Dubious Allegiance

by Don Gutteridge

  “Runnin’ a hardware store in Kingston ain’t exactly Cyrano de Bergerac,” interjected Sedgewick.

  “You are right to correct Mr. Pritchard’s misapprehension, Percy. There is some difference between myself as a mere militia officer and an officer of the British army like Lieutenant Edwards here.”

  “But you have as splendid a uniform, a fine sword, and, I presume, a suitable steed to carry you into battle?”

  “What happened near Kingston was hardly a battle, certainly not like those at St. Denis and St. Eustache. But there was danger, I must admit frankly. And the training we diligently carried out several times each year was, if I may be somewhat immodest, instrumental in the success of the Glengarrians.”

  “You were telling us that your unit was asked to help track down rebels fleeing the fiasco in Toronto and local sympathizers guilty of harbouring those under warrant.”

  “That’s correct. There was no actual uprising around Kingston, which, you will see in a few days, is well fortified, nigh impregnable. But its proximity to the American border made it attractive to fugitives looking for sanctuary in that damnable republic.”

  “And these ruffians were armed?”

  “To the teeth.”

  “How did you know whom to pursue?”

  “That has not been difficult. The countryside has five loyalists for every rebel sympathizer.”

  “Neighbour snitchin’ on neighbour, you mean.”

  “Doing their duty, dear brother-in-law.”

  “So you actually got involved in the pursuit?”

  “Yes. We received reliable information that the Scanlon brothers—notorious supporters of the Reform party and shills for Mackenzie and his republican gibberish—were heading home.”

  “They’ve run a farm near mine peacefully for ten years or more.”

  “Percy speaks part of the truth, Mr. Pritchard. But you have to understand that the uprising in Upper Canada was largely a farmers’ revolt, not a racial and religious conflict like the one here in Quebec. It was so-called ‘peaceful’ farmers like the Scanlons who took up arms against the Crown rather than work out their grievances through the lawful instrument of their Assembly and the appointed councillors.”

  “Were the Scanlons in Toronto for the dust-up there?”

  “They were on their way, apparently, but Mackenzie, they say, changed the date of his planned assault and they arrived too late. However, they did come in time to materially assist the mad Scotsman in escaping to the United States, where he has been threatening an invasion and encouraging cross-border forays in the southwest.”

  “The blackguards!”

  “Indeed, sir. Well, we Glengarrians did not hesitate when we learned of this piece of perfidy. A platoon under my command rode out to the Scanlon homestead, ordered the women and children off—”

  “They come runnin’ to my place, terrified. I gave them what comfort I—”

  “Yes, yes, Percy, no-one’s faulting your charity or blaming you for harbouring women and children, even though they themselves would flout the law, and you were technically aiding and abetting outlaws.”

  Whatever retort Sedgewick may have contemplated, it was swallowed in a dismissive snort.

  “And?”

  “And we set the barn and coops ablaze, and scattered the livestock. We were just about to set the house alight when the three brothers roared out of the woods like banshees, firing upon us with pistol and musket.”

  “My God!”

  “My sergeant was wounded in the arm not a yard from me. Without delay or any thought for my own safety, I rallied my men and we returned shot for shot. The Scanlons retreated to the bush, where they had hidden fresh horses, and took off. I concluded that they would soon circle back and look for their families at Percy’s place.”

  “And you surmised accurately?”

  “I did. There was another exchange of gunfire not fifty yards in front of Percy’s gate. This time it was the eldest Scanlon who took a bullet, in the shoulder, and the other two wisely tossed aside their weapons and threw up their hands.”

  “I trust, Captain, that when this ruckus is all over, you will be rewarded with a well-deserved commendation, perhaps even a knighthood.”

  “Possibly, sir. But I am satisfied that the Scanlons are in jail and almost certain to hang for their crimes.”

  “Aren’t you forgettin’ about young Miles? He escaped last week, just before we left for my sister’s funeral.”

  “I haven’t the slightest doubt that he is in custody even as we speak. There is simply no place for him to hide.”

  “And you are not afraid that he might seek to avenge the destruction of his homestead, that he might hold you personally responsible?”

