just English, either to avoid England’s anger (he accepted French from Canada so that he wouldn‘t rebel, harbouring no love for the tongue himself) or so he wouldn’t switch between the two languages and baffle America.
America stopped for a moment and wondered how Canada, his twin, could like England when the island nation was such a horrible father and brother. How could Canada have been gifted with such a quiet patience for awful people?
Or maybe he wasn’t so patient after all, because Canada was leaving, groaning and clutching his head and letting out a few curses in French. “Stupid English…” he grumbled, also in French. America grinned. He’d been around France long enough to know what those words meant.
----
England hadn’t come over for a very long time. Canada knew this was because of war, and that England absolutely had to be in Europe (he had no time for any colonies, which Canada had found out from letters he sometimes sent and got from his step-siblings across the globe) to fight France. He didn’t even come when America declared war.
It was June 18th, 1812, and while Canada knew he was part of a big family, one of the biggest in the world, he was bitterly lonely. Because when America came to visit Canada to make sure he knew they were at war (it boggled Canada’s mind sometimes, trying to understand his brother’s thought process) he said he was at war, not just with England, but the entire British Empire. None of the other colonies in the empire were really going to fight America, and England was much too busy to come and attack America. Canada deeply suspected even if he wasn’t too busy he wouldn’t subject himself to fighting the boy he’d raised again. That left only Canada -- young, small, uncertain Canada -- to struggle against the might of the growing nation.
The boy was frightened, actually, to learn that he’d be warring with his brother. But he did what he realised was necessary. He packed his most warm, sturdy clothing, gave Kumajirou a tight, long hug, and began to walk.
----
War was a glorious and ugly business, England had once told Canada. It had been a half-asleep statement, one that he hadn’t realised he said until his son asked him what it meant. Now Canada was beginning to understand. The men gathered to fight off the threat of an American invasion were anxious. Some were excited to fight, mostly uninitiated boys like himself, while others were grim-faced British regulars, some of which had come from across the ocean where another war was raging.
Canada would’ve been scared witless to fight -- even when at his most rebellious he didn’t like resorting to violence, preferring passive-aggressive tactics -- except that leading the English-Canadians of Upper Canada was a general named Isaac Brock. He was determined and inspirational and made Canada, if not eager, at least willing to battle his twin.
Brock lead the men and boys of Upper Canada to meet their native allies, and they marched behind in an untidy cloud while the British regulars tried to instil some sort of order in the lot. When Brock met with Tecumseh, the leader of the allied natives, they shook hands. Then Tecumseh turned around and shouted to his men in a native tongue, “This is a man!” Cheers shot up and any of the English-Canadians who understood were cheering and laughing as well. And a swish of courage ran up Canada’s spine at the realisation that these two men could be trusted. He could trust them to save him from his twin.
----
Invasion felt stranger than Canada wanted to admit. Like a feeling that something inside him wasn’t supposed to be there, and depending where that sensation was he reacted differently. It was presently in his right arm, tingling and making it hard for him to grip his gun. It was July 12th, 1812, and the Americans had since passed the vague border that divided the brothers into two distinct entities.
Although he wasn’t in the town when it happened, Canada could hear a calling in his mind. A summons from America and General Hull to abandon England and become one with America.
Inhabitants of Canada! The army under my command…
Go away, go away…
…invaded your country, and the standard of the United Sates now waves…
I’m not yours yet.
To the peaceable, unoffending inhabitants, it brings neither danger nor difficulty…
I won’t come quietly.
The United States offers you Peace, Liberty, and Security.
Then leave me alone. Invasions are not offers of peace, imbécile.
…between these and War, Slavery, and Destruction. Choose then, but choose wisely…
Come and get me, America.
----
Five days after the cocky declaration, Canada joined with a band of British regulars, native warriors, and French-Canadian voyageurs, and under Isaac Brock’s instruction the men and boys surrounded an American camp.
It was early in the morning, the sun not risen yet. It was the middle of summer, but the coolness reminded Canada of autumn afternoons. He clutched his gun tightly and made his way around to the other side of the camp. His footsteps were uncharacteristically quiet, hardly stirring the grass and gravel. As he got into position, next to an older French-Canadian with stern features, the Americans began to awake. The Canadians held their weapons at the ready. Not a shot was fired on Mackinac Island that morning, the surrounded soldiers surrendering without a fight.
Canada shouted in joy as the Americans handed over valuable supplies and munitions, delighted that he was winning already. The giant that was his brother seemed a little smaller now.
----
From Mackinac Brock turned south, towards Detroit. The men knew that they were outnumbered, in both manpower and weapons, but the success in Mackinac seemed to buoy them and the preparations and march were made without argument. Once they were close enough to the fort Brock and Tecumseh devised a plan to intimidate the Americans, who were utterly terrified of the natives.
It was a fake message, purposely sent near enemy lines, saying that only five thousand more native warriors would be needed to conquer Detroit. The Americans heard that and were rightly scared stupid. And then came the fun part. The Canadians hid far in the forest, but the native people marched at the edge, in full sight of the Americans. And once they were out of eyeshot they went into the forest, ran back, and marched again. Each warrior must’ve done it at least three times, and if the boy wasn’t supposed to stay absolutely silent he would’ve killed himself laughing.
That was when Tecumseh suggested to Brock that they strike. Detroit would fall easily if the Americans were scared to fight them. Many of the soldiers protested. Surely the frightened Americans wouldn’t dare leave Detroit until the war was over, and then there was the matter of being sorely outnumbered.
“We are committed to a war in which the enemy will always be our superior in numbers and ammunition,” Brock reminded them. That seemed to calm down some of the soldiers, although an unease had settled where victorious zeal had been. They steeled themselves for a fight.
But a few cannon shots, some shouting from Brock, and the once great General Hull surrendered Detroit without a fight. It was August 16th, 1812. Lead by Brock, the Canadians took the supplied and munitions and, the ultimate insult, lowered the Stars and Stripes. America was in the fort, disgusted by the surrender. When he marched out he passed Canada going inside, and the exchange of glances was a strange one. Canada would forever remember this as the greatest humiliation America had ever undergone under him, America as the only time his younger twin actually gave him a victorious smirk.
