The Hunt for the North Star

by The Hunt for the North Star (retail) (epub)

  The man in the overcoat lay face down on the ground. His hat had fallen off and his brown hair, clubbed back in the old-fashioned way, was sodden with water. There was a red hole in the back of his coat, and blood was spreading out through the damp fabric to form a dark red blossom. MacLea knelt beside him and pulled back his collar, feeling his neck for a pulse, but there was none. George Wilson was dead.

  Chapter Four

  Alec Murray knelt beside MacLea. ‘Gone?’ he said.

  MacLea nodded.

  ‘That’s bad luck,’ Murray said quietly.

  MacLea turned his head. ‘Do you think it was luck?’

  ‘The moment they decided to fight, there was always a risk that Wilson would stop a musket ball. What happened? I didn’t see him go down.’

  ‘I saw him clearly. He was facing us when he fell.’ MacLea pointed to the wound. ‘He was shot in the back. All of our men were reloading at the time. Alec, he was shot by someone from his own side.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘It might have been an accident,’ said Murray. ‘Someone might have been frightened, or overly eager, or both, and squeezed the trigger without looking to see where his musket was pointed. It happens.’

  ‘It does,’ MacLea agreed. ‘And you may well be right.’

  ‘But you don’t think so,’ said Murray. ‘And neither do I.’

  Abel Thomas walked up and saluted. ‘We’ve accounted for the lot, sir. Eight bodies, including this one.’ He looked down at the dead man. ‘Is that Wilson?’

  ‘Let’s make sure,’ said MacLea. With an effort, he rolled the dead man over and opened his saturated coat. In his waistcoat pocket was a gold watch on a fob. MacLea drew it out and held it up in the dim light, reading the inscription on the back. To GW, w’ love & affection, on occ’n of his 40th b’day, H.

  ‘It’s him,’ he said quietly.

  Going through the rest of the dead man’s pockets, he found a pipe and tobacco pouch, a tinderbox, some small coins and a battered oilskin wallet, tightly bound with a length of blue satin ribbon. He tucked the wallet inside his own sodden coat and rose to his feet.

  ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘Let’s bury the dead, and then go.’

  ‘I’d leave them for the crows,’ said Abel Thomas.

  He’s a fine soldier, MacLea thought, but his hatred of Americans and their sympathisers is his weak spot. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be his Achilles heel.

  ‘They were traitors, but they were still human beings,’ he said quietly. ‘They fought for a cause, just as you and I do. Look for anything that might identify them, so we can inform their next of kin.’

  * * *

  They rounded up the abandoned horses and managed to persuade the reluctant beasts to carry them back to Brown’s Bridge, where they knocked on the door of a farmhouse and purchased fodder for the horses and food for themselves. With man and animal rested and fed, they rode back down the river through drifting curtains of cold fog, reaching Chippawa just as dusk began to fall.

  Chippawa was a settlement of several hundred souls on the north bank of the river where it ran down to join the broader stream of the Niagara. At the far end of the wooden bridge spanning the smaller river was a fort, a log stockade filled with rammed earth surrounding a wooden blockhouse. A battery of heavy guns stood nearby, covering the rivers. MacLea remembered those guns all too well. Two months earlier he had been on a ship spinning out of control on the river’s currents, with Niagara Falls thundering in the distance. He remembered how those guns had hammered the ship and reduced a man to a red smear on the deck right in front of him. He still saw that sight sometimes in his dreams.

  At the fort, the quartermaster relieved them of their horses and showed his men where they could billet and get warm. As an officer, MacLea was given a little room of his own near the mess, and a suit of dry clothes. He dressed in these, downing a cup of hot coffee as he did so. Then he picked up the oilskin wallet he had taken from Wilson, untied the blue ribbon and laid it to one side, and opened the wallet.

  Inside were two documents, both sealed with red wax. The first was addressed to Mrs Henrietta Wilson at an address in Montreal. He opened it and read it. The letter was brief and poignant: Wilson poured out his love to his wife, telling her how much he adored her and their children and promising to be with her when his duties permitted. There was no hint of what those duties might be.

