by Tamara Gill
***
She found him in the unloading zone. He was directing traffic, telling the soldiers what carts were to be retained and where they were to be parked. Apparently he wanted the entry area kept clear for a new group of wagons that were expected in the next couple of hours. When she heard this Jaclyn’s eyes widened and she stifled a chuckle. She knew what was in those carts.
When he’d finished talking she shoved her hands in her pockets and sauntered over to him, trying not to appear too eager. “Hi, are you done here?”
His gaze swept around the orderly area. “Pretty much.”
Jaclyn cocked her head. Sean’s eyes narrowed. She hunched her shoulders and scuffed her foot in the black, churned up earth. “Is it time to go to Newbigging’s?”
He looked up at the sky. “Thereabouts. We have a few minutes to get cleaned up.”
“How? There’s not exactly any place to take a bath.”
Amusement leapt into his eyes. “You could wash your face and hands in the creek.”
“You know, it seems to me that we’re doing entirely too much stuff in that stream. Who knows what kind of contaminants are going into it? Then we’re taking our drinking water from it. I don’t think I care to wash in Frenchman’s Creek.”
Sean began to walk. “Suit yourself.”
Jaclyn fell into step beside him. “So what is in these carts you are expecting?”
He cast her a quick, careful look. “Provisions for our dinner.”
“What kind of provisions?”
“The kind that men consume.”
Jaclyn smiled up at him innocently. “Didn’t your men get enough on their foraging expeditions?”
“We requisitioned flour, root vegetables, preserves, dried apples, and some salt meat, but not enough to feed a thousand men for long.”
“Are you worried?”
“About what?”
“Finding enough food if you’re here for very long.”
He shrugged. “As we move west and north we’ll requisition more. Even if we wanted to confiscate every speck of food in the Fort Erie area to carry with us, it’s not practical to travel with a long baggage train in enemy country.”
Jaclyn shivered despite the heat. It gave her the creeps to think that Sean was the invader and she the enemy he spoke of. Even though she knew the outcome of the invasion, she could not quite suppress an instinctive reaction to the danger of being in the path of a professional army on the move. And if she could feel it, so must the people of the Niagara, even though they seemed to be coping admirably.
He had led them back to the area where the officers’ baggage was stashed. “You really are going to get washed up,” Jaclyn said as he pulled soap, a clean shirt and his lethal looking shaving equipment from his pack.
He sent her a slow, amused smile. “Of course. It’s not often I’m invited to take tea with the local landowner.”
When they reached the stream he shrugged off his uniform tunic, revealing a linen shirt that he also stripped off. Jaclyn caught her breath. He was a beautifully made man, with muscles that rippled beneath his skin, but didn’t bulge in an unsightly way. She had an insane desire to run her fingers through the black hair that curled on his chest to see if it was as silky as she imagined the thick black hair on his head to be. She suppressed it, but couldn’t keep from watching as he cleaned up.
He lathered the soap and washed both his body and his hair. Then he used the cup he’d brought to rinse. When he’d finished he filled the little cup with soap, stropped his razor and shaved his chin and cheeks, leaving the thick black mustache and bushy sideburns intact. She had to suppress a smile when he made sure that the soapy water landed on the bank, not in the creek. Maybe he was actually listening to her.
He didn’t dress right away. Jaclyn was uneasy about that, because she knew she was staring, but she couldn’t stop herself. He was so damned good to look at. The sun dried his body as he used his soiled shirt to dust off his trousers and add a shine to his boots. Jaclyn wanted to sigh with appreciation. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a man stripped of his shirt before, she just hadn’t seen one quite as relentlessly masculine as this one.
Briefly, she wondered how Sara Bailey would react to Sean if she saw him this way. Would she be a proper Victorian miss and swoon? Would Sean be a proper Victorian young man and blush with embarrassment? The thought steadied her and made her chuckle to herself. It was a good thing Sean O’Dell thought she was a boy.
“Sure you don’t want to wash up?” he asked, reaching for the clean shirt.