  “I am not a man given to foolish fears, Mr. Pritchard. You see me here wearing my tunic in proud defiance of traitors and teenage hotheads. I shall continue to do so.”

  “Bravo!”

  Marc’s thoughts meanwhile drifted to Owen Jenkin and to his loving yet painful description of the funeral held for Rick Hilliard, the only officer at that time to have died in the conflict, besides the assassinated Jock Weir. He recalled the sonorous solemnity of the bugle, the dreadful hollow-heartbeat of the muffled drum, the ceremonial glory of Britain’s beloved flag, and the slow march of severing and sorrow. The casket itself had not been buried, as the ground was frozen solid, but it had vanished inexorably from the far end of the parade-ground and took the brief laughing life of Rick Hilliard with it.

  Pritchard was bent on conversation. “Mr. Lambert, I understand that you have just returned from the Richelieu Valley on business. Would you mind terribly giving us an account of the devastation up there?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Marc opened his eyes a bit and peered across at Charles Lambert in the opposite corner. Having rebuffed Pritchard’s disingenuous gambit, he had turned his face to the big window next to him and was staring vacantly out at the falling snow.

  “That bad, eh?” Pritchard said. “Did your wife’s family escape unscathed?”

  “No-one escaped unscathed, sir,” Lambert said darkly, without turning his head.

  “I believe the subject is too painful a one for Mr. Lambert.” It was Adelaide Brookner, speaking for the first time since they had left Montreal.

  “Too painful for anybody,” Sedgewick said gruffly.

  They travelled on in uneasy silence.

  * * *

  It was past noon. The journey along the roadway that shadowed the St. Lawrence, without being in actual sight of it, proceeded without incident. The chatter among those eager to talk was desultory and uninformative. Adelaide said no more, nor did the morose Mr. Lambert, even when they stopped at several farmhouses doubling as way-stations to use the facilities, have a quick dram, or purchase a stale roll with bad cheese. There was a proper inn just across the provincial boundary where they planned to have a decent meal, rest for an hour, and have the horses tended to.

  They were anticipating this stop when the coach halted abruptly under the driver’s excited “Whoa!” Captain Brookner flung back the greatcoat he had laid over his knees, stepped over his fellow passengers, tore open the door, and leapt into the nearest drift—feet astride and one hand on the haft of his sword.

  “What is it, Todd?”

  “Up ahead, sir,” replied Gander Todd from his perch.

  Through the haze of the snow could be seen, approaching the coach, a troop of men on horseback.

  “Could be radicals lookin’ fer mischief, sir. What’ll we do?”

  “Leave them to me,” Brookner said. “Everybody stay put inside.”

  “My God! We’re about to be murdered by . . . by riffraff!” Pritchard’s cry was high-pitched, squeezed between umbrage and terror.

  One of the horsemen detached himself from the group and trotted slowly up to Brookner.

  “Good afternoon, Captain. We’re on the lookout for rebels fleeing Quebec. Can you vouch for all aboard?”

 
; “I can, sir. And I wish you luck.”

  “Thank you. Be very careful. This is a dangerous route these days. The stagecoach from Prescott to Kingston was robbed yesterday, and one gentleman assaulted for no reason other than that he was a gentleman.”

  “We’re forewarned and well armed,” Brookner said.

  “Good. I’d keep that pistol primed, Captain. Good day to you.”

  Gander Todd urged his team onward, but with a little less enthusiasm than he had earlier in the day. There was a nervous tension inside the coach. Even Ainslie Pritchard lapsed into uncharacteristic silence.

  Somewhere just a mile or two west of the inn they were seeking, the coach stopped again.

  “What is it this time?” Brookner demanded, content to open his window and shout up at Gander Todd.

  “Trees, sir. Across the road.”

  This time Marc followed Brookner out to have a look. Ten yards ahead and seemingly blocking the entire right-of-way lay a tangle of felled trees, festooned with fresh snow that was still sifting pleasantly down.

  “We was warned about such tricks.” Gander sighed from his perch.

  “Let’s take a closer look,” Marc suggested, happy to exercise both his sound leg and his gimpy one.

