Death of a Patriot

by Don Gutteridge

  Marc and Beth would have found all this amusing if they had not, in a way, been personally connected to the events. Billy McNair and Melvin Curry had been hired by Beth to carry out the renovations at Smallman’s, transforming two adjoining shops on King Street near Bay into a single commercial space. One half of the establishment was now a large work area where the dress designs of Mrs. Rose Halpenny were executed by three young seamstresses chosen for their skill, enthusiasm, and neediness. The other half, connected by a door and with a rebuilt interior, contained the showroom, several fitting cubicles, and the millinery display. The workroom had been furnished with tables, shelves, and storage bins constructed to Beth’s exacting specifications. While Marc fussed and secretly fumed over the state of their unborn child, Beth worried about the state of the economy and the growth of her enterprise. One of the happier results of its founding had been the engagement of Billy McNair to Dolly Putnam, the most vivacious and accomplished of the seamstresses.

  Billy and Mel, excited by the prospect of adventure, had been among the first to sign on with Stanhope’s Toronto regiment. The passage of four months saw them doing much more than strutting and preening in marches along Front Street. The war they had dreamed about had become suddenly real, and as Marc himself knew, there was no way to prepare oneself for its terror-inducing contingencies. Mel had not suffered these long. An hour after his first contact with the enemy, he was dead, his face blown away and unrecognizable. Billy had distinguished himself under fire and had brought Major Coltrane bound and bowed to his commander. But he had come home a bitter and disturbed young man. He refused to take part in the victory parade at the colonel’s side. He spurned the governor’s offer of a military medal and declined to be interviewed by the press. Worse, he became so moody and irritable that, in an uncharacteristic fit of pique, he had quarrelled with Dolly Putnam and broken off their engagement. Dolly’s unhappiness had become the principal subject of dinner conversation in the Edwards household.

  Meanwhile, both Stanhope and Coltrane seemed, for better or worse, to have a gift for keeping themselves in the public eye. The colonel had stunned his admirers by offering to imprison the major at Chepstow, his grandiose estate at the far western end of Hospital Street. This gesture had followed upon two earlier decisions by the governor: first, the removal of some of the military prisoners (“war criminals” to the Tory press) to Toronto and Kingston because of dangerous overcrowding in the jails and the logjam of the dockets in the county courts; and second, an audacious proposal to have ringleader Coltrane tried as a common felon in a regular criminal proceeding here in the capital city. It was the kind of trial, Marc thought, calculated to unite the populace against the “real” enemy—American republicanism and its agents provocateurs—though more likely to incite than to appease. And even though the courts-martial had thus far proved to be efficient (at the expense of justice) and draconian, the governor apparently felt that the military courts were giving the miscreants more honour than their perfidy deserved. A message needed to be sent across the border to other so-called idealists bent on liberating the Canadian natives: armed incursions were acts of thuggery in the guise of military manoeuvres and would be treated as such.

  The trial was scheduled for the middle of January, less than two weeks away. That the felon was immured in the cellar of Chepstow House under the watch of his captor merely added relish to an already tasty affair. It seemed that the colonel could do no wrong, that nothing could tarnish the sheen on his armour. Immediately after the massacre at the Windsor redoubt, Gideon Stanhope had accepted full responsibility for his captain’s ineptness in clearing out the buried crates of ordnance from the earthen walls. That meant taking the blame for the bushwhackers’ attack on that fateful December morning, a dastardly ambush rigged by the cunning and unrepentant Major Coltrane that had seen five men die (including the hapless and silenced Muttlebury) and eight others seriously wounded, two losing limbs and another blinded. But the regular staff would not hear of such a selfless gesture on the part of the colonel, however nobly intended. Instead of a court-martial, they recommended a citation, particularly in light of the colonel’s courage under fire in Baby’s orchard and his subsequent pursuit of the routed enemy, and of course the bayonet scrape on his thigh. From the narrow perspective of field tactics, the brass were inclined to fault Captain Muttlebury for his precipitate action in assaulting the Stars and Stripes fluttering above the redoubt before a proper reconnoitering and for his being naive enough to believe his opponents were out of bullets and powder, merely because one of them had claimed it was so with his dying breath.