----
Fort Dearborn had fallen soon after Detroit, and if Canada had seen America again he would’ve noticed he seemed a little thinner, maybe, and perhaps he’d lost just a touch of colour on his cheeks. But of course, Canada didn’t see his twin and he wouldn’t for a while. Instead he began a charge up Queenston Heights, one that proved to be bold but foolish. Isaac Brock, leading the charge, was killed at the battle, and it was a man named Roger Sheaffe that took over. Perhaps without his tactics they would’ve never won the battle.
The funeral for Isaac Brock was a short one. They mourned the loss of a brilliant tactical leader, a friend, a hero. Canada mourned for the man who had been his saviour in the beginning of this war.
The Americans celebrated.
----
Roger Sheaffe took Isaac Brock’s place as a leader, a strategist. But he had something that Brock hadn’t. Knowledge that Canada was in his militia.
“Your name is Matthew Williams and Canada?” he asked for what must’ve been the twentieth time. He’d wanted to know why an excessively timid boy was holding a gun far too big for him and working on getting meals prepared in their base in York. What he’d discovered was that the boy was a crack shot (“From hunting all the time,”), abnormally talented at identifying plants, animals, even smelling the air and knowing where the Americans were (“I’m tied to the land, I just know these things,”), and that he went along with the natives well, speaking their languages quite fluently (“They raised me first.”).
“Yes sir,” Canada replied politely. “I don’t know how to explain it properly. I… I am the land, I guess.” He flushed a little, remembering France and his disdain for a similar statement made by his king long ago.
“You’re only a boy, though,” Sheaffe replied.
“Depends how you judge it, sir. I’m only thirteen in body, we think,” Sheaffe raised an eyebrow at “we” but didn’t say anything, “but I’m so old in reality… I don’t even know how old I am.” He shuffled a little under Sheaffe’s questioning look. His face was still pink.
“Ah,” Sheaffe replied. That seemed to satisfy him and he nodded briefly to the boy. “You may return to your cooking, Matthew,” he said. Canada smiled just a little, because Sheaffe said his human name just as awkwardly as Charles de Saint-Etienne La Tour had once pronounced his name as a nation.
----
The Americans were charging, and it was plain by Sheaffe’s horror and surprise that he wasn’t prepared to save the town of York. Not prepared to save York, but willing to make some sacrifices to keep the fight going.
He called upon Canada and asked him how much damage to the land hurt him.
“A little,” he replied honestly. He had long since grown out of the stage where political upheavals physically hurt him beyond his perennial migraines, but he also knew that blowing their munitions was not going to do the same thing as an Iroquois rebellion.
The little burn that blossomed on his collar bone was a small price to pay, considering how many Americans died in the explosion, how they wouldn’t be able to take supplies from York after all. Then he saw the mushroom cloud of thick, black smoke and before he could stop himself he wondered if his twin was among those who’d been killed. Not likely. It took so much to kill a nation, and America was young and strong and free. He couldn’t be pinned down by anything as trivial as death.
The Canadians and British and everyone retreated, so Canada shook the thought from his mind. The Americans had captured York, the capital of Upper Canada. There had been promises that the capital would remain safe even under the Americans, but Canada somehow doubted that it would come to pass. The chivalry England had taught to him from legends of times long ago had already been dying for a long time when the Europeans found him. He heard stories from the sea battles every so often, cases where British and American soldiers treated each other cordially, but those were the only examples of chivalry he could find.
His suspicions were confirmed when he started to cough and hack, holding his throat and smelling choking smoke.
“Mathieu?” One of the vouyagers turned to the boy in concern.
“I-I’m fine,” he dismissed in English. He repeated his assurance in French and tried to keep going. He could feel that little burn on his collar bone get worse, much worse.
Over the next few days Canada was miserable. He could hear laughter and shouting and see fire behind his eyelids as the American soldiers razed York to the ground and destroyed the jewel of Upper Canada, the lovely parliament building. It started on April 27th, 1813. By April 29th, Canada had never hated America more.
----
Little battles and skirmishes along the borders were common, and in between the fights came news of what was happening elsewhere. Many of the stories tumbled from Canada’s mind without a second thought (although he kept his ears sharp for any news about an Alfred F. Jones), but one clung to his mind. The sea battle between the American Chesapeake and the British Shannon.
Apparently the battle had been epic, the ships getting so close the crews were boarding each other’s ships and fighting with sabres and fists as well as cannons and guns. They’d circled and clashed and fought bitterly, but when the British won (it wasn’t surprising when Canada heard this, he had been taught how the British navy was the finest in the world), they’d treated their American prisoners with every kindness.
Unlike York, Canada thought bitterly, rubbing at his burn scar on his collarbone. He touched it compulsively, knowing that the loss of York was easily one of the biggest insults he’d ever suffered personally. Worse than when England had demanded Canada speak only English, worse than when America had tried to pull Canada away from England on his mad journey towards independence. Because the Americans had promised they wouldn’t do what they had done. They wouldn’t raze York to the ground and burn the parliament and destroy the library. And he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his twin had been there to help burn and kill.
----
Laura Secord had appeared in the camp utterly exhausted, with bleeding feet and escorted by Mohawk sentries. Canada had been fascinated. He sat outside the tent where Lieutenant James FitzGibbon was, listening carefully to what was happening.
Laura had retrieved her husband from the battlegrounds on Stony Creek after the fight (Canada might’ve remembered him, discussing his strong wife and children fondly before the fight began) and brought him to nurse him back to health. Then American soldiers had come, taken over the Secord household. Laura had heard them discussing a plan for a surprise attack, and so in the morning she had begun to walk towards the camp, avoiding Americans all the while.
Canada couldn’t help but flush with pride a little. His own people were strong, even when they knew they were at a disadvantage. His flush turned to one of embarrassment when the Mohawk sentries came out with Laura and guided her to another tent to recover. One gave him a strange look, raising an eyebrow. Canada stuttered an apology and walked away before he could get scolded.