  The second document was quite different. Each of its several sheets was divided into a number of square blocks, and each block contained a grid. Every cell on each grid contained a single number, arranged in apparently random order. It was, obviously, a code of some sort. He stared at it for a moment, thinking the numbers might represent letters, but it would take more time and skill than he had to decipher the document. Besides, he had a better idea.

  He tucked both documents and Wilson’s watch into his coat pocket and went to the commander’s office in the blockhouse. Colonel Bisshopp greeted him warmly, directing his orderly to pour two glasses of whisky. ‘Good health,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Did you find your man?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said MacLea, and he gave a brief report of the last two days. ‘Unfortunately, Wilson was shot and killed by one of his own men before we could arrest him.’

  Bisshopp raised his eyebrows. ‘By accident?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said MacLea. ‘But I have my doubts.’

  Bisshopp mused on this for a moment. ‘You think they might have killed him to prevent him from falling into our hands and spilling the beans about their spy operation?’

  ‘Possibly,’ repeated MacLea. He was still not really certain what was going on.

  ‘Did you manage to learn anything about Wilson? About what he was intending to do?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’ MacLea handed over the personal letter and pocket watch. ‘This was all he had on him.’ The other document, the pages of code, stayed hidden in his coat; he could almost feel it burning a hole in his pocket. He could hand it over to Bisshopp, but the colonel would then be obliged to send it up to headquarters, and MacLea would never see it again. He needed to know what was in that document.

  Bisshopp opened the letter and read it. ‘Poor little woman,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you suppose she knew about her husband’s treachery?’

  ‘I hope not,’ MacLea said. ‘I hope she can live out the rest of her life and raise her children without that burden of guilt, at least.’

  Bisshopp looked doubtful. ‘She will have to be questioned, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said MacLea. ‘But for the moment, I recommend we keep this whole matter quiet. The last thing we need is for it to become general knowledge that a leading local landowner was planning an insurrection against the King. And we need to determine whether Wilson really was Polaris.’

  ‘Do you think he was?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said MacLea. ‘The man we captured, Calder, was adamant, but I am not sure we can take Calder’s word as truth. I’d like to question him again.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bisshopp. ‘Bit of a problem there. Calder has escaped.’

  ‘How?’ asked MacLea.

  ‘Damned if I know. Somehow during the march to Red House he slipped his bonds and got away. No one saw him do it, either.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said MacLea quietly.

  ‘Indeed. If I knew who to blame for it, I would haul them over the coals, but I don’t. No one seems to know what happened.’

  Bisshopp ruminated for a moment, swirling the liquid in his glass. ‘Hmm. Very well. I shall report that Wilson is dead, but we can make no firm conclusions about Polaris.’

  ‘You intend to inform General Sheaffe about this affair, sir?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Bisshopp studied MacLea’s expression. ‘You don’t think I should. Why not?’

  ‘General Brock believed at least one of his own staff was working for Polaris, sir. And we need to know more about the extent of whatever insurrection Wilson may have been planning and wh
o else was involved. Whether Wilson himself was Polaris is immaterial at this stage, and now that Calder has escaped, we have no evidence one way or the other. But if we can find out whether this revolt is real, we may be able to head it off.’

  The colonel drank some of his whisky. ‘I have no official orders to investigate, and since Brock’s death, neither do you. What do you suggest?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir.’ Which was a lie, because he knew exactly what he was going to do, but he did not wish to burden Colonel Bisshopp with that knowledge. ‘With your permission, sir, may I drop out of sight for a day or two?’

  Bisshopp nodded. ‘Very well. Do what you need to do, but report to me the moment you get back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ MacLea said.

  ‘It is I who should be thanking you, MacLea. Your quick thinking at Frenchman’s Creek saved the bridge, and quite possibly a great deal else besides. We’re secure now, for a few months at least.’

