Dubious Allegiance (14 page)

Marc uttered his first pure word: “Beth.”

Major Jenkin smiled reassuringly. “There's so much to tell you about Beth and all that's happened, but she's fine, fine. Meanwhile, you've managed to sleep through two rebellions!”

Which one of these topics the major was about to choose went unresolved, for the patient was once more asleep.

*   *   *

Marc's head was propped up on a greasy pillow, and Davey MacKay was spooning a surprisingly tasty soup into his mouth.

“This ain't the gruel they give to the poor souls on the other side of the room. The major has yer food sent down from the Royal's mess. He's been attached to them until the fuss dies down and all the froggies are back in the pond. The rest o' yer fellas have gone back to Toronto, where they shoulda stayed in the first place.”

Marc nodded towards the shadows and prone silhouettes on the far, windowless side of the cavernous room.

“You're the only officer here, sir. Them fellas're just foot-soldiers who got in the way of a rebel bullet. Since nobody here expects them to live, it'd be a shame to waste good food on them.”

Ravenous, and with little shame, Marc ate.

“Here comes the major. I'll leave ya to him.”

Owen Jenkin settled in beside Marc, and took out his tinder-box, pipe, and tobacco pouch. Cautioning Marc not to attempt to speak, he picked up where he had left off yesterday. Or was it an hour ago? Marc had no idea.

“There's no tactful way to say this, Marc, so I won't try. Beth and her aunt are now in Bedford Valley, Pennsylvania. Don't fret yourself: they're both in good health and reasonable spirits, considering what happened. To make a long story short, Catherine felt she could no longer safely live in Toronto, so Beth—well, you know how her loyalties work—arranged to accompany her to where they both have relatives in Bedford, way down in the south part of the state. They got there about a week ago, and I've received two letters from her, even though the mails, and most everything else, is in turmoil and chaos. You'll be able to read them for yourself in a day or two. But the ladies are looking to set up a business for the aunt—they smuggled out a fair amount of specie, it seems. Beth will stay there until Catherine is on her feet, perhaps only a few weeks if all goes well. She learned about your wound just before she left, and I've written her in Bedford to let her know the wonderful news of your recovery. My guess is that you'll each arrive back in Toronto about the same week, in time to tie the knot.”

The major beamed, while Marc tried to absorb what he was hearing and suppress the dozen questions he couldn't yet speak aloud.

“Now I see Davey heading this way with a bowl of hot water and a razor. Even Beth wouldn't recognize you with that Viking's bush!”

Once clean-shaven, scrubbed raw, and settled on fresh sheets, Marc dozed and half woke, dreamed hazily, and tried to interpret the eccentric sights and sounds that coloured his waking moments. Beth appeared to him in both venues: in her bridal dress and veil, smiling and beckoning, and floating by in her drab nurse's clothes like an earth-bound but loving angel. He called out to her in English, then in French, but she merely smiled beatifically and moved on.

“Mr. Edwards, I would be grateful if you didn't try to speak to the hired help and interfere with their duties. What's more, they're expressly forbidden to use that lingo of theirs above a whisper in this hallowed place.”

Once, he was almost certain, one of them paused at his calling out, turned to say something back in her own tongue, then shuddered under the head nurse's bellow and skittered away.

“Pay no attention to the old troll, sir. Her first name's Magda, but everybody 'round here calls her Magna Carta—behind her back, that is!” The soap and razor felt wonderful on Marc's chin. And even as he dreamt and lolled hazily through the day-nights, he continued to eat. His hands and arms began to move where he wished them to. The throbbing in his thigh was ebbing. He remembered to say thank you to Davey.

*   *   *

“You'll want to know what's been going on in the wars,” the major was saying one afternoon.

“Yes. Tell me everything.”

“Well, your brigade finished off the rebels in the Richelieu Valley. Most of them fled into Vermont to re-group. Then, a couple of days before you woke up, General Colborne organized and led an attack on their stronghold north of here at St. Eustache, with three thousand troops. It was a slaughterhouse. More than fifty rebels died. The church was levelled, then burned. The village was looted and razed. They moved on to St. Benoit, which surrendered without a fight. The ringleaders' houses were destroyed. But when the regulars left, the militia and English locals burned down the church and sacked the entire village. Reprisals are still going on all over the province, despite the general's decree that they be stopped. It's not a pretty sight out there in the countryside. I've been having nightmares about Spain again for the first time in years.”