Jaclyn would have loved to strip off as he had done and jump into the creek for good measure, but she to do so would be to risk all. Still, since Sean had cleaned up considerably for the party, she now felt particularly grubby.
He pulled the shirt over his head and Jaclyn used the opportunity to say, “I don’t have any clean clothes like you do, Major, but I will wash my hands and face. How’s that sound?”
“Better than nothing.” He undid the buttons on his fly so he could tuck in his shirt. Jaclyn’s eyes widened. He didn’t wear briefs. She grabbed the soap and began to wash.
He was dressed in his tunic and brushing the crown of his black hat with his sleeve when she finished. Much safer, she thought with relief. They stashed his things back in the knapsack then went in search of Colonel O’Neill.
Jaclyn was surprised to see that O’Neill and the other officers had cleaned themselves up as well. It seemed rather odd to go to such a great effort for a short meal in the middle of the afternoon when so much more was going to happen afterward, but she supposed it must all be part of that ingrained starchiness she always associated with the Victorian era.
The Newbigging house was a large building of red brick. The solid structure had an impressive air of well-bred prosperity.
The Reverend David Lumsden met them at the sturdy oak door and guided them to the front parlor, talking all the way about the generosity of their hosts and the gentlemanly behaviour of Mr. Newbigging in this time of trouble. Though O’Neill listened to this blatant promotion without comment and in a relaxed manner, Jaclyn noticed his officers were not as cool. None commented though and they reached the parlor without incident.
The front parlor was a fine room, large and well-proportioned. The ceilings were higher than modern ceilings, perhaps thirteen feet or so, and there was no ugly stucco but smooth plaster on their surface. Where wall met ceiling, a beautifully worked plaster cornice hid the join. The walls were painted a rich blue and the floor was maple. The furniture consisted of two settees, uncomfortable looking sofas with more wood than padding, and several high-backed, upright chairs. It didn’t look like people did much slouching in this part of the house. The chairs had the rich, reddish sheen of mahogany and the tables scattered about the room were the same wood or were adorned with beautiful marquetry work. There was no doubt about it. The Newbigging family was well off by anyone’s standards.
Thomas Newbigging stood before the fireplace, the mantle painted white and carved in imitation of Doric columns. Like the Fenians, he had also shaved and was dressed in what Jaclyn imagined must be his Sunday best, a black frock coat and trousers, fine linen shirt and white neckcloth. Standing beside him, his wife was wearing a gown that appeared to be made of silk. Clearly this garment was not what she wore for working around the house. The effort everyone was taking to look good was amazing, particularly in the circumstances.
Mrs. Newbigging nodded pleasantly when her husband introduced her to their guests. She said a welcoming word to each, as if this were normal tea party, then she bustled off to see to the refreshments and tactfully left the gentlemen alone to talk. There was a minute of uncomfortable silence. Thomas stood in front of his empty hearth, his hands behind his back, his body stiff. He didn’t seem in any hurry to break the difficult silence.
Not surprisingly, it was Lumsden who did the honors. “Gentlemen, it is indeed a great privilege to have you here this afternoon.”
&nbs
p; Thomas Newbigging didn’t say anything, but Jaclyn thought she saw him flinch.
Lumsden continued on. “Our gracious hostess has assured me that she has planned a delicious tea for our delectation this afternoon, despite having fewer victuals to work with than normal. Cakes, scones, sandwiches made with a ham that she found salted away!” Apparently delighted by his witticism, he paused and winked at no one in particular. “Not to mention their very best tea, imported directly from India for their use.”
The menu sounded wonderful to Jaclyn. She was ready to forget the talk and move directly to the food part of the event. She glanced around the room. O’Neill’s expression was polite, but noncommittal. Sean, she noted, was watching not Lumsden, but Newbigging.
When she too glanced at Newbigging she saw that his jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped under the skin, while his mouth was drawn down in a disapproving frown. Together these spoke of anger and frustration tightly contained and dangerously ready to explode.