But a little later on, the boy made his way to Laura’s tent. There were others there, all recovering from wounds or illness, but they were asleep. He coughed politely and called softly inside, requesting entrance. He was allowed in.
Laura was rubbing at her feet gently with a wet cloth, a bowl of water on the floor.
“Ah, l-let me!” Canada said, going forward and onto his knees to take over.
“I have it,” Laura replied softly, looking at the unusual boy with something similar to surprise.
“Please, let me,” Canada muttered. “It’s my way of thanking you.” He took the cloth from her limp hand and guided her feet towards the basin of water. Gravel and dirt was already settled at the bottom, blood turning what had once been clear water pink. Slowly, he guided the rough cloth over the places that were still dirty, where blood had dried and turned ugly brown.
“I’ve done nothing for you,” Laura replied, leaning down to watch the boy work.
“You have,” the boy replied gently. He soaked the cloth again, wrung it out, and went to the other foot. “You told us what the Americans were planning, so now we can ambush them. Maybe they’ll finally leave if we beat them. Maybe my brother’ll leave me alone.” Canada slammed his mouth shut as soon as he’d said it (something was soothing about performing a little kindness for someone who had saved him, saved them) but already Laura was looking at him with more attentiveness.
“Your brother? He disproves of you fighting?”
“It’s not really that…” Canada murmured. But he decided that he could trust Laura Secord, who’d run thirty-two kilometres to warn them of an attack. “My brother is a Yankee.” He could practically feel that flash of anxiety that had to be going through the strong pioneer. Then there was a hand on his head, in his filthy hair, as if she was apologizing for the sad state he was in. But all Laura said was “oh” and Canada continued to wash her feet.
----
It was October 25th in Lower Canada, and rather warm for the season, too. But that wasn’t one of Canada’s primary concerns. Instead, it was watching the Americans past the veil of trees and the boughs of red maple leaves used to disguise themselves. Instead of his weapon, Canada clutched at a horn. He was not a musician, but he had strong lungs and could make a sound on it. On the cue of their leader, Charles de Salaberry, everyone made a racket. There was screaming and crashing and Canada blew his horn as loud as he could, hoping the sound was fearsome and not pathetic.
It seemed to startle the soldiers, who turned to where the Canadians were hiding. Canada stopped blowing for just a second to see what they were doing. There was his twin amongst the soldiers. He blew even harder and hoped that America would be frightened by the noise and just leave. So, of course, the Americans charged, albeit with a little more reluctance than normal.
The battle was desperately one-sided. Frightened and unable to tell how many men the Canadians had, their opponents assumed that this was only the advanced guard. After suffering a heavy loss, they retreated.
Canada still stung a little from the recapture of York (although there was little to raze to the ground this time, so he was pretty sure the Americans hadn’t bothered) and the death of Tecumseh at Moraviantown, only twenty days previous. But that day there was not a British regular in sight. Only French-Canadians, English-Canadians, and natives. This was one victory Canada could claim entirely as his own.
When it came time to loot the dead and capture the living, Canada went among them with one goal in mind. To assure himself that his brother was not among those left behind.
But there was the young man with a bullet in his shoulder, looking as though he’d been trampled by the retreating men. His golden hair was thick with mud and a few red maple leaves, his cheeks a little sunken and definitely pale, and he looked absolutely exhausted.
It was tempting to shout for the others, have them capture the embodiment of America himself. To raise his gun and finish his twin off himself. But he… there wasn’t…
He couldn’t. Even with hatred boiling in his throat (he could swear the scar on his collarbone throbbed), there wasn’t the willpower in him to end his twin. He settled down onto the ground next to the unconscious nation and fumbled with his fingers.
“Matthew!” someone called, a little worry in their voice.
“I’m fine!” he shouted back. “I’ll be there soon!” He was careful to repeat himself in French and then turned back to America. America groaned a little and his eyelids fluttered open. As his vision slipped back into focus the proud, boisterous nation could swear he saw Canada.
“I’m going to let you go,” Canada whispered, his soft voice hardly audible at all.
“Why?” America groaned, trying to sit up. A hand on his bullet wound applying pressure made him fall back and hiss in pain. That same hand kept applying pressure as another did its best to mop up the blood with a clean, white handkerchief.
“I can’t shoot you and I can’t hand you over to Salaberry,” the younger one replied, as if that explained everything. The mopping stopped and Canada sighed. “I can’t clean this up, either.”
“I will,” America said, trying again to sit up. Canada continued to press him to the ground, a little show of strength that did nothing to his twin’s confidence. Finally America overpowered the boy and stood slowly, trying to ignore the fact his head was beginning to spin very unpleasantly. “If I hurry I might be able to catch up with the other attack,” he said.
For a moment raw fury threatened to make Canada shout, to force his brother back to the ground. But it cooled as soon as he realised America had said it for his own benefit. After Laura Secord had told them about Beaver Dams the American soldiers had been far more careful about discussing their plans. Surely America himself was far too cautious to discuss his plans with the personification of his enemy.
“Thank you,” Canada mumbled. America turned to Canada and did his best not to smile broadly. They were still at war, after all, and couldn’t afford gestures of kindness like smiles. Then he ran off, although he clearly favoured his left leg and couldn’t stay in a straight line for very long.
----
There was a drizzle, and so the red America so loathed was mostly covered in drab grey woollen overcoats. Canada wore a redcoat himself (it was old, something England has presented to him with much ceremony. Canada still hated it), although his overcoat had been given to an English-Canadian volunteer. The Americans were facing the familiar “thin red line”, and it was November 11th, 1813. America was among the soldiers, although he did not look at his brother once. Canada tried to extend the same courtesy. This was too familiar for the man, and the boy knew enough to understand why America looked so morose.
Canada suffered a mild injury as the Americans tried again and again to break that thin red line, but it was nothing worse than anything America had received at Chateauguay. When the soldiers finally retreated the Canadians and regulars celebrated and shouted insults at the uniformed backs of fighters who had once confidently assumed they couldn’t lose this war. But the boy known as Canada and Matthew Williams decided that he was going to avoid any major battles he could. He wasn’t sure he could stand up to fighting his brother anymore.
