The Widow's Demise

by Don Gutteridge

  “That’s true, but – ”

  “No buts. Either I am in charge of the servants or I am not.”

  “You are in charge,” Cardiff said with a huge sigh. “But you’ll have to replace Perkins right away as I have a very busy schedule coming up. I’m on my way to Dingman’s nomination meeting and I’m running his campaign for election.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it.”

  “I still think you’re being a bit harsh.”

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  Defeated, Cardiff left the room.

  ***

  The square in front of the hustings was almost full. The crowd was in a festive mood, anticipating the events to follow. They were farmers, mostly from York County, but there was a contingent of people from Toronto who had come out to observe the proceedings even though they were not directly affected by the outcome. Politics in the province was a blood sport, and the clash of the two rival parties was never less than entertaining. On the periphery of the crowd, women and children gathered around wagons and took their picnic lunch. In the distance could be heard the wheezy music of a squeezebox.

  The proceedings began shortly after two o’clock. All of the principals had arrived and were now seated on the platform. Marc was seated beside Robert, with Hincks, Louis and Gagnon on the other side. Humphrey Cardiff called the meeting to order. Then he immediately launched into his nomination speech for Tory candidate Arthur Dingman, who sat smiling behind him. He was a small, undistinguished man with a neat moustache. Cardiff described for the quieted onlookers a fellow who was nearly a paragon. He was a staunch Tory, loyal to his Queen and country. He had served in the militia that had helped bring the revolt to its heels. He was a family man and long-time resident of York County. Being modest, he had only agreed to run for office after being importuned by his many friends. He wished fervently to join his fellow Tories in the new Legislative Assembly to bolster the English presence there and help provide a counterweight to the radical French contingent. Cardiff did not have to say so directly, but it was apparent to everyone listening that Arthur Dingman was everything Louis LaFontaine was not. Furthermore, while Dingman was a Conservative, he would strive to represent all of the people of the fourth riding of York County.

  Cardiff sat down to polite applause from the minority section of the audience. The majority were farmers who, if they had not actively supported the Rebellion, were nonetheless sympathetic to its aims: they were stalwart adherents of the Reform party. It was now the turn of Francis Hincks. He was recognized instantly by the crowd, and applauded. As editor of the Constitution, his voice was well-known throughout the area.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, five years ago this province, then Upper Canada, was in a state of turmoil. The Seventh Report on Grievances had just been issued by the Legislative Assembly and ignored by the governor and his executive council. The parliamentary system was deadlocked. Governor Head dissolved the Assembly, and he himself, against all tradition and direct advice to the contrary from London, participated in the subsequent election. The Tory victory did nothing but drive the grievances further underground, until, at last, frustration boiled over into outright armed revolt. The British government, having put down the Rebellion, finally decided to act decisively. Lord Durham was sent out here to recommend practical political solutions. The result has been the creation of a new dominion, comprised of English and French provinces. Our first Assembly has already met. And with the aid of Lord Sydenham, who now lies close to death, the outlines of a system of responsible government were established. To the astonishment of all, French and English Reformers formed a working coalition that resulted in a productive session of the Legislature. All that remains is for you to elect Louis LaFontaine to that body so that he can lead the Quebec wing of the coalition, and continue to right the many wrongs of the past. I know you will do your duty.”

  Hincks sat down to sustained applause.

  “Up with Reform!” someone shouted.

  “No truck with the French!” came a response from near the back of the crowd.

  The second nominator for Arthur Dingman now stood up and undid most of the effectiveness of Cardiff’s speech by droning on incoherently for fifteen minutes. Dingman himself was squirming by the time the address staggered to its conclusion.

  It was now Robert Baldwin’s turn. The applause was so overwhelming that he had to start several times before he could actually get himself launched. He began with the candidate himself, extolling Louis LaFontaine’s many virtues in simple and direct terms. LaFontaine was above all a leader, a man who stuck to his principles, and one of these was a desire to establish a form of responsible government. Moreover, he was a true reformer with a progressive economic and social policy. He wished to cooperate with his English-speaking counterparts to help build a new society on the northern half of the continent – neither wholly British nor wholly American. He was a man for the future.

