Dubious Allegiance

by Don Gutteridge

  “That is a question that’s been haunting me for seven weeks. I do not know what I would have done if I had managed to clear the inhabitants out of that house. But I didn’t. What I do know for sure is that I’m glad I was shot, for it prevented me from finding out how far my allegiance would’ve taken me from my own humanity.”

  “Well, things are bad here but nothin’ like Quebec. After the first surge of reprisal and payback, a lot of the steam’s gone out of the vengeance game.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Revenge is a grim and self-defeating business.”

  Durfee grunted. “Tell that to the extreme Tories and Orangemen. They’ve been callin’ for a hundred hangings. There’ve been a few down in London, but the trials that are goin’ on now are havin’ a hard time findin’ believable witnesses. The only ones likely to hang in Toronto are the two ringleaders, Peter Matthews and Samuel Lount. They were convicted last week and sentenced to hang on Saturday morning. Most responsible people now expect that’ll be the extent of the bloodlettin’.”

  “But there’s still the threat of invasion.”

  “True, but it’s mostly a bunch of Yankee freebooters and opportunists lookin’ to liberate the natives from despotism. Nothin’ to worry about really. All bluster and no muster, as we say up here.”

  Marc was staring grim-faced at his untouched brandy once again. “Still, somebody’s got to do the actual scaring off, don’t they?”

  “You thinkin’ seriously of takin’ off that uniform?”

  “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, dear friend—and that’s one of them.”

  * * *

  Marc was caught by a wave of emotion as the cutter sped across Scaddings Bridge and curved southwest along King Street extension towards Toronto, his home-base for the past two and a half years. He had not seen it in three months, and for a time had been certain he would never see it again. It was the image of Beth and her plea that he survive and return to her that had propelled him through the maelstrom of battle and its squalid aftermath.

  Now here it was: a city spread out before him with its snow-capped chimney-pots, its soaring church spires, its cozy homes tucked into rumpled drifts, and its audacious public buildings proclaiming a fragile dominion over the engulfing forest and the vast frozen lake at its feet. Welcome aromas from the lakeshore brewery and the nearby distillery wafted his way as Marc and his companions slipped into the city proper, and the familiar façades of the King Street thoroughfare rose up on either side.

  Marc thanked his travelling companions when they let him out at the post office on George Street. They would be happy to inform Colonel Margison at the garrison of his safe arrival, recovering health, and a promise to report by tomorrow afternoon. They also agreed to take the bulk of his luggage to the fort. Marc sucked in lungfuls of Toronto air and strode, with the merest trace of a limp, into the post office. There was a substantial bundle of letters waiting for him. He sat inside on a bench and read steadily for almost an hour. It was three o’clock when he finished.

  He had learned a number of things: Beth’s aunt was doing well and was wishing her away to Toronto where she belonged. Beth finally agreeing. Beth announcing her departure. Beth in Pittsburgh, but no sightings of the Hatches or Goodalls, whose departures she had learned of from Durfee. Beth on her way and predicting her arrival by January 26—tomorrow! Beth urging him to stay in the apartment over the shop. Beth grateful for his miraculous recovery. Beth.

  Also, word from Uncle Frederick, via New York and the military post, that Uncle Jabez had left Marc a lifetime annuity of a thousand pounds a year. He was now a wealthy man. There was also news and earnest enquiry from Major Jenkin in Montreal, who hoped to be back in Toronto in time for any wedding. And finally a long, heartfelt letter from a lady in New York that made him at once happy and sad. The woman who had revealed herself to him as his mother was necessarily in the country to the south, and their tentative relationship was more surprise than familial comfort. Marc reflected that with Uncle Jabez’s death, his links to the old country were frayed, if not severed. It had taken some time and not a little resistance on his part, but he realized with a pleasant shock that Canada was now truly his home.

  The sun was still shining when he left the post office. He walked down to Front Street so he could take in the vista of the snow-bound lake and the distant horizon. Moving westward, he passed the Parliament buildings, where so much had been said to so little effect. Their cut-stone and brick façade gleamed in the southerly sun. He turned north on Peter Street, crossed Market, now called Wellington, and stopped before his former boarding-house. The Widow Standish, never far from sentry duty, came bustling out onto the porch in her slippers to greet him.