----
Fort Erie had been captured and the Battle of the Chippewa had been a horrifying, Iroquois fighting Iroquois (Canada was grateful he hadn’t witnessed either events), and now he was near Niagara and hoping against hope that America was not among the soldiers that had come for one last attempt at invasion. The war had exhausted both the colony, who was too young and small to really be fighting on his own, and the nation, who was too young and disorganized to fight properly.
It was night, there was no wind, and the heat was horrible. The milder winter had been a blessing, coupled with the curse of a humid, hot summer. British artillery had destroyed the forward rush of American soldiers while the sun was up, but nightfall had brought another rush as the enemy captured guns and began using them against the British. Gun smoke that hovered in the field made it impossible to breath properly or aim, leaving Canada helpless. If only there was light, a breeze, anything to help him target the Americans properly.
A bayonet whizzed past his ear and he nearly screamed. Quickly, Canada pushed his own forward and prayed that the man he had stabbed wasn’t one of his own. Not likely, because there was no tell-tale needle prick of pain that told him one of his own had been incapacitated or killed. Musket flashes from every direction hardly illuminated the scene at all.
Finally, at midnight the American soldiers began to retreat. As soon as he felt safe, Canada climbed up the hill and fell asleep on the slope, near other British soldiers who were equally spent. In the morning they’d have the grim job of cleaning up, burying or burning the dead and helping repair what they could. There were no more invasions into Upper Canada or Lower Canada after the Battle of Lundy’s Lane, which both America and Canada claimed to have won. Canada stayed with the British regulars, although he refused to cross the border into America. He was ready to rest.
----
There was one last thing to do. Although England had not come to Canada once in years, they’d done their best to continue correspondence through letters. Many didn’t reach each other, due to the Napoleonic Wars on one side of the Atlantic and the war Canada was suffering against America on the other. But one did, a particularly troubling one saying England had ordered the burning of Washington in retaliation for the razing of York the year before. Canada was obedient, though, and did as the letter ordered.
The burning of Washington and the president’s house was not a battle so much as a race, as Canada had said sarcastically when he watched President Madison and his staff running away from the violence. He got caught up in the adrenaline and the smoke and the smell of fear, and when he was finally brought back to the real world, heading back home, he realised with horror that he’d done exactly as his brother had done in York.
The boys had twin scars on their collarbones, a sort of sad tribute to how destructive their relationship could turn with the wrong foreign policies, with the threat of war declared. Canada touched his compulsively, America did his best to hide it. Neither would willingly show England.
----
Canada didn’t fight after that. He went home before the war was officially over (England would’ve been displeased) and did his best to nurture his out-of-control wildflowers and spend some time with Kumajirou (the bear was starting to ask who the boy was and it was quite frightening).
He avoided his twin even after he’d heard there was peace (America continuously boasted that he’d won the war, Canada scoffed at such claim), and his letters to England became fewer and further between. England showed up sometime after the war ended to help with negotiations. He was even more exhausted and hurt-looking than either of the twins, and it showed. His snipes at America were half-hearted, he merely patted Canada on the head when they were reunited, and when America said that none of the natives or Canadians were allowed to join the negotiations, he didn’t fight.
“We won the war for you,” Canada protested. “Father, please. Please, let us into the negotiations.”
But England shook his head slowly and sighed and didn’t even touch Canada. “I’m sorry, Matthew, I’ll do what I can.”
Even then, with the war old news and England near to him again, Canada still felt bitterly lonely.
Characters/Pairings: Canada, America, England, historical figures, France in mention.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: WAR. Blood. General angst.
Summary: The War of 1812 was mostly a landgrab. One that failed and proved Canada's differences to America.
Canada was not really in charge of his lands, and he knew it. Technically he owned a patch of land in Upper Canada (it felt so strange to own part of himself that way) and he did what he wanted with it, growing a garden and climbing the nearby trees. He was only thirteen, after all, and while he had a grasp of how the politics of being a colony worked, he hadn’t really bothered to worry about them. England was supporting him and handling all the difficult stuff, and that’s all that really mattered.
Over the years his soreness about being taken from France had vanished, although he clung to his French language and culture as best as he could. At least England had learned to accept that part of him.
Canada had the body of a thirteen-year-old, and about the interests of foreign affairs as one, too. So it was much later in the year 1803, when America came to visit him and see the maples turn red, that he found out about the Louisiana Purchase.
“Yeah, France’s a pretty good guy,” America said. “Now I have a whole bunch of new land to deal with and it really wasn’t that expensive and…”
“France… sold you all that land?” Canada asked, horrified. The implications were obvious.
“Well, it was really his boss that sold it to my boss, but same difference,” America said, shrugging. The new territory had added to his already impressive height (only a little, though) and made poor teenaged Canada feel very small and weak in comparison. “His boss is so short, though, apparently!” America laughed and failed to notice the troubled expression skimming on his twin’s face.
If France had been willing to part with all that land, maybe he was lucky to have been taken in by England when he was. Otherwise, he could’ve been sold without a word in his direction, as well. And as much as Canada loved his brother, was thankful for the trade and the fact he banished loneliness with his visits (England hadn’t visited at all in years), he didn’t want to become part of the brash nation.
That evening Canada wrote England a letter saying how grateful he was that he was not going to be sold. He burned it the next morning.
----
Canada spent much of his time in Upper Canada, but he also had a home in Lower Canada (it still felt odd to think that he was divided into upper and lower) that he spent most of his spring in. The maples there were just as beautiful and fun to climb and he grew wildflowers in the back and kept it a secret from his brother. The sweet smells that he experienced first thing in the morning from those bright blossoms helped to chase his mild but increasingly frequent headaches away.
Kumajirou walked alongside the boy as he ventured into Lower Canada’s capital, needing to see what was happening in the government. There was a great amount of fuss coming from the building that was Canada’s destination, papers flying and shouting in English and French (he was suddenly glad he knew both).