  The applause was thunderous. And Louis stood up amidst it, smiling.

  “No truck with the French!” came a lone voice from the rear.

  Louis spoke for twenty minutes in plain, straightforward English. He reviewed the steps by which the coalition had been formed. He downplayed his own role in the affair, giving Robert Baldwin much of the credit. He said how profoundly moved he was – so soon after an armed revolt – that he, a Quebecer, could stand for election in a riding won by said Robert Baldwin, a riding which was one hundred per cent English. He promised to work with his English-speaking counterparts to develop a just and prosperous Canada.

  There were cheers and one or two catcalls.

  Arthur Dingman then got up to respond to his nominators. He was partway through a plodding address when there was a sudden commotion over to the side of the hustings near the verandah in front of Danby’s tavern.

  “You tell ‘em, Arthur!” someone shouted.

  “We don’t need the French tellin’ us what to do!”

  “Down with the rebel bastards!”

  “Let the man finish!”

  Dingman had stopped in mid-sentence and was staring at the source of the interruption. Marc moved uneasily in his chair and craned to see who was doing the shouting.

  “We don’t want no Frenchman representin’ us in Kingston!”

  “Shut up and let the man speak! He’s your candidate!”

  A pistol shot punctuated this exchange.

  “Murder!” somebody screamed, a woman’s voice from one of the wagons.

  A scuffle now broke out near the tavern. Several clubs were abruptly produced.

  “They’re armed!”

  The scuffle was spreading. Fists were flying, clubs wielded. It was soon a full-scale donnybrook. Several of the candidates’ supporters jumped up onto the platform and formed a cordon around them. Marc leapt off and tried to bull his way through the milling throng to the site of the disturbance. He was pushed rudely aside. It was then that he noticed a man fleeing around the far side of Danby’s Inn. Marc made it over to where his horse was hitched, and mounted it. Behind him the riot continued apace.

  When Marc got to the other side of the inn, he saw the fleeing man clamber onto a horse and trot away down the road towards Yonge Street. Marc gave pursuit. The fellow never once turned to see if he were being followed, so Marc was able to get almost upon him before his horse’s hoof-beats were heard. The fellow swung around just in time to see Marc come up beside him and grab his horse by the bridle. They both slowed to a stop.

  “What do you think you’re doin’?” the fellow said. He had a shock of brown hair and a scraggly beard. His eyes were bead-like and furtive.

  “I’m interested in that pistol you’ve got tucked into your belt. I trust it’s been recently fired.”

  “That ain’t none of your business. Now let me go or you’ll be sorry.”

  “What’s your name?” Marc said, pulling the fellow closer.

  “I don’t have to tell you nothin’. Now let go!”

  “I’
ll let go when you tell me your name and admit to firing off a pistol in order to start a riot.”

  “Go to Hell!”

  Marc reached over and grasped the fellow by the collar, choking him. “Who are you?”

  The beady eyes darted here and there. Gasping, the fellow said, “I’m D’Arcy Rutherford. What’s it to you?”

  “That’s all I needed to know,” Marc said, and released his grip.

  So, Humphrey Cardiff had not kept his word. It was going to be a dirty tricks election.

  FOUR

  Delores slipped on her robe and followed her lover down the dark hallway. He knew the route well by now. He paused at the back door and she fell into his arms for one last embrace. For a precious moment she relived the passion that had taken place in her bed a few minutes ago.

  “I must go,” he said. “I’ll be missed.”

