A few minutes later one of the aides slipped up to Marc’s bed and whispered urgently in his ear, in French. “They have arrested my brother, Gilles. They say he tried to kill you with a knife last week. That is not true. He came in tonight only to steal, to buy food for his babes. But it was not I who left the latch undone. I swear, m’sieur. The big nurse, she’s dismissed me. Now we have nothing.”
Marc reached over the edge of the bed and under the mattress. He drew out three silver coins and dropped them into the girl’s hand. “That’s all I can do. I’m truly sorry.”
The girl thanked him tearfully and vanished, though she had no inkling of what had prompted the English officer to such generosity.
It was the middle of January when Dr. Jonas Wilder deemed Lieutenant Marc Edwards fit enough to travel by coach to Toronto. Winter had set in with a will. Only the most rapid-ridden sections of the St. Lawrence remained unfrozen; every other creek and stream had been sealed tight. Three feet of snow fell and accumulated in the bush. The unreliable autumn roads were now snow-packed, icy smooth, and conducive to swift transport. Complicating matters, however, was the general lawlessness of the rural and less-populated areas of both provinces, as reprisal and counterreprisal continued apace, exacerbated by threats of invasion—from Vermont by land, and across the St. Lawrence and Niagara Rivers. While Wolfred Nelson was now in jail and Louis Joseph Papineau sulked in Albany like Achilles in his tent, Robert Nelson and other rebel leaders like Gagnon and Coté were gathering support on the lower Richelieu.
Then, on December 29, Colonel MacNab, asserting his authority in the face of the still-dithering and about-to-be-recalled Governor Head, had ordered a bold nighttime attack on an American ship, the Caroline, which had been assisting Mackenzie from Navy Island, a small redoubt in the Niagara River. The ship was boarded, taken over, set on fire, and put adrift towards the falls. A U.S. citizen had died during the boarding, and several others had been injured. The resulting furore had brought the jingoists out in full, frothing panoply. The Hunters’ Lodges, American-based groups conspiring to invade Canada, expanded tenfold. Sabres were rattled. And everywhere along the thousand-mile border, fear, tension, and paranoia had begun to replace common sense and past precedent. So it was that the highway that hugged the shoreline of the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario from Cornwall to Toronto was no longer a sure or safe road to travel.
Just after New Year’s, and about ten days after the thief and would-be murderer had been manacled and imprisoned (habeas corpus having been suspended and martial law declared), Marc had been carried on a litter up to the barracks of the Royal Regiment and installed in the officers’ quarters. Davey MacKay came along and remained. Marc heard from Beth often, though her letters did not always arrive in sequence, and he dutifully kept her informed of his daily progress. (“The limp, my darling, is slight, and the pleasure—the pure joy—of walking again, however unsteadily, is more than I could have hoped for when I first awoke in the noisome darkness of that hospital room.”) Beth had heard back from Dora Cobb, with a brief narrative of her husband’s “military adventure” appended, and while Dora and Mister Cobb had learned joyfully of Marc’s recovery, they had no knowledge of anything or anyone at Crawford’s Corners. Some of the rebels, certainly Samuel Lount and Peter Matthews, were about to be put on trial, charged with treason. And the capital was naturally a tense and divided town. Finally, Dora had suggested that their home would be open to Marc if he needed a quiet place to convalesce.
Dr. Wilder laid down strict criteria for Marc’s travel arrangements: he was to move no more than forty miles per day, the going rate for this time of year, after which he was to remain for at least a night and half a day at the staging inn to rest, eat, and take moderate exercise before moving on. However, because many of the regular stagecoach schedules had been abandoned for the present, it was not likely that such intermittent arrangements for Marc could be smoothly executed. Nonetheless, he optimistically estimated that the four- or five-day trip could be accomplished in less than two weeks, which would bring him into Toronto by the end of the month. Happily, Beth’s most recent letter suggested that she, too, would arrive there at about the same time.
