Nestor looked coy, or at least as coy as a battered and shivering man could manage: “This time I got the real goods. But I ain’t told a soul, I swear to God.”
“And He’d swear right back at you.” Cobb turned to go. “And I ain’t in the mood for any more of your gimcrack gossip.”
“I gotta tell somebody!”
“Go to the station and tell Sarge. He’ll probably give you a medal.”
“You know I can’t go there—Jesus, they loosened my tooth!” Nestor was poking at the single molar that graced the lower back portion of his gaping mouth.
“Stay out of sight for a while,” Cobb said, not unkindly, walking away.
“Hey, what’s this?”
Cobb turned to see Nestor clutching a sheet of paper.
“Give me that, that’s police property.” Cobb could see that Nestor had picked up the broadsheet that Gussie had thrust upon him earlier, the one with the sketch and description of the suspected Yankee agent.
“I seen this fella,” Nestor said. His eyes widened larcenously.
Very slowly, Cobb took the paper from Nestor’s hand. “Where?”
“In the Tinker’s Dam.”
The Tinker’s Dam was a dive up beyond Jarvis and Lot Street, a hangout for fugitives and their admirers. “You did, did you?” Cobb asked, trying not to reveal his interest. “And when would this’ve been?”
“What’s it worth to ya?”
Cobb smiled menacingly. “You’d sell your granny for sixpence. I’ll give you enough for one beer now, and a quarter if anythin’ comes of it.”
Nestor pretended to think this over. “I saw him a coupla days ago. I sat near him up there on Friday, I think. A Yankee with a phony Irish brogue, by the sound of him. He was quite pie-eyed, an’ braggin’ about gettin’ even with some swell who had done his family a grievous wrong.”
“You’re sure? It’s a pretty skimpy sketch.”
“It’s him all right. And I know the name he was usin’, though up there it weren’t likely the one his mama give him.”
“A second beer, then, for the name.”
Nestor grinned, winced at the discomfort doing so caused, and said, “Silas McGinty. Can you believe it?”
“I’m beginnin’ to believe most anythin’.” Cobb sighed. He turned once more to go.
Nestor’s voice, with its wheedling whine, followed Cobb out of the alley: “They’re all meetin’ up at Montgomery’s tavern tonight! They’re plannin’ ta kill us all in our beds!”
Cobb carried on to King Street. He had no doubt who “they” were. But he was trying desperately not to give the least credence to Nestor Peck’s so-called “facts.”
Dora had gone out to deliver a baby somewhere on Newgate Street, but Fabian and Delia had come home from school early enough to heat up a stew and butter some of Saturday’s bread. They watched their father eat with that mixture of revulsion and awe that children have for the peculiar capacities of adults. Father and offspring were getting ready to leave the house when Dora Cobb came stumbling up the kitchen steps, breathless.
“You run all the way?”
“Don’t start, Mister Cobb.”
“Trouble, luv?”
“False alarm,” she said, puffing and flushing as the children each took hold of a coat-sleeve and pulled.
“Why’re you lookin’ so grim, then?”
Dora nodded meaningfully towards Fabian and Delia.
“You kids run along to school,” Cobb said, and the youngsters reluctantly left. “Now, what’s so grim the kids mustn’t hear?”
With her coat removed and her tuque and mittens set adrift, Dora shifted her bulk onto the nearest chair. “I met my sister May on Yonge Street. She’d come in on the coach from the township just to see me.”
“Strange time to be visitin’ your relatives.”
Dora flinched, but was in no mood to defend her turf, which alarmed Cobb considerably. “Her eldest’s run off.”
Cobb relaxed. “Again?”
“It’s serious this time.”
“You know darn well young Jimmy’s been sniffin’ after that Hartley girl ever since threshin’ time. They’ve probably run off together.”
Dora gave her husband a withering look. “I ain’t no foolish woman, Mister Cobb.”
Now it was Cobb who flinched. “What’s he done?”
“He run off after supper last night. He took two dollars from the pickle jar—and his daddy’s gun!”
