“Good morning, ma’am. I seem to have overslept.”
Adelaide looked up and said tonelessly, “It was meant to be a leisurely day.”
“With a sleigh-ride, I presume, got up by our enterprising host?”
“To admire the sights of Cornwall,” she said, looking to her food. But there was more energy in her response. “Such as they are,” she added.
“I’ve seen them more than once,” Marc said. “I shall offer my regrets.”
“So you have regrets to give, have you?”
“Haven’t we all?”
She did not reply.
“You’re not partaking of the entertainment, then?”
“I’ve already tendered my regrets,” she said, with a trace of irony in her tone.
Marc went to the sideboard, where the cook, having seen him enter, had piled fresh bacon and sausage. Marc filled his plate, adding bran cakes, hot rolls, and marmalade. He poured out a mug of tea and returned to Adelaide.
She appeared ready to rise when he said softly, “You must miss your sister very much.”
Adelaide sat back as if she had been struck. When she lifted her face up to look at him, her eyes were filled with tears. “Marion was the only true friend I had in the world.”
“But surely there is your brother Percy, and, of course, your husband.”
She sniffed, as if he had just told an inappropriate joke, but she did not elaborate on that response.
Further discussion was stymied by Mr. Malvern banging open the front door and bursting into the reception area with his cheeks steaming and his eyes wild. His lips were working, like a basso rehearsing before a mirror, but no sound emerged. He spotted Marc.
“Oh, sir,” he wailed. “Come quickly. Something terrible’s happened!”
Marc rushed past him, winced as his gimpy leg rebelled, slowed to a measured trot, and went out into the frosty air to assess the damage. Behind him, from the smoker, he heard several others follow in his wake. A four-seat cutter and two Clydesdales stood serenely just outside the front door. A commotion to his left revealed two figures heading towards him from the direction of the stables: Gander Todd and Captain Brookner, the latter glittering in his tunic, breeches, and buckled sword.
“I warned him not to go walking on his own!” Malvern wailed again, this time behind Marc.
Brookner strutted up. “It’s a lot of nonsense,” he was saying to Todd, who was hobbling along beside his employer, bugeyed and clearly frightened. “Malvern, I specifically told you not to go blabbering on about this and scaring the life out of people!”
Malvern looked abashed but still resolute. “I thought the lieutenant should know.”
“Know what?” Marc asked, rubbing his arms in the cold.
Brookner, who seemed immune to cold and thrived on long, dangerous walks, snorted and said to the small throng that had now gathered around him, “This ridiculous note.” And he waved a sheet of writing paper in the air with a dismissive flap.
“I found it in the coach, pinned to the seat, when I went to sweep it out,” Gander Todd said breathlessly.
“You’d better let me see it, then,” Marc said, and Brookner, not disliking the attention he had attracted, preened and feigned indifference: “Here, then.”
Marc skimmed the note, then decided to read it aloud. The message was printed in block capitals from hand-pressed wooden blocks. “Brookner: we have you in our sights. Revenge will be sweet. The Stormont Vigilantes.”
“It’s a death-threat!” Malvern sputtered. “And I warned the captain against going for his walk, I did.” He glared at Brookner. “Why, you could’ve been murdered, sir, right here on my own property.”
“Nonsense! I shall continue to take my morning constitutional, come what may.”
Percy Sedgewick stepped forward, looking hungover and miserable. “It sounds like the Scanlons to me. Young Miles is on the loose, you know.”
“Of course, I know. And for once I think you’re right. These woods aren’t brimming with rebel vigilantes: they’re all busy running for their lives. Miles Scanlon’s on his own, of that you can be sure. But we’ve got every road and ferry-crossing between here and Niagara covered. He won’t escape. And if he thinks he’s going to pot me before he jumps the border, he’ll find himself dead or on his way to a gibbet.”
A great buzzing and murmuring rolled through the crowd, along with sundry bits of advice and admonition. Finally, Marc said, “I think it best for all concerned if we change our plans and make for Prescott immediately.”
“We can’t get there today,” Sedgewick said. “But we could make Morrisburg.”
“Then that’ll have to do,” Marc said.
It was after eleven before the party of six and their anxious driver got dressed, packed, and otherwise prepared to leave the Malvern Inn. But the day remained cold and sunny, and they made reasonable progress. In fact, a determined push might well have seen them reach Prescott by early evening, but Captain Brookner, who seemed more pleased with the death-threat than frightened by it, insisted that they go no farther than Morrisburg, which could be reached at a leisurely pace by midafternoon. Thus, Marc would have the better part of this day and perhaps tomorrow morning to rest and regain his strength. He did not object.
However blasé chevalier Brookner might have appeared, the other members of the group had been spooked by the barricaded road yesterday, the continuing reports of outlaw gangs in the region, and the menacing note this morning. Little conversation of any kind took place. This served Charles Lambert well, for he seemed happy to remain disengaged, though his brooding eyes were more active in their furtive glancing. Sedgewick and Brookner, after their drunken exchange of threats late last night, seemed relieved not to have to pretend to be civil to each other. What specific behaviour of Brookner’s had angered Sedgewick, Marc could not even guess at, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with politics. Adelaide hid behind her veil. Only Ainslie Pritchard seemed truly disconcerted by the silence, but could find no neutral topic of conversation nor the tone required to keep it casual. Instead, he fidgeted with his fur helmet and cast wary glances left and right through the coach windows.