Major Jenkin began looking about for a coach-sleigh leaving Montreal for Cornwall, one that would be both secure and comfortable for his young friend. Two days after the doctor had pronounced Marc fit to travel, Major Jenkin arrived with good news. He had taken a place in a coach that had been chartered by several worthies and was going as far as Kingston, from which spot Marc could easily arrange public or private transportation to Toronto. There would be five fellow passengers in a luxurious, roofed carriage fitted out with runners, with a reliable driver and four of the best horses money could lease. There would be overnight stops at Cornwall and Prescott. Moreover, for a suitable fee, the passengers had gladly agreed to extended stopovers to accommodate the “hero of St. Denis.” Marc winced at this characterization of his rescue of a single soldier from the battlefield, but he did not interrupt Jenkin, who went on to explain that the head of this party was a captain in the Glengarry militia. The fellow carried a weapon and was capable of providing additional security, should it become necessary.
“He’s travelling home to Kingston from his sister-in-law’s funeral here this week with two other members of his family,” the major informed Marc. “The fourth fellow is a wealthy wine merchant on his way to Toronto, as English and Tory as one might wish. The fifth chap is a notary or solicitor, I’m told, en route to Cobourg, your sometime stamping ground.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Marc said. He was seated on the edge of his bed, not yet dressed.
“I do: be well, and get yourself married.”
“And what are these?” Marc asked lightly, pointing to a bundle of clothing piled on top of a large trunk that dwarfed Marc’s own modest box. “Extra layers of wool in case of blizzard?”
The major almost blushed. “I want you to forget about your uniform and put on these things I’ve laid out for you. There are several other ensembles and gentleman’s accessories inside. I bought the works from a tall but impecunious barrister yesterday morning and had Davey haul them in here last night.”
“Go in disguise, you mean?” Marc was laughing as he held up a finely tailored suitcoat and worsted trousers.
“I’m serious. You are defenceless—unless you agree to carry a loaded pistol everywhere you go. You are still very weak, and with your game leg, you couldn’t outrun a duck. I hate to be so blunt, but—”
“It’s all right, Owen. If you insist on this, I’ll go along with it. But remember that you’ve already told my fellow passengers they’re accompanying the ‘hero of St. Denis,’ so my identity won’t be secret for long. And where on earth did that ridiculous appellation come from?”
“It’s not the passengers or the innkeepers I’m worried about. But we’ve heard tales of sleighs and wagons being stopped randomly and searched for fleeing rebels and, on the other side, of exasperated rebels taking random shots at anybody in uniform, particularly officers like you, who have been made instant heroes by the English populace.”
Marc was still eyeing the haberdashery. “I’ll look like the wine merchant’s partner,” he chuckled, holding up the ruffled blouse and chequered vest. “And why this monstrous dull greatcoat? My own is perfectly fine.”
“Yes, with the gold and green trim of the 24th Regiment, recognized everywhere in the province. Besides, Davey’s already packed it with your uniform.”
“My God, where did you come by this?”
“That, sir, is all the rage in Montreal and New York.” He plunked the fur helmet on Marc’s head and pulled down the flaps.
“Did you liberate this from some Cossack?” Marc grinned like a lunatic and flapped the fur wings of the hat.
“It’ll keep your ears warm and aid your disguise.”
“I agree: no officer in the Queen’s army would be caught dead in this.”
“And I want yo
u caught alive: by your long-suffering bride.”
* * *
Marc said good-bye to Owen Jenkin and Davey MacKay at the barracks, where a cutter had been hired to take him over to the Royal Arms hotel to rendezvous with the stagecoach.
“I’ll be joining you soon, I trust,” the major said. “In the meantime, I’ll pass this news along to Beth and forward any of her letters to you in Toronto. I may even give them to the military courier who rides daily between here and Kingston. Privileges of a quartermaster, eh?”
“Thank you for everything, Owen. I’ll write you as soon as I get home.”
Davey now stepped respectfully forward, his open, freckled face grave: “May the Lord bless you, sir.”
“He’s more likely to bless you,” Marc said in farewell.