  ‘What happened at Fort Erie, sir?’

  ‘The Yankees attacking the battery at Red House pulled out when our men arrived and retreated back across the river. The enemy are going into winter quarters, and so are we. There will be no more invasion attempts until spring.’ Bisshopp drained his glass. ‘Which, as we all know from experience, is a damned long way away. What did Voltaire call Canada? A few acres of snow. He was right, by God.’

  * * *

  The following day, MacLea and Murray walked out of the fort and away from the village, down the road beside the river rippling in the light of the low sun. Yesterday’s fog had gone and the day was crisp and clear, and so cold their breath came out in clouds of steam. Once they were out of sight of the village, MacLea stopped and pulled the pages of code out of his tunic, handing them to Murray.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked.

  In the distance, the great waterfall thundered. Murray turned the papers over, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘Code, of course, but what kind of code?’

  ‘I thought about trying to break it,’ said MacLea, taking the pages and tucking them back inside his coat. ‘And then I remembered we know someone who breaks codes for a living.’

  ‘You’re going to see her? If you’re caught sneaking into Niagara, Sheaffe will say you deserted your post. He’ll hang you up by your thumbs.’

  ‘I know.’ MacLea stared back through the trees towards the river. ‘But Josephine knows how these people think. And I need that fine brain of hers.’

  ‘All right. What do you need from me?’

  ‘Take the boys back to the farmhouse. Tell them I am remaining here to confer with Colonel Bisshopp.’

  ‘They won’t believe it.’

  ‘They don’t have to, so long as they keep their mouths shut,’ said MacLea. ‘I will see you the day after tomorrow.’

  Murray nodded. ‘One more thing. Did you show these papers to Colonel Bisshopp?’

  ‘No.’

  Murray stared at him. ‘You really don’t trust anyone, do you?’

  ‘You,’ said MacLea. ‘Me. Her. And that’s about it.’

  * * *

  It was late when MacLea approached Niagara, and many of the houses were dark. Lights shone on the ramparts of Fort George, and on the American fort across the river.

  The war had not been kind to the little town. Walking through silent streets bathed in starlight, MacLea passed the burnt-out shell of the courthouse, set on fire by American red-hot shot during October’s bombardment. Other buildings bore the marks of fire and impacts of roundshot. All the houses were shuttered, with some of them dark and deserted like the farms on the Chippawa.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  It was a patrol of Canadian militia, white armbands on their coats gleaming faint in the light. Their leader opened the shutter of a lantern and held it up so the light shone on MacLea’s face.

  ‘Capt’n MacLea! ’Tis yourself, sir! Glory be, it’s good to see you again.’

  MacLea could not see the speaker or identify his voice, but he guessed this man had fought at Queenston. ‘It is good to see you too,’ he said quietly. ‘Gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would not mention that you have seen me. If General Sheaffe were to find out I was here, it would not be good for my health.’

  ‘Faith, you’ve our pledge on that, sir. Not a word shall pass our lips, you have our solemn oath. Right, fellows?’

  ‘Right,’ said a chorus of voices.

  ‘We’ll be on our way now, sir. God keep you, and may you journey safely on this cold night.’ The militiamen marched off down the street. Being a little famous had its uses, MacLea thought wryly.

  The house he sought was down a narrow street not far from the waterfront. Apple trees in the back garden stood leafless and bare, awaiting the arrival of spring. There were lights on the ground floor, but the attic windows were dark. It is a clear night, he thought. She will be up there, gazing at the stars she loves. For much of her life, the stars have been her only friends.

  He knocked at the door and waited. After a long moment, he heard a rustle of movement inside. ‘Who is there?’ called a female voice.

  It was Marie, Josephine’s maidservant and confidante. ‘John MacLea,’ he said quietly.

  At once the bolts were drawn and the door opened. Marie, small and dark, stood in the doorway gazing up at him with wide eyes. ‘It is you, monsieur!’

