Fort St Joseph was established by the British at the turn of the 19th century soon after the ‘Jay’s Treaty’ was signed between Britain and the United States. It was built to protect British territories in the north from the Americans and to retain their influence over the lucrative fur trade. Being the most northerly fort of the British Empire at that time, it was not well built, and the enlisted men suffered many hardships due to the harsh climate. It was actually referred to as ‘The Siberia of Upper Canada’. This is why two British soldiers, Keary and Mynagh, attempted to desert to an American fort some forty miles south.

Fort St. Joseph was strategically located on a promenade on the southern end of the island; all travel by water through the Great Lakes could be viewed from this location. I had the pleasure to interpret at the Fort for several years and was privy to many documents and government archives essential to this story. The characters, events, and actions are accurate based on this research. The ruins of Fort St. Joseph, as it was burned by the Americans during The War of 1812, are now a National Historic Park. Mynagh’s remains lay in the small cemetery outside the palisades, although there are no records of Keary’s eventual fate after this incident.

I have since volunteered for many events put on by the Fort staff including Ghost Walks where, among others, I played the ghost of Keary. The site always gives me a special sense that I have gone back to the time where soldiers went through their regimens and routines.

Excerpt: Captain Dawson has just discovered that two of his men have gone missing:

“What do you mean they’re missing, Doherty?”  Captain Dawson was not in the best of humor. He had suspended John Askin, head of the Indian Department at the Fort, for refusing to account for various and sundry items he suspected lavished upon the Anishinaabe at the expense of the regiment.  Askin, however, had connections in York, and the suspension was lifted; Dawson was livid.  Doherty looked visibly shaken and his voice trembled, “I saw them this morning heading out over the ice towards the Detour, sir.”
“And you waited until this afternoon to tell me?” Dawson’s voice was raised to a snarl.
“I didn’t know sir that they was headin’ for the Mackinaw.”
“And now you suddenly know where they were going?”  Doherty looked down to avoid the assault of his captain’s wide, black eyes.
“What else can go wrong in this god forsaken place?”
Dawson was looking toward the heavens, speaking incredulously as if God himself had deserted.  He dashed out of his quarters and soon he had secured a subaltern and a sergeant to follow the tracks of Keary and Mynagh.
“Now with the late hour and the weather, go as far as the Detour, and if you don’t find them, for God’s sakes return to the Fort; I don’t want to have to look for two more soldiers.”
A part of Dawson hoped that Keary and Mynagh would be found alive. “Of course then I may have to shoot them,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“The fools, in this weather.  They should have waited at least ‘till the ice was out.”
He recalled in April of 1805, when 12 men from the 49^th took a garrison boat in an attempt to cross to the American fort.  “Now these men had some brains,” he thought. It was the only boat at the fort; no one could follow them.

The afternoon seemed to pass quickly into nightfall avoiding the dusk, and with it, the cold came immediately, without mercy.  Dawson could hear the sap in the trees freezing into small explosions stealing the quiet façade of winter.  At six, he retired into his quarters, the windows blind with frost, and lit the kerosene lamp.  The shadows quivered, lighting and darkening parts of the room in variants, as if the shadows themselves shivered from the cold. Then came a knock at the door. 
“Yes, come in.”
“They’re back, sir, no sign of ‘em.”
“Christ,” Dawson scowled, “there’ll be hell to pay.”