  “Let me, Lieutenant.”

  Brookner and Marc tramped up to the barricade. Marc gloved some of the snow away. “It’s just brush and branches. No trunks. We can clear a path through it in a few minutes.”

  “True, Lieutenant, but this could be a trap or an ambush. I’ll have Todd get at these branches, but in the meantime, I intend to scout the woods on either side, just in case.”

  “You take that side then, Captain, and I’ll take this.”

  “But you’re unarmed.”

  “I’ll roar loudly.” And before Brookner could object Marc made his way into the spruce thickets a few yards from the roadside. As he did so, he heard the coach door open as the others, to Brookner’s voiced disgust, decided to stretch their legs (or find a private tree behind which to perform a private function). Marc was certain that if an ambush had been arranged, it would have manifested itself by now. He urinated behind a thick elm-trunk. Gander Todd and farmer Sedgewick were now busy pulling back the impeding brush. Brookner had disappeared into the woods opposite, and the other two men were edging cautiously into the spruce bush behind him. Adelaide remained in the carriage.

  Marc smiled and continued to exercise his legs and practise striding through knee-deep but fluffy snow. Ahead of him he heard the gurgle of creek-water and was delighted to come upon a pretty tributary, a section of which was spring-fed enough to be still flowing. Somewhere a half-mile or so away it would join the mighty St. Lawrence. Feeling just a little tired, Marc sat down and watched the bubbling blue-black water race on unperturbed by war and its casual inhumanities.

  Fearing the others might be concerned for his safety, Marc got up stiffly and turned back towards the road. Just a touch dizzy, he half fell against a convenient tree-trunk. As he did so, he was aware of two almost-simultaneous sounds: the distinctive snap of a pistol-shot and the splintery thunk of a lead ball striking the trunk just above the tip of his fur hat.

  I’ve been shot at! was his only thought as he dropped to his knees and rolled over as deeply as possible into the camouflaging snow.

  The first thing Marc tried to do was stem the surge of adrenaline pummelling his body and stunting his breath. He had to think. And quickly. What he had heard was definitely a pistol-shot, which meant that the accuracy of any second shot would not be great. It also meant that the shooter had not been very far away, perhaps no more than ten or fifteen yards. If there were just one would-be assassin, it would take thirty seconds for his weapon to be reloaded, provided he did not have more than one pistol primed and ready. The light snow was still falling, further obscuring vision and aim. Soundlessly, Marc slid behind the bole of the tree beside him and sat up warily.

  At first he heard nothing: no voices behind him in the direction of the road and the coach—where was everybody?—and no rasp of the assassin’s breathing as he closed in for the kill. With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he was helpless against further attack. He could barely walk, let alone run and dodge. He had no strength even if he could somehow surprise the assailant and try to wrest the pistol away from him. He thought briefly of simply calling out for help, but decided against this because such a cry would instantly alert the gunman as to his whereabouts, and the deed could well be over before anyone at the coach could locate him.

  When nothing occurred for the next half minute, Marc had to assume that the attacker thought his victim had escaped the first attempt and that Marc was probably armed and ready to retaliate. He could not know that Marc’s pistol lay packed in the trunk with his uniform and all that gentleman’s finery that Owen Jenkin had purchased to provide a disguise. Marc’s best hope seemed to be that the assailant, more cautious now that his ambush had been bungled, would be creeping from tree to tree, hoping to pick up footprints or other signs of his prey. The snow was falling more heavily, making disorientation even more likely. Marc began to breathe easier.

  Could the assassin be someone from the coach? It did not seem probable. Captain Brookner had displayed his pistol for all to admire, but any of the others, including Adelaide, could have had one secreted under their winter coat. But they would have to have a reason to try to kill him. Brookner protested adoration of him (sans uniform), some of which could be genuine. But why would any of them—none of whom he knew nor had even met until this morning—want to do so? Lambert had been up to St. Denis and witnessed the carnage there, but he was a lawyer, an English-speaking Upper Canadian, and most likely a Tory sympathizer. Pritchard was a recent arrival and Tory to his toes. Adelaide and her brother were both deep in mourning for their sister.