In front of the Royal Arms on a cold but still winter’s morning, Marc spotted a splendid coach sitting on a pair of formidable runners and in the reliable grasp of four, shiny-coated dray-horses. The driver, a craggy-faced fellow of indeterminate years, was arranging several bags, portmanteaux, and small trunks on top of the carriage. Watching him with proprietorial interest from the boardwalk in front of the hotel were four well-turned-out gentlemen and a lady. All eyes swung towards the sound of Marc’s cutter pulling up behind the coach. One of the figures detached itself from the group and sprang forward to help Marc out of his seat. Marc took the gloved hand and raised himself onto the snow-packed street.
“Thank you, sir. My name is Marc Edwards.”
“Oh, we know, Lieutenant. We know all about you! I’m Captain Randolph Brookner of the Glengarry militia.” Of that there could be little doubt, for despite the subfreezing temperature the good captain had disdained either greatcoat or hat—the former draped over one arm and the latter, a fur helmet, tucked under the other—in order not to deprive the onlookers or his travelling companions of the resplendency of his tunic and trimmings: a livid green broadcloth with mustard piping and vermilion epaulettes. An officer’s sword was ostentatiously buckled on and glittering, and a pistol sat perky in its studded holster. His boots gleamed, begging to be admired.
“Thank you, sir, but I’m quite able to walk unaided.” Marc smiled as he politely removed the captain’s hand from his elbow. “But don’t ask me to sprint to the corner!”
“Then the word of your miraculous recovery has not been exaggerated. What an honour it is to meet an officer who fought at St. Denis and to be able to assist you on your way back to your glorious regiment.”
Marc limped resolutely towards the other passengers. It was at this moment that Captain Brookner noticed that Marc was not in uniform: even his boots were low-cut and quite ordinary, and the fur hat demeaning his manly brow was exactly like the one seen on a hundred pedestrian heads in town—and on two of his companions.
“But you are not in uniform, sir!” he declared to Marc’s back.
Marc paused. “It’s in my luggage. There’ll be plenty of time to put it on when I reach my regiment, as you say.”
Brookner swallowed his disappointment, and said brightly, “What does the symbolism matter, eh? It’s the grit and valour of the man. And I am proud to have been able to offer you a seat in my chartered coach. My desire is to maintain a pace to Kingston suited entirely to your fitness to travel. Please introduce yourself to the others while I sort out our driver and the mess he’s making of our bags.” He spun on his heels like a drum-major and began barking instructions to Marc’s driver and then to the one already up on the coach. As he did so, Marc noted that he was tall, athletic, and fair-haired: a picture-postcard soldier.
Marc hobble-walked to the group on the boardwalk, who had been observing the scene before them without comment. He was delighted with the strength in his legs, and the little wobble to the left grew less noticeable as he found the appropriate pace and rhythm for it. A portly, soft-fleshed gentleman with round, uninquisitive eyes stepped forward with his hand out. He was attired, Marc noted with an inward chuckle, in a smart grey overcoat and fur helmet exactly like his own.
“Good morning, sir, and welcome,” the man enthused with a loose-lipped smile that rippled all the way to his jowls. The accent was flamboyantly English. “I am Ainslie Pritchard, wine merchant of London and Montreal, presently on my way to Toronto. Let me introduce you to these fine people who shall be accompanying us to Kingston and beyond.”
As Pritchard introduced them, Marc acknowledged each with a short bow.
“This is Mr. Percy Sedgewick, gentleman farmer from the Kingston area. And Mr. Charles Lambert, a solicitor from Cobourg on his way home. And, pardon me for addressing you last, madam, this is—”
“Adelaide Brookner,” the lady said in a flat, listless voice, as if she were hoping that by stating her name she would not be obligated to say more. Marc bowed, and gave her a quick, scrutinizing glance. She was all in black—her boots, the skirt beneath the black coat, the scarf at her throat, the fur cap, and the veil attached to it. Behind the latter, Marc could just discern a face with handsome, regular features, solemn blue eyes, and a wisp or two of tawny hair.
“A precious soul has recently passed from us,” said Percy Sedgewick beside her, the black armband on his grey coat now more meaningful. “We attended the funeral yesterday.”
“Please accept my condolences,” Marc said.