As before, Lumsden seemed oblivious. He certainly didn’t have a problem putting words together, but his accent had thickened. Did that indicate he was drunk, as Sean thought earlier? Newbigging was obviously concerned about what he would say, which in itself implied a loss of restraint on Lumsden’s part.
“You are very fortunate in your circumstances, Mr. Newbigging,” O’Neill said.
Newbigging frowned. “My family has done well.”
“I can see that.” O’Neill let his gaze travel over the handsome room. “I am certain, however, that not everyone in this colony is as comfortable as you are. The Irish, for instance, would not have the same opportunities.”
“Colonel!” Lumsden began, but Newbigging was shaking his head.
“These are the Canadas, man, not Ireland! We’ve the freedom here to make what we will with our lives, no matter where we came from.”
“I can’t believe that!” said Colonel Starr, O’Neill’s second in command. “You live under the yoke of England. You can never be free.”
Newbigging flicked him a glance, but he spoke to O’Neill. “I beg to disagree, sir. Here in the Canadas we have the benefit of the British judicial system, including its laws, responsibilities and freedoms, without many of the restrictions that make life in Great Britain difficult for many.”
“You are one of the ruling class,” Starr said. “Of course you think English rule is acceptable.”
“You are talking nonsense!”
“Are you not a justice of the peace?” O’Neill said.
“Yes, I am.”
“With all the prerogatives that entails,” Lumsden interjected. “A word from Mr. Newbigging could be helpful, Colonel.”
Newbigging’s face reddened. The look he shot Lumsden was lethal.
O’Neill raised his brows and smiled. “I do not think our host believes in our cause, Reverend.”
“I do not!”
“Nonetheless...”
“When word of our arrival spreads, the people of Canada West will rise up against their British masters. We won’t need men like Newbigging to aid us,” Starr said. Jaclyn half-expected him to jump up and brandish his sword like a demagogue on his soapbox. However, Starr remained seated, although his hands did clench on the brim of his hat, which he was holding in his lap.
Newbigging snorted. “No one will rise up. Don’t you understand? People may complain of the way they are governed, but their dissatisfaction is not such that they will seek to overthrow British rule.”
“In fact,” Jaclyn said, getting into the spirit of the debate, “MacDonald and other politicians have been trying to create a new confederation of the British North American colonies for years and haven’t been able to manage it—yet.” She blushed and subsided as all the men turned to stare at her with equal looks of consternation. All except Sean, who shook his head. She was after all, just a kid in their eyes and in Victorian times children were seen, but not heard.
“The English persecute the Irish everywhere they go,” O’Neill said, the lilt in his voice becoming more pronounced. “They deserve to be overthrown. They deserve to be ground into the earth under an Irish heel, as they have ground down the Irish for so long.”
“I cannot speak on what has happened in the old country.” As O’Neill’s temper had warmed, Newbigging’s had cooled. Now his even tones were a steady counter to the Fenian’s angry ones. “I can only speak for conditions here, in my homeland. We are not persecuted. We do not see the British as overlords or our masters. We will not rise with you, O’Neill.”
“You may not. Others will,” O’Neill said recklessly. “I speak of the Hibernian Brotherhood Society of Canada, a group which believes, as the Fenian Brotherhood does, that the British tyranny in Canada must be overthrown.”
“You are speaking of the organization founded by Michael Murphy?”
O’Neill nodded.
“I regret to inform you, O’Neill, that Murphy was arrested months ago when he attempted to join your organization’s abortive mission to invade New Brunswick at Campobello Island. I doubt you can expect much support from his former followers.”
“Murphy was only one of many. As we move north we will gather the support we need.”
Newbigging shook his head. “Within a week or two, if not sooner, your escapade will be over. The British government will protect us. They will send troops who will round you up and try you for treason.”
While Newbigging was right, Jaclyn didn’t think his timing was particularly good. The Fenians were tense now and anger simmered under the surface. Being told they were likely to be convicted and sentenced to a very nasty death wouldn’t exactly endear Newbigging to them. Even if he was pretty much correct.