  She released him reluctantly. He stepped out into the night. She turned and made her way slowly back down the hall. The letdown she felt after each encounter had already begun to happen. Try as she might, she could not avoid it. It seemed somehow necessary. For although she lived for these night-sessions with her lover, she preferred, in the daylight, the company of Lionel Trueman and Horace Macy. What was wrong with her? Was she two women? Was it not abnormal to wish never to marry again? Yet here she was with two suitors and one lover. Certainly her father was puzzled and disturbed, though he did not, and would not, know of these late-evening assignations. Only Vera, her maid, knew of them, and she was discretion itself. The subterfuge was made easier by the fact that her father slept in the other side of the house and was a notoriously sound sleeper. Vera was both shocked and fascinated by her mistress’s behaviour, but she could keep secrets. And now that John Perkins was fired and gone, Delores felt even more secure.

  She reached her bedroom. The silk sheets, which had felt so heavenly on her bare flesh a while ago, now looked merely rumpled and soiled. She didn’t remove her robe, but lay down on the bed and curled up in the foetal position. She was a long time going to sleep.

  ***

  “Finish your breakfast, love,” Marjorie Snow said to her husband John. “You’re not in that much of a hurry to vote.”

  “The earlier the better,” Snow said. “I’d like to avoid the goons, if I can.”

  “There hasn’t been any sign of them, has there?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, but the poll has been open only two days.”

  “You’re planin’ to take the buggy?”

  “I could walk it, but the buggy is faster and safer.”

  “Do you really think the Reformers will straighten out the banks, and help us out?” She poured John another cup of tea.

  “It’s our only hope. Our mortgage is due in a week, and I’ve got to get an extension.”

  “At least they can’t take the farm.”

  “But they can take my cattle and equipment.”

  “Perhaps if we could give them a little money.”

  “And where would we get it? I’ve got barely enough crop for next year’s seed. Even five or six dollars would likely satisfy the bank, but I’d have to sell a cow, and then how would we replace it?”

  “I’ve got some sewing to take to the market on Saturday. It’ll fetch a couple of dollars.”

  “Every bit will help. In the meantime we’ve got to pin our hopes on Robert Baldwin.”

  “And he wants you to vote for that Frenchman.”

  “I don’t care if he’s a Dutchman. If Baldwin says he’s all right, I’m willin’ to go along with him.”

  “Well, then, finish your tea. I’ve packed you a lunch. It’s fifteen miles to Danby’s Crossing.”

  Snow finished his tea and went outside to hitch up the horse to the single-seater buggy. His route was south to an east-west sideroad that would take him to Yonge Street just north of Danby’s Crossing. The sideroad was barely a bush-path hacked out of the forest, but it hadn’t rained for two weeks and the way was passable, if not comfortable. He flicked the reins over the horses’ ears, and horse and buggy eased out through the farm’s gate. The sun was shining and the weather warm, a fine Indian-summer day. There was a tinge of yellow on the maples that inched inward on either side of the road. Several different kinds of birds sang heartily. John Snow began to whistle.

  Just before he reached Yonge Street, he saw a group of men standing in a clump of trees by the side of the road.. Could this be one of the Tory goon squads? He slowed his pace. He felt all eyes upon him and his progress. He was twenty yards away when he recognized one of the men as his near neighbour.

  “Hello, John,” the fellow said, hailing him.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Snow said. “I thought for a moment I was heading into trouble. What are you fellas doin’ out here?”

  The other faces were now familiar, though he couldn’t put a name to any of them.

  “We’ve just come from the poll,” his neighbour said. “We figured there was safety in numbers.”

  “You must’ve started at the crack of dawn.”

  “That we did.”

  “Did you meet any goons on the way?”

  “We did see one bunch of ‘em, but we outnumbered them and they let us pass.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Just at the corner of Yonge and the Danby crossroad.”

  “I’d better step carefully then.”

  “You can always tell them you’re goin’ into the harness-maker’s or the general store.”

  “I’ll try to avoid them if I can.”

  “Well, then, good luck.”

  The other men repeated the wish, and John Snow moved on, apprehensive. In a few minutes he came within sight of Murphy’s Tavern at the intersection with Yonge Street. He decided it would be politic to stop there for a drink and a rest before going on to Danby’s and the poll. Perhaps by then the goons would have dispersed. He stepped into the taproom.