Whenever they made a “refreshment-stop” en route, Brookner would proceed to the door of the tavern or cabin and rap peremptorily on it with the haft of his sword. Only when he gave them the all clear were the others permitted to follow him in.
It was three o’clock when they approached the village of Morrisburg, without incident, and pulled up to the Wayside Hotel. Brookner addressed his companions with a solemn face: “A twice-weekly coach runs between here and Prescott, and from there you can get daily coaches that will take you to Kingston, then to Cobourg and Toronto. If any of you wish to leave this party, the local coach will arrive here in about an hour and then turn around and leave again for Prescott, getting there late this evening.”
No-one accepted Brookner’s generous offer. There was safety in numbers, it seemed.
The Wayside Hotel was a modest establishment on the edge of the village. The Battle of Crysler Farm had been fought nearby, Marc knew, and the St. Lawrence River, when not frozen, raced past not a quarter of a mile through the light bush behind the inn. The reception area was small and full of smoky heat from an eager but ill-functioning fireplace. Several cramped, adjoining chambers would serve as dining-room and lounge. There was no bar as such. A chalkboard sign announced that the Prescott stagecoach would arrive at four o’clock this day.
The proprietor bustled out of what appeared to be a kitchen, from the smells and metallic clangings, pulling a bloodied apron from his waist and letting it fall where it wished. His big black eyes were agog in his dark Welsh face. “My heavens, what have we here? Where on earth did you people come from? I heard the roads east were blocked by barricades and renegades and such.”
“We are a party of six and wish supper and rooms for the night. Can you accommodate us?” Brookner asked loftily.
The initial shock of s
uch an unexpected sight soon began to wear off, and the little man was able to say, “Pardon me, sir, I have forgot my manners. I am Iain Jones, the owner of the inn, and you are most welcome, you gentlemen and the lady. I’ll have my wife take your coats, and my boy’ll fetch your cases and trunks. You’ll be needing a dram to drain away the chill. We’ve plenty of rooms, as you’ll be the only guests, unless the stage brings us a surprise or two.”
Within the next hour the party had been warmed with sherry and rum and shown to their modest but tidy rooms, where they chose to rest until supper at six. Marc decided he would take a nap, despite his having dozed a good deal of the way in the coach. While the threat against his life, or Brookner’s—or both—was still real, he was too fatigued to attempt any entrapment this night. As he would do after supper, he now pushed his bed so that its foot rested flush against the door. Then he lay down and began to drift into a pleasant sleep. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sleigh-coach from Prescott pulling up in front.
He was awakened by Percy Sedgewick rapping at his door and calling out his name. “Mr. Edwards! Supper is being served. Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. Tell Mr. Jones I’ll be down in a while for something cold. I’ve got to shave and change.”
“I’ll tell him. You sure you’re okay?”
Marc assured him. But he felt too groggy to shave or change his clothes, so he decided to slip downstairs and take a breath of fresh air to clear his head. As he crossed the reception area he could hear the voices of the others at supper in one of the rooms to his left. On his right was a tiny lounge with the door half ajar. He paused, then walked outside. The night was again cloudless, and the stars so bright and brittle they appeared about to shatter. He found his mind clearing wonderfully. A few minutes later he turned and went back in. Iain Jones was waiting for him.
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Marc said, “I’ll just come down in an hour or so and have some cold roast and bread. I—”
But the Welsh eyes were bulging with other news. “The lady in the lounge over there, the one that come in on the stage from Prescott, she says she wants to see you,” he said, happily scandalized.
Marc nodded and headed towards the lounge indicated. He paused until he heard Jones reluctantly retreat to serve his other paying guests. Could it be Beth? Had she come across to Morrisburg en route home and spied him crossing the foyer? He knew there was a ferry somewhere near here. With his heart in his throat, he opened the door and went in.
The room was lit by a single lamp in one corner and heated by an iron stove whose fire had recently gone out. On a padded bench sat a woman, too tall and erect for Beth. Nestled in her arms was a baby.
“My God,” Marc cried, falling back against the chair opposite the bench. “Winnifred!”
* * *
“How in the world did you get here? And with baby Mary? Where’s Thomas?”
Although she looked haggard and careworn, the tough intelligence that had seen her through a difficult year since her marriage to Thomas Goodall still shone through, and intimidated. “I can’t answer a dozen questions at once, and I have a few of my own for you. But if you’ll sit back and not interrupt, I’ll try to tell you what’s happened to us since October. Thomas is fine, as fine as he can be under the circumstances. And he’s right here. In the barn, hiding out.”
“But he’ll freeze!”
Winnifred reached down to the bench and picked up a thick roast-beef sandwich. “He’s already had two of these—through the window over there—and there’s more here if we get hungry.”