Marc pictured barns in flames, haystacks ablaze, families huddled in the cold woods. He saw the houses of St. Denis with smoke pouring out of smashed windows. He saw the young habitant in that shadowy room, his throat blown out and his hands lifting to it as if to pray.

“And I don't wish to alarm you, but you'd best hear the news from me. There's been an uprising in Upper Canada as well. A few days after you got shot, Mackenzie and about seven hundred credulous farmers, led by one Samuel Lount, made a run at the capital.”

Here the major amazed Marc by chuckling. “I know it isn't funny, Marc, but it really was a curious contretemps. Our
friend, Sir Francis, had emptied the province of regulars, as you know, and stationed the principal militia group at Hamilton to ward off any Yankees raging across the frontier at Niagara. The city was defended by a gaggle of volunteers and citizen conscripts—about twenty in total—who bumped into Mackenzie's army on Yonge Street. In the dark! The loyalists fired first, I'm told, then dropped their rifles and ran for their lives, due south. Lount had ordered his front rank to kneel and fire a volley, which they did, to no effect except to spook those behind them, who thought they had all fallen dead. At which, the rebel regiment turned and ran as well, not stopping till they reached Montgomery's tavern. A day and a half later, Colonel MacNab led the militia and a marching band up Yonge Street and scattered the rabble for good. Mackenzie's already in Buffalo, they say, trying to rouse the Americans to mount an invasion.”

“Were there casualties?”

“A few on both sides. But the devil of it is that reprisals and barn burnings have started up, as they did here. No roads outside the towns are safe, as fleeing rebels and vengeful loyalists take pot-shots at one another. The jails in both provinces are filling up, and there's talk of treason trials and hangings.”

“Maybe Beth is safer where she is.”

“I believe so, lad. And so are you in here. We've crushed Papineau and Nelson, but the border threats down in Vermont are real, and no Englishman dares walk the streets or byways alone or unarmed. You can taste hatred in the air.”

“What's going to happen now?”

The major shook his grey head. “I wish I knew. It's going to be a damn sight harder to put the pieces back together than it
was to scatter them by force.” He puffed on his pipe, and offered it to Marc, who declined with a shake of his head. “I saw the letter from your uncle Frederick,” the major said slowly. “I recognized my old friend's handwriting right away, and, not knowing if you'd ever regain consciousness, I opened it.”

Marc smiled to let him know it was all right.

“I am deeply sorry about the death of Jabez; he was, in every practical way, your father. I wrote immediately to Frederick to offer my sympathy and to let him know why you yourself had not written back. Some military and official mail is getting out through Halifax or New York, but its arrival time, as usual, is uncertain. Nevertheless, I've already dispatched a further brief note informing him of your miraculous recovery.”

Marc had a suitable reply on his lips, but sleep once more supervened.

*   *   *

Beth was coming to him, her sinuous shape darkly sensual in a silken chemise, her copper-blond hair haloed around her head. He seemed unable to lift himself towards her, but his arms stretched out in invitation, his loins stirred deliciously. There was something in her right hand, a love token perhaps. No, it was long and sharp, and it was rising. . . .

He woke, awash in his own sweat. The room, as usual, was cold, damp, and dark, the smoky heat from the fireplace at one end being more cosmetic than real. His teeth were chattering.

“Davey!” His voice was a hollow croak, despite its desperation.

Owen Jenkin arrived with Davey MacKay in tow and a scowling head nurse. The major was unable to hide the concern
in his face. “You've been thrashing about with a fever, lad. You've had us all worried sick.”

Davey began sponging the sweat from Marc's face with a damp towel. “But the fever's broken now, I'm happy to say.”

“All this fuss in the middle of the night. You'll be expecting the doctor to show up next,” Magda Cartwright grumbled, then hustled off, her capacious bosom intimidating the air before it like the prow of a galleon.

“It's actually dawn,” Davey said. “We been snoozin' in the next room, waitin' fer you to rally.” He went off to fetch warm water and more towels.