  Marc put the simple belongings from his valise in his old room, then sat down and had tea with Mrs. Standish and her maid, Maisie. The women were agog at his war stories (well sanitized) and urged him to stay on until supper. But Marc managed to excuse himself, explaining that his dear friend, Horatio Cobb, would be expecting him. Well, then, he must go: duty was duty.

  Marc walked east along King Street, where all the elegant shops were located. Just past Bay, he came upon Beth’s millinery shop, which had once been part of Joshua Smallman’s dry-goods emporium. While braced for the worst, he was still saddened and angered to see the display-windows boarded up. Mr. Ormsby spotted him from the adjacent shop and came out. He apologized profusely for not having been able to protect Beth’s place from being vandalized. But for several weeks after the failed revolt, the city fathers—without regular troops—had been unable or unwilling to safeguard the property of perceived traitors or their sympathizers. Certainly Constable Cobb had done his best to help, but even he had not been successful. Things were quieter now, but the public hanging of Matthews and Lount, scheduled for Saturday morning, was likely to stir up passions yet again.

  Marc thanked him, then walked slowly and disconsolately along King to Toronto Street, where the entire block from there to Church was taken up by the twin edifices of the Court House and jail. Constable Cobb was just leaving the police quarters and spied Marc in his distinctive uniform before Marc saw him.

  “Well, now, Major, ain’t you a sight fer soarin’ eyes!”

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” Marc said, laughing for the first time in a long while.

  After a hearty supper prepared by Dora and served by the children, Marc sat spellbound as Delia and Fabian recited duet scenes from Shakespeare, after which they were applauded and cheerfully ordered to bed—or rather as far as the bedroom, for the door thereof squeaked open and shut several times during the next two hours, whenever young ears pressed too eagerly up against it. While Dora sat by the fire knitting, Marc and Cobb exchanged war stories, one set distinguished by understatement, the other by forgivable hyperbole and dramatic heightening. Cobb was particularly dramatic when narrating, with appropriate sound effects and mimicry, his day at Government House before the “infan-try in-sult” on the unguarded capital, the highlight of which was the near-capture, not of a would-be political assassin, but a failed piglet thief.

  “It wasn’t exactly the gun-power plot,” Cobb chuckled.

  “It’s the pig I feel sorry for,” Dora chimed in, “not the governor.”

  “So you and two dozen armed citizens actually saved the city from falling?” Marc asked, amazed to hear that previous versions of the encounter relayed about Montreal were very near the truth.

  “I was a regular Horatio at the bridge,” Cobb said with a twinkle. More seriously, he added, “But you know, Major, I pointed my musket at the man in the moon and fired. I’d be damned if I’d shoot some poor dumb bugger just to save the skinny neck of Francis Bone Head.”

  “And one of them dumb buggers was my nephew, Jimmy Madden,” Dora said. “What was Mister Cobb supposed to do, shoot his own kin?”

  “Luckily fer everybody, both sides skedaddlled like jackrabbits,” Cobb said.

  “Don’t scourge-ilize yerself, Mister Cobb
.”

  “Well, it weren’t no Watered-loo, Missus Cobb.”

  “But the militia arrived and completed the job properly two days later?” Marc asked.

  “Yup. But that turned out even worse.” Cobb looked to his wife. “Can I tell him?”

  “Marc’s a friend, ain’t he?”

  With much relish Cobb proceeded to recite a tale that would in time become a family legend, to be told and retold down the Cobbian generations. It seems that foolish young Jimmy Madden had run away and joined Mackenzie’s rebels. He was present during that first unhappy encounter below Bloor Street, and had scampered away with his frightened cohorts. Scared to death but determined to remain steadfast in the cause, he stuck with Mackenzie and Lount at Montgomery’s tavern until the militia arrived on December 7 to scatter the rebel force and send its remnants into flight. Jimmy had been spotted and identified. And pursued. Cobb returned from work that evening to find Jimmy cowering beside the fireplace and Dora wringing her hands.

  What could be done? If Cobb were found to be harbouring a rebel fugitive, he could lose his job and his sole livelihood. He had taken an oath to uphold the law and already was feeling guilty for taking a pot-shot at the moon. But blood was blood. This was Dora’s sister’s boy, foolish or not. No decision had yet been taken, however, when Fabian rushed in to say that a squad of militiamen was a block away and headed towards the house.