“What’s happening?” he asked, turning to Kumajirou. The polar bear stared up at him mutely and sat down. Canada patiently leaned down and pulled the bear into his arms with something that could’ve been a giggle, except at the last moment it was choked by a pounding in his head. Internal strife, a sensation he was becoming very familiar with.
Through questions ad careful listening to the shouting Canada gathered that his French assembly was no longer tolerant of the fact they were overruled by the British council. They were demanding a responsible government. One that was made up of the officials the French-Canadians had elected. It sounded like the government England had back at his place. At least, that was how England had described it.
The strife continued in Lower Canada for a while, from 1806 to 1811, and although violence never really sprang up the tensions were enough to make Canada’s head hurt.
Finally, things were settled with the arrival of a man named George Prevost, who spoke English and French with equal fluency and made compromises with the French-Canadians. They were given some, but not all, of what they wanted, and once satisfied the young colony’s head stopped pounding and he was able to get back to work earnestly on his wildflowers.
----
America was cursing more than Canada had ever heard before in his life when he went down south to visit his older twin.
“The Chesapeake! England’s men boarded the Chesapeake and arrested Americans!” he shouted when Canada asked what was wrong between his cursing like a sailor.
It was 1807, Canada’s head hurt like hell, and America was ranting about England.
“Not to mention he’s blockaded all my trade with Francis!” He was pacing now, using Canada as an excuse to complain about England. “I’m a neutral trader!” His hands flew into the air and flopped back down at his sides.
“Father must have his reasons,” Canada tried to reason softly.
“Shut up, Matt,” America snapped, and the little boy did, although he looked at his twin resentfully. But America didn’t say anything else, just looked at his brother and thought maybe he should be offering the rights to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness to him as well.
“Say, how ‘bout you join me?” America asked lightly, as if he had not just snapped at Canada.
“What?” Canada asked, wondering if perhaps America had… actually, he couldn’t find an excuse for that out-of-the-blue statement.
“Well, we’re neighbours, and we real alike, although I’m more awesome, and if we were one country--”
“No,” Canada said immediately, his eyes lighting up in alarm at the words “one country”. America turned to him, shocked. But Canada shook his head and stepped back a little. “No,” he repeated.
“B-But Matt, don’t you want to be free?” America asked, trying to recover from the blow of his brother more or less rejecting him. “Why wouldn’t you want to get rid of England?”
“I like Arthur,” Canada pronounced softly. He repeated it in French, just to irritate his twin. “He treats me well when I behave,” the sideways glance at America on that word was not missed, “and he respects my wish to be French and English.” America might’ve snapped back that he did, too, but that would’ve been a lie. As long as he could remember he was insisting Canada stick to just English, either to avoid England’s anger (he accepted French from Canada so that he wouldn‘t rebel, harbouring no love for the tongue himself) or so he wouldn’t switch between the two languages and baffle America.
America stopped for a moment and wondered how Canada, his twin, could like England when the island nation was such a horrible father and brother. How could Canada have been gifted with such a quiet patience for awful people?
Or maybe he wasn’t so patient after all, because Canada was leaving, groaning and clutching his head and letting out a few curses in French. “Stupid English…” he grumbled, also in French. America grinned. He’d been around France long enough to know what those words meant.
----
England hadn’t come over for a very long time. Canada knew this was because of war, and that England absolutely had to be in Europe (he had no time for any colonies, which Canada had found out from letters he sometimes sent and got from his step-siblings across the globe) to fight France. He didn’t even come when America declared war.
It was June 18th, 1812, and while Canada knew he was part of a big family, one of the biggest in the world, he was bitterly lonely. Because when America came to visit Canada to make sure he knew they were at war (it boggled Canada’s mind sometimes, trying to understand his brother’s thought process) he said he was at war, not just with England, but the entire British Empire. None of the other colonies in the empire were really going to fight America, and England was much too busy to come and attack America. Canada deeply suspected even if he wasn’t too busy he wouldn’t subject himself to fighting the boy he’d raised again. That left only Canada -- young, small, uncertain Canada -- to struggle against the might of the growing nation.
The boy was frightened, actually, to learn that he’d be warring with his brother. But he did what he realised was necessary. He packed his most warm, sturdy clothing, gave Kumajirou a tight, long hug, and began to walk.
----
War was a glorious and ugly business, England had once told Canada. It had been a half-asleep statement, one that he hadn’t realised he said until his son asked him what it meant. Now Canada was beginning to understand. The men gathered to fight off the threat of an American invasion were anxious. Some were excited to fight, mostly uninitiated boys like himself, while others were grim-faced British regulars, some of which had come from across the ocean where another war was raging.
Canada would’ve been scared witless to fight -- even when at his most rebellious he didn’t like resorting to violence, preferring passive-aggressive tactics -- except that leading the English-Canadians of Upper Canada was a general named Isaac Brock. He was determined and inspirational and made Canada, if not eager, at least willing to battle his twin.
Brock lead the men and boys of Upper Canada to meet their native allies, and they marched behind in an untidy cloud while the British regulars tried to instil some sort of order in the lot. When Brock met with Tecumseh, the leader of the allied natives, they shook hands. Then Tecumseh turned around and shouted to his men in a native tongue, “This is a man!” Cheers shot up and any of the English-Canadians who understood were cheering and laughing as well. And a swish of courage ran up Canada’s spine at the realisation that these two men could be trusted. He could trust them to save him from his twin.
----
Invasion felt stranger than Canada wanted to admit. Like a feeling that something inside him wasn’t supposed to be there, and depending where that sensation was he reacted differently. It was presently in his right arm, tingling and making it hard for him to grip his gun. It was July 12th, 1812, and the Americans had since passed the vague border that divided the brothers into two distinct entities.
Although he wasn’t in the town when it happened, Canada could hear a calling in his mind. A summons from America and General Hull to abandon England and become one with America.
Inhabitants of Canada! The army under my command…
Go away, go away…
…invaded your country, and the standard of the United Sates now waves…
I’m not yours yet.
To the peaceable, unoffending inhabitants, it brings neither danger nor difficulty…
I won’t come quietly.
The United States offers you Peace, Liberty, and Security.