“We've got to get you out of here soon,” the major said. “Three men died of the fever yesterday. But Doc Wilder thinks you're still too weak.” He helped Marc sit up and watched him drink half a cup of cold water before pulling it away.

A little while later Marc was able to say, “I had the strangest dream, Owen. Beth was coming to me, and I was reaching out to her, when suddenly there was a sharp and menacing object in her right hand. I thought she was going to strike me, but—”

“You woke up, thankful it was a nightmare.”

“It seemed so real.”

“Yes, but you were hallucinating with the fever.”

Davey MacKay came up on the other side of the crude bed, a mere pallet on wooden slats. As he set the basin of water on the floor, he let out a startled cry. “What the hell is this?”

He held up into the dim light a long, sharp-pointed instrument.

“A bayonet,” the major whispered, as Marc turned to look at it. “Old and rusted, but recently honed. How did it get here?”

Davey was examining the wooden edge of Marc's bed. “This board's been splintered. Bits of it are still here on the floor. Fresh.”

The major came around to see for himself. “And whatever did it sliced through Marc's blanket first.”

There was a stunned silence.

“It looks as if somebody's tried to murder you,” the major said.

*   *   *

When Marc had been bathed, shaved, fed, and provided with a clean nightshirt, Owen Jenkin returned and sat down on his familiar stool. He waited for one of the French aides to move away towards the moaning forms across the room, then said, “We figure it was a thief hoping to get something valuable from an officer's kit. The Frenchies'll steal anything. Many of them are starving, or their families are. When he couldn't find anything worthwhile, he probably got enraged and stabbed at you in the dark. Or you may have been muttering in your delirium, and he took it as a threat and just lashed out.”

Marc nodded in agreement.

“What puzzles Davey and me the most, though, is how he managed to get past us. We were asleep on cots right beside the only door into this area, and Magna Carta herself sleeps standing up like a horse in her little stall by the main door, which she swears was latched.”

“One of the nurse-attendants could have left it unlatched before turning in.”

“Or done so deliberately.”

Marc thought that over. “I think a fly would terrify them,” he said.

“Well, herself is giving them all a tongue-lashing for good measure. They won't understand a word, but they'll get the message.”

“What should we do about this? It's not likely to happen again.”

“True. But I've put Davey, on twenty-four-hour alert. And doubled his wages.”

“You mustn't do things like that, Owen.”

“Your uncle Frederick and I went through the wars together for ten years,” the major said, and left it at that.

Marc's strength began to return slowly. He ate regular meals, and could sit at the side of the bed and waggle his legs to simulate walking. He, Davey, and Owen Jenkin celebrated Christmas quietly together. Marc managed to slip each of the five habitant girls a half crown without being seen and upbraided by Magna Carta, who refused Marc's largesse with a cold sniff.

“That wasn't too wise,” Davey said when he found out, “if you'll excuse me sayin' so, sir. If the Frenchies think you got money here, they may tell their friends, if you know what I mean. They don't know you had Major Jenkin bring the coins down from the barracks.”

Marc thanked him for his concern.

The day before New Year's Marc reread Beth's letters and, with the major's help, wrote her a one-page reply. A third letter arrived from Beth soon after, more detailed and upbeat than the first two. Marc was now grateful that Beth was so frank
and unflinching in her assessment of people and circumstances. When she told him that Aunt Catherine had purchased a ladies' haberdashery in Bedford Valley, and that it would be only a matter of weeks before she returned home, he could believe it without reservation. He only hoped that his own strict account of his progress towards full health (he even mentioned the attack of fever and the possibility of his limping to gain credibility) would be accepted at face value and provide her with the comfort she deserved.

The only dark note in her recent letter was her continuing concern for the well-being of Winnifred and Thomas Goodall, baby Mary, and her brother Aaron, who lived with them on Beth's farm in Crawford's Corners. She had heard of Mackenzie's coup and the ructions following it. She wondered whether the manhunt for fleeing rebels and known sympathizers would turn up the facts of Thomas's earlier and recanted involvement in the radical movement or, for that matter, Winnifred's brief fling with Reformist politics a year ago? She had written Dora Cobb in Toronto and Erastus Hatch, Winnifred's father, in Crawford's Corners, but had received no reply. Marc was to write her every day as soon as his strength allowed and to let her know what was happening—by which she meant the unembroidered truth.