  This thought was interrupted by the sound of sudden footfalls, no more than twenty yards away, between Marc and the river. He braced himself for what was to come. But the footfalls, faint, muffled thumping of boots or raquettes on snow, were receding towards the St. Lawrence. Soon they vanished. He was safe. The assailants—there seemed to be more than one—were in all probability the gang who had barricaded the roadway and, surprised by Marc’s unexpected presence, had taken a pot-shot at him, and decided to beat a hasty retreat while they could. Or perhaps that loyalist posse combing these woods had prompted them merely to hit and run.

  Grateful for his good fortune, whatever the cause, he struggled to his feet, then grabbed a branch to steady himself. He was amazingly and maddeningly weak, without stamina. The cauterized wound in his thigh began to throb. Slowly and carefully he picked his way back towards the road. The fact that he seemed to have been a random target—a grey-coated, fur-capped gentleman in the wrong place at the wrong time—steadied him as he stepped through a screen of trees and spied the coach. There was no need, he thought now, to tell the others of his misadventure: it would only alarm them unduly and perhaps provoke Brookner to some rash, needless action.

  The brush barricade had been moved far enough aside to allow passage of the coach through it. Gander Todd was quietly feeding the horses some bran from a feedbag. He grinned a gap-toothed grin at Marc, giving no sign that he had heard the recent commotion. Marc came up to the coach. Adelaide was seated in her place inside.

  “Where are the others?” Marc asked.

  She had raised the veil to reveal a face that was handsome more than it was beautiful, and a pair of blue eyes that shone with intelligence but also wariness.

  “The men are off doing their business,” she said, and again Marc, whose experience with colonial women over the past two years had sharpened his sensitivity to nuances in their gender he had never before imagined, detected a deliberate ambiguity of tone.

  “They seem to have been rather long about it.”

  “Gentlemen set their watches by their own time.”

  Marc smiled to acknowledge the quip, and would have further engaged Adelaide in conversation had
not the sound of voices from the far side of the road interrupted. Marc noted carefully that each man emerged from the woods alone, having sought the privacy of his own tree. Brookner stopped to talk to the driver, but Pritchard and Sedgewick ambled up to the coach.

  “No sign of any ambuscade out there,” Pritchard puffed, smacking his gloves together. “Powder’d freeze in the pan anyway!”

  “Where’s Lambert?” Sedgewick asked.

  “Oh, he decided the scenery on the other side of the road was more conducive to, to you know what,” Pritchard said. He gave Adelaide a sidelong glance through the open door.

  “Here he comes now,” Sedgewick said. “Safe, thank God.”

  “And much relieved,” Adelaide said, to the astonishment of the English gentleman nearest her.

  Lambert came towards them from the river side of the bush, not far from where Marc himself had emerged. He seemed to be trying to run, but the depth of the snow merely caused him to stagger.

  “What the deuce has happened?” Pritchard blurted.

  Brookner and Gander Todd turned their way.

  Lambert stopped to catch his breath at the edge of the road. His black eyes were alive with a curious blend of fright and excitement. “I think I saw the ambushers! Heading towards the river. I heard a gunshot.”

  “Are you sure?” Sedgewick asked.

  “I’m not positive. It was snowing pretty thick in there. But there were shadows of some kind moving ahead of me, of that I’m sure.”

  “Could have been deer,” Sedgewick offered, ever the practical man.

  “Did you see or hear anything over that way?” Pritchard turned to Marc.

  “I thought I heard footsteps in the snow, towards the river,” Marc said.

  “It has to be the scoundrels who put these trees in our way, then scuttled off like cowards,” Pritchard said with evident satisfaction. “We call them highwaymen at home, and a sad lot of ne’er-do-wells they are.”

  Brookner strutted up, looking smug. “Both of you are no doubt right,” he said with a nod to Marc and Lambert, who was still trying to catch his breath. “While we were away from the coach, the army courier from Montreal to Kingston came riding through. He stopped long enough to inform Todd that a gang of French rebels were seen by several local people working their way up the shoreline. He himself had been shot at three miles back. He suggested we make our way to Cornwall as quickly as possible.”