“But that old musket ain’t been used since the Wars of the Posies.”
“It could get him killed.” She sighed. And they both knew what she meant.
Cobb began to think that the well-ordered parts of his life had started to come unglued. Could there be any truth to Nestor Peck’s story about a radicals’ meeting tonight at Montgomery’s tavern north of the city on Yonge Street? If one were planning an invasion of the defenceless capital, that would be a logical place for rebels to gather and conspire. Still, there had been many such rumours over the past few weeks. Jimmy Madden’s leaving home with money and a gun, however, was both oddly coincidental and ominous. It didn’t have the sound of an elopement. He knew now that he would have to pass Nestor’s information along to Sarge, though he would give the tale no particular coloration; it was his betters who were responsible for the safety of the government and the province, not a lowly police constable. He certainly would not mention anything about his nephew’s unexplained exploit. That was family business, wasn’t it?
At any rate, while Dora had raced home with her news, May Madden had made for the police station to enlist Cobb’s aid. He agreed to hurry back there himself to see what, if anything, he could do, other than pat her hand and see that she got safely onto the afternoon stage to Thornhill. He was nearing Jarvis Street when he spotted a small person skidding towards him along the snow-slick boardwalk. He stopped and waited, braced for anything.
The messenger-boy known only as Scrawny came huffing straight up to him. “I got this note fer ya, Cobb,” he announced.
“That’s mister to the likes of you.”
“Some old lady come bustin’ inta the station!” He thrust the note into Cobb’s hand.
May Madden could never be described as an old lady, even by Scrawny. “What’re you waitin’ for?” Cobb asked irritably. “I know you’ve been paid at the other end. Now git!”
The boy, gloveless and draped in cast-off rags, held his ground—unintimidated. “I thought ya might wanta send some message back.”
“Back where?” A cold chill was creeping along the nape of his neck.
“I’m pretty sure it was the old gal from the hat store what brung the note fer ya.”
Feeling guilty about rushing past the Court House but more than alarmed at the one-sentence summons from Catherine Roberts (“Please come as soon as you can”), Cobb found himself breathless outside the front entrance of the shop. A hand-written sign in the window read: CLOSED FOR THE DAY.
His fingers had not quite touched the handle when the door swung open.
“Thank God it’s you,” Beth said. She was pale and shaken.
Aunt Catherine was standing, as if in shock, in the middle of a bonnet display. This time it was she who held a letter stiffly in her left hand.
“He’s dead,” Cobb said, failing to make the remark a question.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Beth said. “This isn’t about Marc.”
“What, then? Someone in the family?”
Beth took the note from her aunt’s grip, guided the older woman to a bench, and sat her gently down.
“I think you’d better read this yerself. It was thrown through the little window in the workroom wrapped around a stone. It nearly hit one of the girls. I had to give them all a sip of brandy before I sent them home. Auntie insisted on going out to look for you, but I shouldn’t have let her.”
Too startled to respond, Cobb took the wrinkled sheet of quarto-paper from Beth. The message was written in deliberately crude, black capital
s:
YOU HAVE 24 HRS. TO LEAVE TOWN. THERE’S NO ROOM FOR YANKEES AND RADICALS IN THIS PROVINCE
THE LEAGUE FOR JUSTICE
P.S. WE MEAN BUSINESS: GET OUT!
“It could be them young fellas that broke yer front window last month,” Cobb said without much conviction. This message had the stamp of more desperate men. The news of the Quebec uprising had given the extremists on the right the upper hand among the moderate Tories, and respectable people without an army or militia to protect them from their enemies and their own fears could do things quite out of character.
“What do you think?” Beth asked, echoing her aunt’s question earlier this morning, but the doubt and confusion on Cobb’s face, however momentary, gave the game away.
“You ain’t seriously thinkin’ of leavin’?” he asked.
Beth said, “I’ve stood up to much worse than this, but—”
“Good. ’Cause I guarantee I’ll have the names of these blag-hordes by tomorrow mornin’.”
“And I believe you, Horatio, but who’s going put them safe behind bars?”