“The punishment for treason is execution,” Newbigging continued. “We are not a barbaric people, however. I believe that the government would be lenient should the respectable citizens of this area put in a word on your behalf.”
“And why would they do that?” O’Neill asked. Jaclyn thought she heard genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Your behavior has been excellent, for the most part. For an invading army you have been remarkably well mannered. Although you have stolen our horses, you have not harmed our people or destroyed our homes. That is certainly in your favor.”
Although Starr and Haggerty still wore angry expressions on their faces, O’Neill had regained his customary watchful detachment. “But we will not be rounded up and tried, Mr. Newbigging. We will march on your capital city and take it within the month.”
Newbigging shrugged. “As you will. I cannot agree. We are far from the center of things here in the Niagara. It will take time for our troops to be mustered and sent, but once they are here, you will be defeated. Mark my words.”
“Your observations are noted, Mr. Newbigging. Fortunately, our information indicates that not all the people of this region are as firm in their beliefs as you, sir. In my heart, I believe we will prevail.”
Newbigging shook his head.
They were at an impasse once more. It was amazing how these two guys tended to butt heads. Jaclyn glanced at Lumsden. Time for him to smooth things over again.
It didn’t quite work out that way. As the silence lengthened, Lumsden looked around, his eyes far too bright for sobriety. “Now about Mr. Newbigging’s horses, Colonel—”
This was too much for Newbigging. “Lumsden, I have never yet struck a man of the cloth, but damn you, you drive me close to it!”
“Mr. Newbigging shall have his horses back. And he shall have a protection signed by me that ensures he will lose no more to our army.”
Newbigging bowed stiffly. “Thank you, O’Neill. Reverend Lumsden should not have spoken on this subject.”
“I had determined this long before we came, Mr. Newbigging.”
Newbigging nodded. His wife chose that moment to bring in the tea tray. Her son followed with a tray holding mounds of small sandwiches and cakes. She set her tray on a high table and settled herself in the c
hair beside. “I trust, gentlemen, that you have been enjoying your deliberations?”
Lumsden beamed, Thomas Newbigging’s face remained set in a hard frown and most of the Fenians looked uncomfortable. O’Neill said, “We have been as polite as possible under the circumstances, Mrs. Newbigging.”
“Am I to understand, sir, that your business has been concluded?”
O’Neill shot Thomas an amused glance. “It has, Mrs. Newbigging.”
“Good. Then I need not worry that I disrupted you by entering when I did.” There was a hint of mischief in the smile she sent O’Neill that Jaclyn noted with a kind of appreciative wonder. Women in the nineteenth century might be hedged about with restrictions that would drive her crazy, but they had developed ways of getting their message across that had nothing to do with words.
Mrs. Newbigging had begun to chat companionably as she poured tea. Woven into her remarks about the fine spring they’d had, the good harvest for the past few years, and the success of her children and those of her neighbors, were requests for her son to hand out the plates, pass around the platters laden with sandwiches and hand each person a cup of tea. She created an amazingly polite, civilized ritual to which everyone in the room responded. The tension that had been so marked when she entered, eased.
When it came her way, Jaclyn dug into the plate of sandwiches with an enthusiasm that had Tom Newbigging, junior, frowning at her in a youthful imitation of his father. Jaclyn winked at him and pretended she hadn’t noticed. Tom looked like he wanted to say something, but Jaclyn ignored him. She was more interested in listening to his mother draw out O’Neill.
“How long have you been in the States, Colonel O’Neill?”
“I came over when I was four and ten, ma’am, in 1848.”
“Then you have been over here for nearly twenty years, Colonel.” She smiled and tipped her head to one side. “Why you are practically a native now! Have you always been in the army, sir?” She sipped tea and waited for his response with an expression of interest on her face.
“I was a book publisher for a time, ma’am, before I joined the army in 1857.”