  It was Dora, apparently, who devised the plan. She took Jimmy, a skinny and beardless youth, into her bedroom. The children were sent off to the neighbours out the back door, while Cobb waited alone for the troop to arrive. To his astonishment and dismay, it was led by the infamous Colonel MacNab himself. The colonel was polite but determined. The fugitive was known to be his wife’s relative and had been seen earlier in the afternoon in the eastern part of town. He asked if the lad was present and, if not, whether Cobb had seen him. Cobb gave a curt no to each question. Was Mrs. Cobb at home? Yes, but she was seriously ill and could not be disturbed. A young female cousin, her nurse, was sleeping with her.

  This reply seemed to deepen MacNab’s suspicion, and he demanded to be allowed to examine every room in the house, including the mistress’s bedchamber. Each room was duly searched while Cobb continued to plead with the colonel that his wife was far too ill to be disturbed. MacNab announced that he himself would enter the sick-room and check it out: Cobb’s pleas had only fuelled his resolve. While his nervous underlings looked on, MacNab jerked open the door of the forbidden bower and strode manfully in.

  “Well, sir, he come scuttlin’ outta there backwards, faster than a crawfish with the heebie jeebies. All his medals was a-janglin’, and his eyes were bulgin’ like a throttled cock’s. And he’s tossin’ out a string of the foulest curses you ever heard, all the while steerin’ his bum towards the front door with his troop all a-goggle and a-gawk. He finally stops retreatin’ when his arse hits the door-latch, then he turns to me and—wonder of wonders—makes a humble apology. He ain’t been seen east of Parliament Street since!”

  Both Cobbs roared with laughter and were soon joined by a filial echo from behind one of the bedroom doors. What Colonel MacNab—commander of the Yonge Street counterattack and instigator of the burning of the Caroline off Navy Island—saw when he violated the privy chamber of Dora Cobb was this: two women lying comatose and only partly covered by an eiderdown—one of them Rubenesque and bare-bosomed, the other skinny-framed but discreetly gowned and bonneted. The sight of Dora’s promethean breasts, all but the nipples in vigorous view under the moonlight streaming through the window, would of itself have been shock enough for even the most battle-bitten officer, but the red splotches thereupon and those on her neck and cheeks were as terrifying as the plague itself. Dora kept her “pox” in place for the five days, until the city settled somewhat and Jimmy Madden could slip away undetected into the anonymity of the countryside.

  “And we ain’t seen hide nor hare of the lad since,” Cobb said.

  “Mister Cobb kept sayin’ it was the best use of my face-paint he’d yet seen!” Dora chuckled. “I looked like a hip-an’-pot-moose with the measles!”

  “The whole thing give us quite a fright,” Cobb said, suddenly serious. “But what else could we do, Major?”

  That was a question Marc had been compelled to ask himself on more than one occasion in the past few months.

  * * *

  Marc slept in once again. He took a late breakfast with the widow and Maisie. They both mentioned that today was the day the gibbets would be completed in the Court House square, in time for the hangings scheduled for the next morning. It was clear from their faces that neither approved of hanging in general or the hanging of Matthews and Lount in particular. Marc decided to walk along King Street to Beth’s shop, for that was where she had indicated she would go as soon as she arrived by coach from Niagara. He turned south at Bay and entered the service lane that ran behind the shops on the south side of King. The entrance to Beth’s apartment was off the lane, and he was certain he would see wood-smoke coming from the rear chimney if she were home. But the back windows were all dark, and the chimney-pot cold and ugly.

  Marc felt he could no longer delay his return to the regiment and the difficult interview he must have with Colonel Margison. He walked somewhat aimlessly along the lane towards Yonge Street at the far end. He thought he could hear the pounding of hammers from the direction of the Court House a block farther east. Before reaching Yonge he turned into an alley between two of the King Street shops, a regular shortcut. He heard footsteps behind him but paid them little heed. It was not until the hand struck his shoulder and tried to hurl him against the nearest brick wall that he realized he was in danger. In a purely reflex action, he lurched away from the pressuring hand and, luckily, avoided the blow that would have knocked his shako silly and him unconscious.