“I’ll do it myself, if I haveta!”
During this brief exchange, Aunt Catherine had remained seated on the bench, staring straight ahead. Her skin was pasty grey and covered with a sickly sheen. Beth put a hand on her shoulder and looked Cobb resolutely in the eye. “I’ve got to get her away from here,” she said.
“I got family near Woodstock—”
“Out of the country, I mean.”
“For good?”
Beth gave him a wry smile. “I wouldn’t leave Marc. You know that.”
He nodded, still perplexed. “I think yer auntie needs a doctor.”
“It’s all been too much for her, what with the wedding being called off at the last minute when the troops had to leave for Montreal, the damage to the shop, Rick’s death, Marc’s getting shot, and now this.”
“But you can’t just up and leave your shop, your lively-hood and all.”
“Our new tenant next door, Mr. Ormsby, will close it up proper, store the stock, keep an eye on the place till I can get back. I’ll see our girls get some severance pay.”
“But where can you go?”
“Pennsylvania, where we both have family.”
“But it could be risky for two unescorted ladies to travel, the way things are outside the city.” Cobb could not bring himself to mention his true fears about what might be about to happen, with all its potential dangers and uncertainties.
“We won’t be travelling as two ladies.”
“I don’t get it.”
“My plan is to leave today as soon as it gets dark. Auntie and I’ll put on some of Marc’s clothes and cut our hair. We’ll be two gentlemen on horseback.”
“Horseback?”
Beth gave him a guilty smile. “We’ll need your help.”
“The best way I can help is by talkin’ you outta this foolishness. Your aunt here is in no shape to ride, and you won’t get a mile before some howl-i-ganders on one side or the other’ll stop you.”
“We need two sturdy horses who can get us all the way to the Niagara.”
Cobb was about to remonstrate with her again when Aunt Catherine seemed to awaken out of a trance to say, “I rode like a man when I was a girl in Pennsylvania. I will do so again.”
“I’m determined to take Auntie home, and I intend to stay with her till she’s got her life settled again.”
“What about Marc?”
Beth’s face darkened. “He knows me,” she said quietly. “I’ve got a letter for him right here. I’d like you to mail it. As soon as we get to Pennsylvania, I’ll write you and Major Jenkin and give you our mailing address.”
“This still sounds crazy to me.”
“Horatio, I know I’m asking a lot from you. I know how desperate you are to stay clear of politics—”
“I’ll get the horses from Frank’s livery and have a lad bring them around the back about six o’clock.”
“Thank you. I’ll give you some money for them. We’ll leave them at the Central Hotel in Manchester.”
They discussed a few more details of Beth’s bold scheme; then Cobb allowed himself to be bussed by both women and turned, sadly, to go.
“Goddamn politics,” he muttered to an astonished shopper.
* * *
What on earth could happen next? Cobb wondered as he headed towards West Market Lane and Ogden Frank’s livery. After arranging for the horses to be brought to the shop just after dusk by a trusted stableboy and concocting a cover story no-one at the livery actually believed, Cobb hurried to the station to find his sister-in-law.
“She just left,” Gussie intoned without looking up from his copy-work. “Can’t wait fer certain people forever.”
“She say where she was goin’?”
“To catch the coach home—where she belongs.”
Cobb turned to go.
“You ain’t give me yer report for the—”
Cobb slammed the door only slightly harder than he intended to.
May Madden and the stagecoach had left a few minutes before Cobb arrived at the depot on Yonge Street. By now he was craving a drink, but not enough to drive him to any of the nearby bars. He had a jug of whiskey hidden in the chicken-coop, but Dora might still be at home, alert and probably on the warpath. Young Jimmy was her favourite nephew. But what could Cobb do to help? The lad certainly wasn’t in the city. And if Nestor’s talk of a general mustering up at Montgomery’s tavern were true, Cobb wasn’t about to poke his nose in there and get it shot off. But what if that mob, with or without Jimmy, came storming down Yonge Street tonight or tomorrow? What would he do then? What could anyone loyal to the Crown do?