  When it was learned that every cell in every jail in the province was now full (the diseases of overcrowding had provided only temporary relief), the colonel graciously offered to incarcerate Coltrane, also recovering from wounds suffered at the Battle of Windsor, and to personally guarantee both his safety and his appearance in court. Indeed, if rumour were even marginally true, Colonel Stanhope was insisting on accepting his adversary as a military officer worthy of humane and dignified treatment. Several crates of the felon’s effects—an extra uniform, vintage pipes, numerous books that no loyal citizen would peruse, and a collection of rare silver snuff boxes—had been shipped from his home in Detroit. And despite a gentle remonstrance from the governor (who knew when to leave a popular hero alone) and in the face of the periodic picketing of Chepstow by Orangemen and Tory youth groups, Colonel Stanhope persisted in “doing the honourable thing.” Although no disinterested lover of justice had stepped forward, he even made a gentlemanly attempt to secure defense counsel for his prisoner.

  The good colonel’s reward for such magnanimity was to have Coltrane give interviews to three newspapers, one of them a right-wing organ that was not about to let politics interfere with circulation. In these front-page pieces, Major Coltrane adumbrated his outrageous views and partisan opinions. The virtues of American-style republicanism were retailed ad nauseam and the corresponding failures of the Canadian provinces maddeningly set out in xenophobic chapter and verse, all the more irritating because many of them were true. The upshot was an even more strenuous picketing of Chepstow, not as a criticism of the colonel (his forbearance in the face of such ingratitude nudged his star even more steeply into the firmament) but as umbrage and outrage at the arrogant ingrate in his cellar. So unruly were the protests and so credible the threats to seize and lynch the Yankee murderer that a phalanx of the 85th Highlanders had to be placed in front of Chepstow’s iron gates day and night. It seemed likely that two phalanxes would be needed to escort him to the Court House at King and Toronto Streets.

  Only yesterday afternoon Marc had been privy to a fascinating discussion between the Baldwins, père et fils, as to whether they ought to offer their services as defense attorneys for Caleb Coltrane, despite the obvious risks. Both men realized, as many in the town did not, that any hint of a kangaroo court being held for Coltrane—charged inter alia with murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, armed robbery, and forcible detention—or the least intimation of Star Chamber proceedings had the potential to ignite the still-smouldering passions of the thousands of Hunters and libertarians across the border. And just as tempers were beginning to cool and the U.S. government was getting a grip on its own renegades!

  On the other hand, young Robert Baldwin had himself narrowly escaped being branded a rebel and seditionist and was still under a cloud of suspicion for his ambiguous behaviour during the rebellion. So much so that he had refrained from attending the Legislative Assembly except on rare occasions and did not speak on any matters pertinent to the current crisis. Sir George Arthur had a steady hand on the tiller of the executive and the legislatures, and Robert was content to let him guide the ship until Lord Durham’s report was published sometime in the next month or so. But Coltrane had to have legal representation, and some Tory hack would probably be appointed at the last moment to provide token counsel, if that.

  “Perhaps we could have hi
m defended by one of his own kind,” Dr. Baldwin had suggested, looking both pensive and mischievous.

  “That would require special dispensation from the chief justice and the tacit approval of our fellow benchers,” Robert had responded, puzzled but ever aware that his father rarely spoke without some point in mind, however oblique.

  “Not if said barrister were a well-known and experienced criminal lawyer from New York and one who has been residing here for the past two years.”

  “You can’t mean Richard Dougherty! Doubtful Dick?”

  “He lives just a block and a half away.” William smiled wryly.

  “But he’s a known sybarite and, in all likelihood, something worse.”

  “You mean he’s no gentleman?”

  “Precisely. The Law Society would sooner see him in jail than a courtroom.”

  William smiled even more wryly. “Expediency makes for strange bedfellows, eh?”

  Robert, diffident and possessing less humour than his illustrious and ebullient father but his equal in perspicacity and political astuteness, said after a moment’s reflection, “I see what you mean. A corrupt, licentious, and debased Yankee lawyer from New York City defending an odious miscreant and arrogant pretender in a hopeless case—what could be more palpitating to the Tory heart?”