  ‘Is she here?’ MacLea asked, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘She is in the observatory. I will call her.’

  Swiftly she drew him inside and shut and bolted the door again, then took his coat and gloves and hat and ushered him into the drawing room. He sat down slowly, looking at the fine furniture, the pictures on the walls and the china plates in the cabinet. It was a long way from the log cabins of the Chippawa and the waters of Canby Marsh, he thought.

  A rustle of silk and she was there in the doorway, staring at him. She wore a plain grey high-necked gown that he remembered. Feeling his pulse quicken a little, he rose to his feet. ‘Josephine,’ he said quietly. ‘It is good to see you again.’

  ‘And you, John,’ she said. Her lips curved into a sudden smile. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ he said.

  ‘Flatterer. Will you have wine, or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee,’ said MacLea, rubbing his hands together. ‘It is a bitter night, and I have had a long journey.’

  ‘Marie, fetch us some coffee, please.’

  Josephine waited until the maidservant had departed for the kitchen. Then, abandoning all composure, she ran across the room and into his arms, pulling his head down and kissing him with a passion close to desperation. The touch of her lips took his breath away, and his blood began to sing in his veins; he could feel his heart beating hard. He pulled her close, his hands sliding down her back, and kissed her again until they were both breathless.

  When they parted, he was shocked to see tears on her face. He wiped them away with a gentle finger. ‘Josephine,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh my dear John,’ she murmured. ‘What are you doing here? You know it is dangerous, for both of us. If Colonel Lawrence finds out…’

  ‘I know. But this is urgent. Josephine, I need your help.’

  There was a discreet tap at the door and they parted, sitting down on the striped silk settee. Marie came in bearing a silver tray with a pot of coffee, cups, milk and sugar. Setting the tray on the low table before them, she withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Are you safe?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Yes. So far.’

  ‘Captain Givins asked me about you. I think he wanted to inform General Sheaffe about your… activities. I persuaded him not to.’

  ‘I know he did,’ said Josephine. ‘He told me so himself when he came to see me last week.’

  ‘He came to see you?’ MacLea was surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘He told me my payments from the British government were being resumed,’ she sa
id. ‘He brought me the first instalment.’

  MacLea stared at her. ‘Your stipend used to come from Brock himself. Only he, Macdonell and Givins knew about it. How is Givins managing to pay you now without Sheaffe finding out?’

  ‘Oh, there are many secret pots of money in the Indian Department,’ she said. ‘And apparently Captain Givins knows where some of those pots are buried. That is how he is paying me.’

  ‘The Indian Department?’ MacLea was perplexed. ‘But Givins disapproves of you. He told me so himself. Why would he steal money from the Indian Department to pay you?’

  ‘After you spoke to him, he reconsidered his position,’ she said. ‘At least that is what he told me. He said your government may still have need of my services and he will continue to pay me secretly until a more formal arrangement can be resumed.’ She smiled a little. ‘I suspect that is not the real reason. I think he is really paying me because he is afraid that if the money stops coming, I will go back to working for the Americans.’ She watched him, her dark eyes still. ‘You did not come here merely to ask about my safety, John.’

  MacLea drew a deep breath. ‘No.’

  He told her about the events at Frenchman’s Creek and Calder’s claim that Polaris was George Wilson, and the pursuit and death of the latter. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out the oilskin wallet and handed it over. ‘Wilson was carrying this.’

  Josephine untied the blue satin ribbon and held it up to the light. ‘Expensive,’ she commented. ‘And rather feminine, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a gift from his wife,’ MacLea said quietly. ‘She was devoted to him.’

  She opened the wallet and drew out the coded pages, studying them intently.

  ‘Do you recognise the code?’ he asked. ‘I thought the numbers might refer to letters of the alphabet.’

  Josephine nodded. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. ‘This is a grille cipher. To break it, one must first work out the correspondence between numbers and letters. The letters themselves will be in apparently random order, but there will be words hidden within them. If you have the key, you can then read the message easily.’