Sedgewick was short and stocky, made even more so by his standing beside Adelaide Brookner, who was very tall for a woman, probably five feet seven. But the raw-boned, weathered face signalled without doubt that this was a farmer, one who worked the plough and drove his own cattle.
“Thank you,” he said to Marc while unconsciously patting Adelaide’s mittened hand. “I do hope our sorrow doesn’t make the trip too uncomfortable.”
“I am afraid it is I who am likely to be the dull companion,” Marc said, “because I am destined to spend a good deal of the time asleep. I am still some way from recovering my former strength.”
“No need to apologize, sir,” Pritchard said affably. “We understand, don’t we, Lambert?”
Charles Lambert glanced up, took a second or so to absorb the question directed at him, then said in a guarded tone, “Yes.”
“Mr. Lambert is inordinately quiet for a solicitor,” Pritchard said with a sort of genial disapprobation, “but I expect he’ll open up once we get rolling.”
Marc looked to Lambert for a response, but the dark, sallow-skinned little man had turned his eyes away as if it were simply too much bother to enter the polite chatter or dignify its importance by contributing to it.
Randolph Brookner hallooed them towards the coach. The cutter had disappeared, all the luggage was stowed and tied down, the ostler was standing beside the lead horse ready to release it, and the coach-door had been swung open.
Marc turned to Adelaide Brookner. “It was very kind of you and your brother to agree to take along a semi-invalid.”
From under the veil came a voice that was richly alto yet tinged with some private and painful ambiguity. “Randolph insisted, as he usually does. And he is my husband, not my brother,” she said and, Marc thought, added as a near-inaudible aside, “alas.” But there was no way of assessing her expression behind the black wisp covering her face. She stepped hesitantly towards the carriage as if she were, as a lady, reluctant to accept the privilege of entering first.
“I am Mrs. Brookner’s brother,” Percy Sedgewick explained, watching his sister closely as she approached her husband, who was standing beside the open door as rigid and self-important as a brigadier-general taking salute. “But you are not the first to make that mistake, sir,” he added.
“Don’t you think we should let Lieutenant Edwards choose a comfortable seat after madam is settled?” Ainslie Pritichard asked, like a squire pointing out the obvious to those not blessed with his pedigree.
Captain Brookner bristled, produced a tight smile, and said, “Of course.” He clutched his wife’s left elbow to assist her up into the carriage. She flinched and uttered a tin
y cry.
“She fell on the ice at Marion’s funeral yesterday,” her brother said to Marc, who was protesting any favouritism directed his way.
Adelaide settled herself not in the right rear seat, with the large window and a forward view, but in the left front seat just inside the door, where she would be riding backwards with only the slit of the door-window next to her.
Marc was chivvied in next and, desiring as restful journey as possible, chose the right front seat where he could ride backwards, doze at will, and not be overly tempted to acknowledge the view outside. Brookner stepped in next and, to Marc’s surprise, did not sit beside his wife. Instead, he folded his angular frame on the rear seat opposite Marc: the best one in the house, as it were. Their knees almost touched.
At the same time, Charles Lambert appeared to brush rudely past Sedgewick and Pritchard and squirrel himself across from Adelaide, who had tucked her skirt up and pulled the mourning veil firmly over her handsome features. That left only the two middle positions free. The very English wine merchant wriggled his bulk between Marc and Adelaide, and Sedgewick had no choice but to sit across from him. Seconds later, their driver gave a shout, cracked his whip, and the coach slipped smoothly away on its formidable runners. Before they had left the town behind, it began to snow.
Marc was grateful that a fresh snowfall would fill in any frozen ruts on the main road to Upper Canada and Cornwall, make any viewing of the scenery floating by improbable, and provide some muted light in the otherwise shadowy interior of the coach. He leaned back against the pillowed headrest and dozed peacefully, letting the sporadic conversation of the others drift past him.
“I was sorry we were interrupted in the dining-room last night, Captain, as I was most intrigued by your account of the rebellion in your province,” Ainslie Pritchard began. “As a man wholly devoted to the other kind of accounts—the ones in ledgers, I mean—I have ever been fascinated by those who live a life of action and high risk.”
Dubious Allegiance Page 11