  “If he has one.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea whether Dougherty would accept the challenge—he’s been well retired for two years now—but the chance to be admitted to our bar would surely be irresistible for a man who was once at the pinnacle of his profession and an American legend at law.”

  “You leave the benchers to me,” William said. “I’ll have him installed within the week if you’ll agree to approach him about representing Coltrane.”

  And before Marc could take Robert aside to learn more about the intriguing Mr. Dougherty, an important client had arrived, ending the conversation. After lunch tomorrow, though, he intended to get all the unsavoury details.

  • • •

  A light snow was falling as Marc left the Osgoode grounds and walked south along York Street. “Christmas breath” the children here called it, a hushed exhalation of flakes and a fitting prelude to the Feast of the Epiphany on the morrow. Marc thought of Twelfth Night, Shakespeare, and his friend Horatio Cobb. He thought of Beth and the child to be. And felt blessed. At King Street he turned east, making his way quietly through the shoppers who, lulled perhaps by the perfect peacefulness of the snowfall, lingered in doorways or spoke in muted tones to friendly passersby, reluctant to enter a shop and break the spell. It was near closing time, but Marc was nonetheless surprised to see that Smallman’s was shut up tight, with curtains drawn across the bow-window display. There were lights in the adjoining workroom and in Mrs. Halpenny’s apartment over the shop. Puzzled but not worried, Marc continued along King towards Briar Cottage, several long blocks away on Sherbourne Street. In fact, he began to feel pleased because it occurred to him that Beth, now well into her fifth month, seemed prepared to take his advice and spend only a few hours in the shop each day until the time when she would let Rose Halpenny fully supervise the workroom and Bertha Bethune, her assistant in the millinery section, greet the customers.

  Whistling tunelessly, Marc came up to his house, now settled in the snowy dark as if it had arrived here with the glaciers and decided to stay. He opened the front door, the aroma of roasting fowl struck his nostrils, and his stomach rumbled pleasantly. Then he was stopped where he stood by the sight of the three women in his front room. Beth was seated beside Dolly Putnam, trying with minimal success to ease the girl’s wracking sobs. Charlene Huggan was hovering at Beth’s elbow with a steaming teapot in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other, though the two items seemed not to be in the least associated with one another. On the tea trolley before them sat a plate of hot biscuits, cooling. (Charlene, under the impetus of necessity, was actually learning how to cook food that was edible.)

  “Dolly, dear, you must try to get a hold of yourself. Tell us exactly what happened. We can’t help you if you can’t tell us why Billy’s been put in jail.”

  “In jail?” Marc questioned, and two of the women looked up, startled to see him in the doorway.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Edwards, Billy’s been tossed into a dungeon and they’re gonna hang him!”

  “Charlene,” Beth said firmly, “pour us all some tea and then go see that your roast isn’t burning.”

  “Everythin’ll be all right now that Mr. Edwards is back, won’t it, ma’am?”

  Beth gave the girl—for she was all of seventeen—a look that said, Oh, don’t be daft, though I know you can’t help it.

  “Everything’ll be fine,” she said aloud.

  At this soothing remark, Dolly burst into fresh tears and dropped her head into her hands. Charlene set out three cups of tea with trembling fingers and quivering lip.

  Marc came across the room, dripping melted snow onto the carpet. “Is Billy in jail, dear?”

  Beth nodded grimly. “It looks like it. All I can get out of Dolly is something about Billy trying to kill someone. She can’t get any further without garbling her words to death.”

  The reference to death induced even harder sobbing.

  “How did she find this out?” Marc pulled off his boots and then tossed his hat and coat over a chair. He sat down next to Dolly, her raven curls matted with sweat and her sloe eyes blurred and reddened with weeping. He gave her his handkerchief, then took her right hand into both of his.

  “Dolly wasn’t feeling well, so Rose sent her home at three o’clock. It was her mum who’d been downtown shopping who heard the news about Billy being arrested. So, as far as I can tell, the two of them went straight to the police to find out what was going on.”