Then leave me alone. Invasions are not offers of peace, imbécile.
…between these and War, Slavery, and Destruction. Choose then, but choose wisely…
Come and get me, America.
----
Five days after the cocky declaration, Canada joined with a band of British regulars, native warriors, and French-Canadian voyageurs, and under Isaac Brock’s instruction the men and boys surrounded an American camp.
It was early in the morning, the sun not risen yet. It was the middle of summer, but the coolness reminded Canada of autumn afternoons. He clutched his gun tightly and made his way around to the other side of the camp. His footsteps were uncharacteristically quiet, hardly stirring the grass and gravel. As he got into position, next to an older French-Canadian with stern features, the Americans began to awake. The Canadians held their weapons at the ready. Not a shot was fired on Mackinac Island that morning, the surrounded soldiers surrendering without a fight.
Canada shouted in joy as the Americans handed over valuable supplies and munitions, delighted that he was winning already. The giant that was his brother seemed a little smaller now.
----
From Mackinac Brock turned south, towards Detroit. The men knew that they were outnumbered, in both manpower and weapons, but the success in Mackinac seemed to buoy them and the preparations and march were made without argument. Once they were close enough to the fort Brock and Tecumseh devised a plan to intimidate the Americans, who were utterly terrified of the natives.
It was a fake message, purposely sent near enemy lines, saying that only five thousand more native warriors would be needed to conquer Detroit. The Americans heard that and were rightly scared stupid. And then came the fun part. The Canadians hid far in the forest, but the native people marched at the edge, in full sight of the Americans. And once they were out of eyeshot they went into the forest, ran back, and marched again. Each warrior must’ve done it at least three times, and if the boy wasn’t supposed to stay absolutely silent he would’ve killed himself laughing.
That was when Tecumseh suggested to Brock that they strike. Detroit would fall easily if the Americans were scared to fight them. Many of the soldiers protested. Surely the frightened Americans wouldn’t dare leave Detroit until the war was over, and then there was the matter of being sorely outnumbered.
“We are committed to a war in which the enemy will always be our superior in numbers and ammunition,” Brock reminded them. That seemed to calm down some of the soldiers, although an unease had settled where victorious zeal had been. They steeled themselves for a fight.
But a few cannon shots, some shouting from Brock, and the once great General Hull surrendered Detroit without a fight. It was August 16th, 1812. Lead by Brock, the Canadians took the supplied and munitions and, the ultimate insult, lowered the Stars and Stripes. America was in the fort, disgusted by the surrender. When he marched out he passed Canada going inside, and the exchange of glances was a strange one. Canada would forever remember this as the greatest humiliation America had ever undergone under him, America as the only time his younger twin actually gave him a victorious smirk.
----
Fort Dearborn had fallen soon after Detroit, and if Canada had seen America again he would’ve noticed he seemed a little thinner, maybe, and perhaps he’d lost just a touch of colour on his cheeks. But of course, Canada didn’t see his twin and he wouldn’t for a while. Instead he began a charge up Queenston Heights, one that proved to be bold but foolish. Isaac Brock, leading the charge, was killed at the battle, and it was a man named Roger Sheaffe that took over. Perhaps without his tactics they would’ve never won the battle.
The funeral for Isaac Brock was a short one. They mourned the loss of a brilliant tactical leader, a friend, a hero. Canada mourned for the man who had been his saviour in the beginning of this war.
The Americans celebrated.
----
Roger Sheaffe took Isaac Brock’s place as a leader, a strategist. But he had something that Brock hadn’t. Knowledge that Canada was in his militia.
“Your name is Matthew Williams and Canada?” he asked for what must’ve been the twentieth time. He’d wanted to know why an excessively timid boy was holding a gun far too big for him and working on getting meals prepared in their base in York. What he’d discovered was that the boy was a crack shot (“From hunting all the time,”), abnormally talented at identifying plants, animals, even smelling the air and knowing where the Americans were (“I’m tied to the land, I just know these things,”), and that he went along with the natives well, speaking their languages quite fluently (“They raised me first.”).
“Yes sir,” Canada replied politely. “I don’t know how to explain it properly. I… I am the land, I guess.” He flushed a little, remembering France and his disdain for a similar statement made by his king long ago.
“You’re only a boy, though,” Sheaffe replied.
“Depends how you judge it, sir. I’m only thirteen in body, we think,” Sheaffe raised an eyebrow at “we” but didn’t say anything, “but I’m so old in reality… I don’t even know how old I am.” He shuffled a little under Sheaffe’s questioning look. His face was still pink.
“Ah,” Sheaffe replied. That seemed to satisfy him and he nodded briefly to the boy. “You may return to your cooking, Matthew,” he said. Canada smiled just a little, because Sheaffe said his human name just as awkwardly as Charles de Saint-Etienne La Tour had once pronounced his name as a nation.
----
The Americans were charging, and it was plain by Sheaffe’s horror and surprise that he wasn’t prepared to save the town of York. Not prepared to save York, but willing to make some sacrifices to keep the fight going.
He called upon Canada and asked him how much damage to the land hurt him.
“A little,” he replied honestly. He had long since grown out of the stage where political upheavals physically hurt him beyond his perennial migraines, but he also knew that blowing their munitions was not going to do the same thing as an Iroquois rebellion.
The little burn that blossomed on his collar bone was a small price to pay, considering how many Americans died in the explosion, how they wouldn’t be able to take supplies from York after all. Then he saw the mushroom cloud of thick, black smoke and before he could stop himself he wondered if his twin was among those who’d been killed. Not likely. It took so much to kill a nation, and America was young and strong and free. He couldn’t be pinned down by anything as trivial as death.
The Canadians and British and everyone retreated, so Canada shook the thought from his mind. The Americans had captured York, the capital of Upper Canada. There had been promises that the capital would remain safe even under the Americans, but Canada somehow doubted that it would come to pass. The chivalry England had taught to him from legends of times long ago had already been dying for a long time when the Europeans found him. He heard stories from the sea battles every so often, cases where British and American soldiers treated each other cordially, but those were the only examples of chivalry he could find.