At six o’clock Cobb slipped into the laneway behind King Street near Bay. Unobserved, he watched two male figures emerge from the millinery shop, peer anxiously about, toss their bulky bundles across the withers of the waiting horses, swing up into the saddle—boldly astride—and trot softly west until they vanished. Cobb cursed the goblins of all politics.
The rest of his evening was blessedly uneventful. The taverns were eerily subdued, with fewer than half their regular customers. Pub talk was carried on in low murmurs, and the very sight of Cobb’s uniform, festooned with portions of the omelette Dora had cooked him despite his confession of having missed her sister at the station, was enough to silence men for whom silence was as feared as the heebie-jeebies. Where was everybody? After a while he gave the question up, grateful for a few hours of peace after the roilings of the day. As he walked towards his front door and the lamp-lit interior of his home, it began to snow. He thought of Beth and Catherine riding without escort in such weather, in such darkness, along roads congested in all probability with other muffled-up riders galloping towards one kind of mischief or another. He thought about Marc lying in pain in the fetid gloom of some hospital, ministered to by strangers. Then Dora opened the door, filling the rectangle of light with her generous, robust, motherly presence.
They whispered together far into the evening and early morning. Then, at last, they fell separately into an unquiet sleep.
* * *
The knock that repeated itself with blunt insistence upon the front door did not wake Cobb. He had long ago become immune to such interruptions, for it was Dora who was always wanted to ease some squalling infant into the world, to survive hardy or weaken and die. Nor did he notice her roll off the bed and pad in her nightgown off to the cold rooms beyond the coziness of their cocoon. In fact, it took two jabs to the ribs to bring him awake and muttering.
“Jesus, it can’t be mornin’ already!” he growled.
“It ain’t. But there’s a fella at the door who wants to see Mister Cobb, an’ last time I checked below yer belly button, you was still he.”
“Tell him to bugger off and come back when the sun is shinin’.”
“He says he’s been sent by the governor.”
“Jesus!”
Cobb tottere
d into the kitchen, pulling on his trousers and feeling about for his boots. The dampened fire barely glowed in the grate. He could see his breath.
“Constable Cobb?”
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!”
With his shirt misbuttoned and his jacket, helmet, and greatcoat in hand, he staggered to the door and out onto the stoop.
“You’re the governor’s stableman,” he said accusingly.
“You’re to come to Government House right away, sir.”
“What in hell’s happenin’?”
“I don’t know. They just rousted me outta bed an’ sent me here with the horses.”
Cobb soon found himself cantering through the deserted streets of Toronto at six in the morning, shivering, unfed, and fighting back a feeling of dread.
As they neared Government House on King Street west of Simcoe, Cobb could see other figures, mounted and on foot, speeding down the long lane that wound its way up to the verandah of Francis Head’s sprawling residence. No-one was speaking. Something serious was afoot. Cobb hobbled up onto the porch in the wake of a very familiar rump.
“Wilkie?” he called.
Constable Ewan Wilkie kept on going towards the double-doors that had been swung open to let those summoned enter with dispatch. In the ample foyer Cobb bumped against several bundled-up bodies. All were staring at the door of the governor’s office at the far end of the visitors’ vestibule. Under a quarter-lit chandelier stood Lieutenant-Governor Sir Francis Bond Head in his nightshirt. His hair looked as if it had been dragged through a briar bush against the grain. His normally handsome features were distorted by the glassy stare of his eyes. His jaw was moving, but to no effect that anyone present could determine. Beside him, pistol à la main, quivered his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Barclay Spooner, similarly disheveled, and blinking anxiously at the arrivals.
The latter, Cobb could see even in the shadowy light, included Wilfrid Sturges, his chief; the other three constables, Wilkie, Brown, and Rossiter; Sheriff Jarvis of York; and half a dozen of his petty officials.
It was Barclay Spooner who broke the silence. “Thank you all for coming. Sir Francis has requested that I deliver the news to you as delicately as I can.”
Dubious Allegiance Page 8