  “Cobb’ll know all the details, then,” Marc said. He lifted Dolly’s chin with his hand and peered into her beleaguered face. “Billy wouldn’t deliberately hurt anyone, Dolly, you know that. There must be some sort of mistake here. I’m a very good friend of Chief Sturges and Constable Cobb. I’ll go down to the police quarters and sort this all out. Just tell me what you know so far. Please.”

  Dolly bobbed her head up and down, then took two sips of tea. She swallowed hard and began at last to speak. “Mr. Sturges told us that Billy was caught doin’ a duel this mornin’.”

  “A duel?”

  “Uh-huh. I told him only rich gentlemen did such things, but he said Billy was found with a smokin’ pistol in his hand, and under the law he had to be charged.”

  “Is duelling against the law?” Beth said to Marc.

  “Not as such, though it’ll get you dismissed from the army quick enough. However, if someone is hurt, then attempted murder charges may be brought against the one who inflicted the wound. Usually, though, neither party nor the seconds report on the episode. There’s a sort of code of secrecy.”

  “But some boy was peekin’ through the fence and come runnin’ to the police. And they got caught!” Dolly sobbed at the injustice of it all.

  “Whose fence? Who is Billy supposed to have shot?”

  Dolly looked up, and through her tears said with a sort of puzzled pride, “It was that awful Yankee!”

  “Good God,” Beth said.

  “Not Caleb Coltrane?” Marc said.

  “That’s the one,” Dolly confirmed.

  • • •

  Exhausted, Dolly fell asleep on the chesterfield. Beth and Marc decided to have supper—it was the first complete meal Charlene had prepared from scratch and they were loath to disappoint her—and then, afterwards, mull over some sensible course of action. How Billy McNair had managed to get himself into a duel with an imprisoned felon at the far end of the city was certainly a mystery Marc wanted to have cleared up before he went to bed.

  “Chief Sturges will have the whole story,” Beth said, as they returned to the front room and saw Dolly sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “I’m sure they will,” Marc said.

  “But
what about Billy, Mr. Edwards? Will he haveta stay in jail?”

  “I doubt it, Dolly, especially if he hasn’t actually killed Mr. Coltrane.”

  “If we post bond,” Beth said to Dolly, “he can go free till his trial in the spring assizes.”

  “But we ain’t got the money!” Dolly cried with a wail only the young can achieve in their despair. “He’ll die in there! He will! And I love him still!”

  “We know you do,” Beth soothed. “And when he comes to his senses, he’ll see how foolish he was to break off your engagement.”

  “I can’t imagine the bond being more than a hundred dollars,” Marc said.

  “I’ll pay it,” Beth said.

  “We’ll pay it,” Marc said, and was rewarded with Dolly’s Billy-winning smile.

  “And if the charges stick,” Beth added, “Billy’ll need a good lawyer.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll pay for the lawyer, too,” Beth said.

  Dolly looked at her like a grateful pup who has just been picked from a litter of contenders. “Do you know a good lawyer?”

  Beth turned to her husband. “I believe I do,” she said.

  FOUR

  It was Constable Horatio Cobb who had been unlucky enough to interrupt the duel early that Monday morning. The sun was just a scarlet disk on the frigid horizon behind him as he reached his temporary patrol on Hospital Street at Bay.

  Following the first of several demonstrations by the Orange Dislodgers, as Cobb called them, and impromptu protests by a gang of Tory toughs (in raccoon coats and beaver hats) outside of Chepstow, Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges had placed three supernumerary constables and Ewan (Able-but-Unwilling) Wilkie in charge of the eastern sector of the city, and set himself and his three most experienced constables the task of patrolling the western sector, where Chepstow was located. Sir George Arthur’s orders had been clear: the blackguard Coltrane was to be kept alive as fodder for the gibbet at any cost. And so Cobb had left the billowing warmth of his wife’s body, forced down a cold breakfast in the dark, pulled his greatcoat over his food-stained paunch, jammed his helmet down over his stocking cap, and headed west up Front Street towards the seat of trouble.