His suspicions were confirmed when he started to cough and hack, holding his throat and smelling choking smoke.
“Mathieu?” One of the vouyagers turned to the boy in concern.
“I-I’m fine,” he dismissed in English. He repeated his assurance in French and tried to keep going. He could feel that little burn on his collar bone get worse, much worse.
Over the next few days Canada was miserable. He could hear laughter and shouting and see fire behind his eyelids as the American soldiers razed York to the ground and destroyed the jewel of Upper Canada, the lovely parliament building. It started on April 27th, 1813. By April 29th, Canada had never hated America more.
----
Little battles and skirmishes along the borders were common, and in between the fights came news of what was happening elsewhere. Many of the stories tumbled from Canada’s mind without a second thought (although he kept his ears sharp for any news about an Alfred F. Jones), but one clung to his mind. The sea battle between the American Chesapeake and the British Shannon.
Apparently the battle had been epic, the ships getting so close the crews were boarding each other’s ships and fighting with sabres and fists as well as cannons and guns. They’d circled and clashed and fought bitterly, but when the British won (it wasn’t surprising when Canada heard this, he had been taught how the British navy was the finest in the world), they’d treated their American prisoners with every kindness.
Unlike York, Canada thought bitterly, rubbing at his burn scar on his collarbone. He touched it compulsively, knowing that the loss of York was easily one of the biggest insults he’d ever suffered personally. Worse than when England had demanded Canada speak only English, worse than when America had tried to pull Canada away from England on his mad journey towards independence. Because the Americans had promised they wouldn’t do what they had done. They wouldn’t raze York to the ground and burn the parliament and destroy the library. And he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his twin had been there to help burn and kill.
----
Laura Secord had appeared in the camp utterly exhausted, with bleeding feet and escorted by Mohawk sentries. Canada had been fascinated. He sat outside the tent where Lieutenant James FitzGibbon was, listening carefully to what was happening.
Laura had retrieved her husband from the battlegrounds on Stony Creek after the fight (Canada might’ve remembered him, discussing his strong wife and children fondly before the fight began) and brought him to nurse him back to health. Then American soldiers had come, taken over the Secord household. Laura had heard them discussing a plan for a surprise attack, and so in the morning she had begun to walk towards the camp, avoiding Americans all the while.
Canada couldn’t help but flush with pride a little. His own people were strong, even when they knew they were at a disadvantage. His flush turned to one of embarrassment when the Mohawk sentries came out with Laura and guided her to another tent to recover. One gave him a strange look, raising an eyebrow. Canada stuttered an apology and walked away before he could get scolded.
But a little later on, the boy made his way to Laura’s tent. There were others there, all recovering from wounds or illness, but they were asleep. He coughed politely and called softly inside, requesting entrance. He was allowed in.
Laura was rubbing at her feet gently with a wet cloth, a bowl of water on the floor.
“Ah, l-let me!” Canada said, going forward and onto his knees to take over.
“I have it,” Laura replied softly, looking at the unusual boy with something similar to surprise.
“Please, let me,” Canada muttered. “It’s my way of thanking you.” He took the cloth from her limp hand and guided her feet towards the basin of water. Gravel and dirt was already settled at the bottom, blood turning what had once been clear water pink. Slowly, he guided the rough cloth over the places that were still dirty, where blood had dried and turned ugly brown.
“I’ve done nothing for you,” Laura replied, leaning down to watch the boy work.
“You have,” the boy replied gently. He soaked the cloth again, wrung it out, and went to the other foot. “You told us what the Americans were planning, so now we can ambush them. Maybe they’ll finally leave if we beat them. Maybe my brother’ll leave me alone.” Canada slammed his mouth shut as soon as he’d said it (something was soothing about performing a little kindness for someone who had saved him, saved them) but already Laura was looking at him with more attentiveness.
“Your brother? He disproves of you fighting?”
“It’s not really that…” Canada murmured. But he decided that he could trust Laura Secord, who’d run thirty-two kilometres to warn them of an attack. “My brother is a Yankee.” He could practically feel that flash of anxiety that had to be going through the strong pioneer. Then there was a hand on his head, in his filthy hair, as if she was apologizing for the sad state he was in. But all Laura said was “oh” and Canada continued to wash her feet.
----
It was October 25th in Lower Canada, and rather warm for the season, too. But that wasn’t one of Canada’s primary concerns. Instead, it was watching the Americans past the veil of trees and the boughs of red maple leaves used to disguise themselves. Instead of his weapon, Canada clutched at a horn. He was not a musician, but he had strong lungs and could make a sound on it. On the cue of their leader, Charles de Salaberry, everyone made a racket. There was screaming and crashing and Canada blew his horn as loud as he could, hoping the sound was fearsome and not pathetic.
It seemed to startle the soldiers, who turned to where the Canadians were hiding. Canada stopped blowing for just a second to see what they were doing. There was his twin amongst the soldiers. He blew even harder and hoped that America would be frightened by the noise and just leave. So, of course, the Americans charged, albeit with a little more reluctance than normal.
The battle was desperately one-sided. Frightened and unable to tell how many men the Canadians had, their opponents assumed that this was only the advanced guard. After suffering a heavy loss, they retreated.
Canada still stung a little from the recapture of York (although there was little to raze to the ground this time, so he was pretty sure the Americans hadn’t bothered) and the death of Tecumseh at Moraviantown, only twenty days previous. But that day there was not a British regular in sight. Only French-Canadians, English-Canadians, and natives. This was one victory Canada could claim entirely as his own.
When it came time to loot the dead and capture the living, Canada went among them with one goal in mind. To assure himself that his brother was not among those left behind.
But there was the young man with a bullet in his shoulder, looking as though he’d been trampled by the retreating men. His golden hair was thick with mud and a few red maple leaves, his cheeks a little sunken and definitely pale, and he looked absolutely exhausted.
It was tempting to shout for the others, have them capture the embodiment of America himself. To raise his gun and finish his twin off himself. But he… there wasn’t…
He couldn’t. Even with hatred boiling in his throat (he could swear the scar on his collarbone throbbed), there wasn’t the willpower in him to end his twin. He settled down onto the ground next to the unconscious nation and fumbled with his fingers.