  Marc heard the “ooof” of the assailant’s breath and the crack of the weapon against the brick as it grazed his forehead and spun him partly around. His cap went flying. Marc threw one arm up to ward off the next blow, but it did not come immediately. Instead, a powerful set of fingers gripped him by the neck and began to lift him off the ground. He gagged and lashed out with his boots, hitting nothing but air. He still could not see the attacker, who must somehow be twisted to one side of him. Hot, angered breath was striking him behind the left ear.

  “I been waitin’ a long time fer this! You’re a bitch of a man to corner, but I got you now, ain’t I?”

  Marc tried to respond, but the fingers on his throat refused to ease their murderous grip.

  “Got nothin’ to say, eh? After what you done to my brother!”

  Marc could not breathe. The bare, callused fingers were pressing deeply into his throat, and a thumb was squeezing his larynx with enough force to shatter it. One more ounce of pressure and it would burst, killing him instantly. But he had no strength to wriggle free or fight back, even with the adrenaline-rush surging through him. He was not the man he had once been.

  “I can throttle you like a pullet, or I can beat yer brains out with this club. You got any preference?”

  For a moment Marc found his throat free from those deadly fingers, but he was unable to utter a word, even as he heard the homicidal whisper of the assailant’s sleeve being raised for the final, fatal strike.

  It never arrived. The villain gasped, then released a long, simmering sigh. His weight slowly collapsed against Marc’s left side. Reluctantly, the fingers relaxed their death-grip. He felt the assailant’s body slither downward past his own. Marc himself was saved from falling into the snow by a pair of bracing hands: different hands, kinder hands. He blanked out.

  When he opened his eyes moments later, someone was splashing snow gently against his face.

  “Jesus, Major. You ain’t been in town a day and already you got someone riled up enough to knock yer noggin inta next week!”

  “Cobb?” The word came out as a raw whisper from Marc’s aching throat.

 
“Well, you’re on my patrol, ain’t ya? I hope ya wasn’t expectin’ Wilkie?”

  The assailant let out a wheezy groan next to Marc.

  Cobb turned to the villain, rolled him over, and attached manacles to his wrists. “Head as hollow as a coconut—” Cobb interrupted himself. “Jesus, I know who you are!”

  Dazed and still seeing a colourful array of stars, Marc leaned over to have a look at the man so determined to kill him.

  “You been callin’ yerself McGinty, ain’t ya?” Cobb shouted at the unconscious man. Then he turned to Marc. “This is the fella I was tellin’ you about, Major—the one I caught stealin’ a pig at Government House. His real name’s Calvin Rumsey, from Buffalo.”

  Marc stared. His vision was starting to clear. Yes, this definitely could be the brother of Philo Rumsey, the man who had been involved in the death of Councillor Moncreiff a year ago last June. A man who might have good reason to hate him.

  Cobb picked up Marc’s shako cap. His eyes lit up as a new thought struck him. “Say, this must be the guy that tried to kill you on yer way home. I wondered why he ain’t been seen around here since December. We just figured he’d scuttled back to Buffalo.”

  “Thanks, Cobb. You’ve saved my life—again.”

  “Part of the service, Major.” Cobb prodded Rumsey with his right boot. “And this fella’s got a date with the magistrate. So I guess you won’t haveta keep a watch on yer back no more, will ya?”

  But Marc didn’t answer: he had toppled against the wall.

  “Say, Major, are you okay?”

  Marc was in the midst of answering, “I’m just fine,” when he leaned over and retched.

  Marc spent the next six hours being swaddled, coddled, and otherwise overcared-for by Mrs. Standish and young Maisie, the former having an undue reverence for the authority of a uniform and the latter an equally undue reverence for its particular occupant. The blow to the head had been absorbed partly by the shako cap and the brick wall next to it, so that beyond an unsightly bump and a short-lived headache, no real damage had been done. The strangulation marks on the throat, however, proved least susceptible to treatment, though a warm bath and soothing poultices went a ways towards easing much of the pain and some of the indignity. That the perpetrator should be hanged, drawn, and quartered was proclaimed to the walls of every room of the boarding-house, their previous conviction against hanging notwithstanding.