  It was a dark, smoky, low-ceilinged room with a rough bar at one end and several tables and stools scattered about. Snow was surprised to see close to a dozen men inside, three at the bar and the rest seated. They gave him but a desultory glance as he walked over to the bar.

  “I’ll have a flagon of ale,” he said to the barkeeper, a florid, fleshy man with mean eyes and a superficial smile. “Right you are. In from the farm, then, are you?”

  “On my way to the store in Danby’s Crossing.”

  “It could be crowded up there,” the barkeeper, who was Murphy himself, said.

  “Oh, how’s that?” Snow did his best to sound nonchalant.

  “The poll’s at Danby’s, didn’t you know?”

  “Politics don’t interest me much.”

  Murphy smiled. “You’re a rare bird in these parts, then.”

  Snow took a great swig of ale, enough to quench his thirst, and Murphy moved away to serve another customer. Snow was just draining his flagon when he felt someone come up and sit beside him.

  “On your way to the poll?” the fellow said.

  Snow turned to look at the interloper. “Not really. I’m headin’ fer the store at Danby’s Crossing.”

  The fellow was short and wiry, with sharply chiselled features and beady, brown eyes. When he smiled he flashed a set of brilliant white teeth. He was well dressed, certainly not a farmer.

  “I can smell a voter a mile away. No need to fret, though, I’m not workin’ for either of the parties. Just an interested citizen.”

  “I see, but you’re mistaken about me, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I do apologize. My name’s Rutherford, D’Arcy Rutherford.”

  Snow automatically put out his hand. “John Snow,” he said.

  “I’m a salesman, not a pedlar, mind you, but a bona fide salesman. I peddle cigars and good wine to the taverns in this part of the province.”

  “A worthy occupation, I’m sure,” Snow said to be friendly.

  “I notice your cup is empty, sir. May I have the privilege of buying you another?”

&n
bsp; “Why, that’s kind of you. I’m in the mood fer another.”

  “A flagon of ale, barkeep, for my new friend here.”

  As the two men drank their ale, Rutherford regaled Snow with stories from his travels. Snow turned out to be a good listener. Another ale was ordered. Snow tried to pay for it, but Rutherford wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You’d be surprised at the kind of dives I find myself in from time to time, John. Why, I remember one not too far up Yonge Street that had one window with no glass and a hole in the roof for the smoke to make its way into the fresh air. There certainly was none of that in the interior. You can imagine my surprise when the proprietor orders a case of French wine and ten boxes of Cuban cigars. Like I always say, you can’t tell a dive by its door.”

  Snow nodded his agreement. He was beginning to feel decidedly mellow, but the poll would be open all day. He was in no hurry. And another ale had appeared suddenly before him.

  “I say a pox on both parties,” Rutherford was saying now. Snow couldn’t remember when or how the subject had turned to politics. “What have the Tories ever done for us, eh? Except to lead us straight to revolution and economic stagnation. Then along come the Reformers, preaching a new gospel. But what good did they do, the first time they were in power? They gave us fire-breathing radicals like Willie Mackenzie. And what are they up to in the new Parliament? Makin’ pacts with the Devil, that’s what. Gettin’ in bed with French rebels who should be in jail not the Legislature. And what is the final result? The greatest rebel of them all, Louis LaFontaine, is put up as our candidate by none other than Robert Baldwin himself. Who can you trust, eh? No-one. And I’m sure glad you’re not going to Danby’s to vote. You’ve made the right decision.”

  “But – but I thought I’d vote sometime,” Snow managed to say in a slurred fashion.

  “What’s the point? Any right-thinking citizen would protest by not casting his vote. I took you for a perceptive man. Another ale?”

  Another ale appeared, as if in a haze. Snow’s head felt too heavy for his body. He wanted to lay it on the bar. And sleep . . .