“Matthew!” someone called, a little worry in their voice.
“I’m fine!” he shouted back. “I’ll be there soon!” He was careful to repeat himself in French and then turned back to America. America groaned a little and his eyelids fluttered open. As his vision slipped back into focus the proud, boisterous nation could swear he saw Canada.
“I’m going to let you go,” Canada whispered, his soft voice hardly audible at all.
“Why?” America groaned, trying to sit up. A hand on his bullet wound applying pressure made him fall back and hiss in pain. That same hand kept applying pressure as another did its best to mop up the blood with a clean, white handkerchief.
“I can’t shoot you and I can’t hand you over to Salaberry,” the younger one replied, as if that explained everything. The mopping stopped and Canada sighed. “I can’t clean this up, either.”
“I will,” America said, trying again to sit up. Canada continued to press him to the ground, a little show of strength that did nothing to his twin’s confidence. Finally America overpowered the boy and stood slowly, trying to ignore the fact his head was beginning to spin very unpleasantly. “If I hurry I might be able to catch up with the other attack,” he said.
For a moment raw fury threatened to make Canada shout, to force his brother back to the ground. But it cooled as soon as he realised America had said it for his own benefit. After Laura Secord had told them about Beaver Dams the American soldiers had been far more careful about discussing their plans. Surely America himself was far too cautious to discuss his plans with the personification of his enemy.
“Thank you,” Canada mumbled. America turned to Canada and did his best not to smile broadly. They were still at war, after all, and couldn’t afford gestures of kindness like smiles. Then he ran off, although he clearly favoured his left leg and couldn’t stay in a straight line for very long.
----
There was a drizzle, and so the red America so loathed was mostly covered in drab grey woollen overcoats. Canada wore a redcoat himself (it was old, something England has presented to him with much ceremony. Canada still hated it), although his overcoat had been given to an English-Canadian volunteer. The Americans were facing the familiar “thin red line”, and it was November 11th, 1813. America was among the soldiers, although he did not look at his brother once. Canada tried to extend the same courtesy. This was too familiar for the man, and the boy knew enough to understand why America looked so morose.
Canada suffered a mild injury as the Americans tried again and again to break that thin red line, but it was nothing worse than anything America had received at Chateauguay. When the soldiers finally retreated the Canadians and regulars celebrated and shouted insults at the uniformed backs of fighters who had once confidently assumed they couldn’t lose this war. But the boy known as Canada and Matthew Williams decided that he was going to avoid any major battles he could. He wasn’t sure he could stand up to fighting his brother anymore.
----
Fort Erie had been captured and the Battle of the Chippewa had been a horrifying, Iroquois fighting Iroquois (Canada was grateful he hadn’t witnessed either events), and now he was near Niagara and hoping against hope that America was not among the soldiers that had come for one last attempt at invasion. The war had exhausted both the colony, who was too young and small to really be fighting on his own, and the nation, who was too young and disorganized to fight properly.
It was night, there was no wind, and the heat was horrible. The milder winter had been a blessing, coupled with the curse of a humid, hot summer. British artillery had destroyed the forward rush of American soldiers while the sun was up, but nightfall had brought another rush as the enemy captured guns and began using them against the British. Gun smoke that hovered in the field made it impossible to breath properly or aim, leaving Canada helpless. If only there was light, a breeze, anything to help him target the Americans properly.
A bayonet whizzed past his ear and he nearly screamed. Quickly, Canada pushed his own forward and prayed that the man he had stabbed wasn’t one of his own. Not likely, because there was no tell-tale needle prick of pain that told him one of his own had been incapacitated or killed. Musket flashes from every direction hardly illuminated the scene at all.
Finally, at midnight the American soldiers began to retreat. As soon as he felt safe, Canada climbed up the hill and fell asleep on the slope, near other British soldiers who were equally spent. In the morning they’d have the grim job of cleaning up, burying or burning the dead and helping repair what they could. There were no more invasions into Upper Canada or Lower Canada after the Battle of Lundy’s Lane, which both America and Canada claimed to have won. Canada stayed with the British regulars, although he refused to cross the border into America. He was ready to rest.
----
There was one last thing to do. Although England had not come to Canada once in years, they’d done their best to continue correspondence through letters. Many didn’t reach each other, due to the Napoleonic Wars on one side of the Atlantic and the war Canada was suffering against America on the other. But one did, a particularly troubling one saying England had ordered the burning of Washington in retaliation for the razing of York the year before. Canada was obedient, though, and did as the letter ordered.
The burning of Washington and the president’s house was not a battle so much as a race, as Canada had said sarcastically when he watched President Madison and his staff running away from the violence. He got caught up in the adrenaline and the smoke and the smell of fear, and when he was finally brought back to the real world, heading back home, he realised with horror that he’d done exactly as his brother had done in York.
The boys had twin scars on their collarbones, a sort of sad tribute to how destructive their relationship could turn with the wrong foreign policies, with the threat of war declared. Canada touched his compulsively, America did his best to hide it. Neither would willingly show England.
----
Canada didn’t fight after that. He went home before the war was officially over (England would’ve been displeased) and did his best to nurture his out-of-control wildflowers and spend some time with Kumajirou (the bear was starting to ask who the boy was and it was quite frightening).
He avoided his twin even after he’d heard there was peace (America continuously boasted that he’d won the war, Canada scoffed at such claim), and his letters to England became fewer and further between. England showed up sometime after the war ended to help with negotiations. He was even more exhausted and hurt-looking than either of the twins, and it showed. His snipes at America were half-hearted, he merely patted Canada on the head when they were reunited, and when America said that none of the natives or Canadians were allowed to join the negotiations, he didn’t fight.
“We won the war for you,” Canada protested. “Father, please. Please, let us into the negotiations.”
But England shook his head slowly and sighed and didn’t even touch Canada. “I’m sorry, Matthew, I’ll do what I can.”
Even then, with the war old news and England near to him again, Canada still felt bitterly lonely.