“You’re not going to sleep in a barn with—”
“Of course not. I’ve paid for a room, and supper.”
“I’m baffled.”
“What else is new?”
They shared a brief laugh, but Marc’s pale appearance and thinness and Winnifred’s desperate circumstances made it bittersweet.
“You first, then,” Winnifred said, rocking the baby as she tried to come awake. “We heard you’d been wounded, but nothing more.”
As succinctly as he could, and with one ear alert for noises from across the foyer, Marc gave her an expurgated account of the battles, Rick’s death, and his own injuries. He told her about Beth’s promise to be back in Toronto by the end of the month.
Winnifred then explained that she and Thomas were desperately trying to find their way across the border. They had come from Prescott, arriving at this inn a few hours earlier. She was as surprised as he when she’d spotted him from the window of her room while he took in the outside air.
“We’ve all got troubles.” Winnifred sighed. “And to think that a year ago we were all happy and looking forward to living our lives peacefully and in the Christian spirit we were raised to revere.”
“These wars have been ruinous,” Marc said.
“And they’re not over yet. Tell me what’s happened to you both.”
Winnifred laid Mary in her bunting bag on the bench. “As you know, after his disastrous flirtation with the rebels in October, Thomas withdrew his active support and put all his energies into saving Beth’s farm and looking after Aaron and us. But we lived in constant fear that Thomas would be betrayed to the magistrates for what he did—even though it failed. We even feared the radicals might think Thomas was a spy for the Tories and burn us out. Terrible, inhuman things were happening, even before the actual revolt. But for a while matters were quiet, and we were beginning to hope that the troubles would die down. But in the second week of December came the awful news: Mackenzie and his band of farmers had attacked Toronto.”
“Hardly an attack, I’ve been told. But it cast the die as sure as a cannonade on Government House.”
“Yes. Before the week was out, rebels were running in all directions, and Mackenzie had scuttled away to the States, leaving hundreds to face the vigilante justice of high Tories and Orangemen.”
Marc smiled.
“I know, I’ve been on both sides of the fence, and I haven’t liked what I saw on either. But it was Thomas I was worried about.” Her eyes misted, and Marc was aware of how much effort she was putting into maintaining her composure before him.
“Poor Thomas: honest and believing as a child. He only wanted to be a farmer. But that was not to be allowed. You can’t ever know how my heart sank into my stomach when advance word came to us that there was a warrant out for Thomas, accusing him of sedition. We had only an hour to get away. We packed two suitcases and hustled Aaron and Charlene Huggan over to Father’s place. Father was furious. I’d never seen him so angry. He cursed Mackenzie and all the magistrates and Francis Head. He offered to come with us, he offered to take baby Mary, but we calmed him down and told him we had worked out a plan.”
“That sounds very much like Winnifred Hatch.”
“The United States has opened the Iowa Territory to homesteading and settlement. If we can make it to New York State, to Buffalo and then to Pittsburgh, we’ll head west and start a new life.”
“You have enough money to do this?”
“Yes. Father gave us more than we need. Our problem’s not money. It’s getting across the border, and that’s defeated us so far.”
“You’re a long way from Cobourg and Crawford’s Corners.”
“We’ve been on the road about a week. On the run, really. There are wanted posters with a sketch of Thomas’s head on them all along the Kingston Road. Every ferryman and loyal fisherman with a boat has seen it. We’ve nearly been caught twice. Thomas is growing a beard, but it’s not thick enough yet to disguise him. Luckily for us, the vigilantes and militia are only looking for Thomas, not a man with a wife and child.”
“So you’ve just run eastward, hoping to find a way across the St. Lawrence?”
“The Niagara route was too risky. We travelled nonstop for four days and nearly froze to death. Then two things happened. We found a safe house near Trenton, and the couple there gave us information about a group of sympathizers in Quebec who would
, if we could make it to Lachine, guide us across the ice to New York State. I suggested to Thomas that we split up.”
“But I thought—”
“—and when he objected I suggested this: that Mary and I travel by coach or rented sleigh, as mother Hatch and her daughter on their way to Montreal to join relatives there. I would travel only one town east each day or so. Thomas would walk on the back trails or near the main road and mainly at night and meet me at the coach inn. He would sleep in the stables while I supplied him with food.”
“Brilliant,” Marc marveled, “as long as Thomas is careful.”
“It’s worked so far. I arrived at four o’clock, and Thomas has been here since noon. He’s holed up in an abandoned hay-shed behind the main stable, warm and well fed. Tomorrow I’ve arranged to ride with a local farmer to Cornwall.”
Suddenly, her face fell, her hand trembling as she reached out to stroke the baby’s head.
“You’re worried about Cornwall?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get around it. But we’ve heard that the militia have set up pickets everywhere to catch the French rebels coming this way and our rebels heading their way.”
“It’s true,” Marc agreed reluctantly. “We saw them in action on our way here. Everything east of Cornwall is a minefield.”
Winnifred was silent, rocking gently back and forth as if her baby were still in her arms.
“Then you’ll just have to cross the river here,” Marc said. “The river’s still flowing here?”
Dubious Allegiance Page 14
