Dubious Allegiance (16 page)

Marc hobble-walked to the group on the boardwalk, who had been observing the scene before them without comment. He was delighted with the strength in his legs, and the little wobble to the left grew less noticeable as he found the appropriate pace and rhythm for it. A portly, soft-fleshed gentleman with round, uninquisitive eyes stepped forward with his hand out. He was attired, Marc noted with an inward chuckle, in a smart grey overcoat and fur helmet exactly like his own.

“Good morning, sir, and welcome,” the man enthused with a loose-lipped smile that rippled all the way to his jowls. The accent was flamboyantly English. “I am Ainslie Pritchard, wine merchant of London and Montreal, presently on my way to Toronto. Let me introduce you to these fine people who shall be accompanying us to Kingston and beyond.”

As Pritchard introduced them, Marc acknowledged each with a short bow.

“This is Mr. Percy Sedgewick, gentleman farmer from the Kingston area. And Mr. Charles Lambert, a solicitor from Cobourg on his way home. And, pardon me for addressing you last, madam, this is—”

“Adelaide Brookner,” the lady said in a flat, listless voice, as if she were hoping that by stating her name she would not be obligated to say more. Marc bowed, and gave her a quick, scrutinizing glance. She was all in black—her boots, the skirt beneath the black coat, the scarf at her throat, the fur cap, and the veil attached to it. Behind the latter, Marc could just discern a face with handsome, regular features, solemn blue eyes, and a wisp or two of tawny hair.

“A precious soul has recently passed from us,” said Percy Sedgewick beside her, the black armband on his grey coat now more meaningful. “We attended the funeral yesterday.”

“Please accept my condolences,” Marc said.

Sedgewick was short and stocky, made even more so by his standing beside Adelaide Brookner, who was very tall for a woman, probably five feet seven. But the raw-boned, weathered face signalled without doubt that this was a farmer, one who worked the plough and drove his own cattle.

“Thank you,” he said to Marc while unconsciously patting Adelaide's mittened hand. “I do hope our sorrow doesn't make the trip too uncomfortable.”

“I am afraid it is I who am likely to be the dull companion,” Marc said, “because I am destined to spend a good deal of the time asleep. I am still some way from recovering my former strength.”

“No need to apologize, sir,” Pritchard said affably. “We understand, don't we, Lambert?”

Charles Lambert glanced up, took a second or so to absorb the question directed at him, then said in a guarded tone, “Yes.”

“Mr. Lambert is inordinately quiet for a solicitor,” Pritchard said with a sort of genial disapprobation, “but I expect he'll open up once we get rolling.”

Marc looked to Lambert for a response, but the dark, sallow-skinned little man had turned his eyes away as if it were simply too much bother to enter the polite chatter or dignify its importance by contributing to it.

Randolph Brookner hallooed them towards the coach. The cutter had disappeared, all the luggage was stowed and tied down, the ostler was standing beside the lead horse ready to release it, and the coach-door had been swung open.

Marc turned to Adelaide Brookner. “It was very kind of you and your brother to agree to take along a semi-invalid.”

From under the veil came a voice that was richly alto yet tinged with some private and painful ambiguity. “Randolph insisted, as he usually does. And he is my husband, not my brother,” she said and, Marc thought, added as a near-inaudible aside, “alas.” But there was no way of assessing her expression behind the black wisp covering her face. She stepped hesitantly towards the carriage as if she were, as a lady, reluctant to accept the privilege of entering first.

“I am Mrs. Brookner's brother,” Percy Sedgewick explained, watching his sister closely as she approached her husband, who was standing beside the open door as rigid and self-important as a brigadier-general taking salute. “But you are not the first to make that mistake, sir,” he added.

“Don't you think we should let Lieutenant Edwards choose a comfortable seat after madam is settled?” Ainslie Pritichard asked, like a squire pointing out the obvious to those not blessed with his pedigree.

Captain Brookner bristled, produced a tight smile, and said, “Of course.” He clutched his wife's left elbow to assist her up into the carriage. She flinched and uttered a tiny cry.

“She fell on the ice at Marion's funeral yesterday,” her brother said to Marc, who was protesting any favouritism directed his way.

Adelaide settled herself not in the right rear seat, with the large window and a forward view, but in the left front seat just inside the door, where she would be riding backwards with only the slit of the door-window next to her.

Marc was chivvied in next and, desiring as restful journey as possible, chose the right front seat where he could ride backwards, doze at will, and not be overly tempted to acknowledge the view outside. Brookner stepped in next and, to Marc's surprise, did not sit beside his wife. Instead, he folded his angular frame on the rear seat opposite Marc: the best one in the house, as it were. Their knees almost touched.

At the same time, Charles Lambert appeared to brush rudely past Sedgewick and Pritchard and squirrel himself across from Adelaide, who had tucked her skirt up and pulled the mourning veil firmly over her handsome features. That left only the two middle positions free. The very English wine merchant wriggled his bulk between Marc and Adelaide, and Sedgewick had no choice but to sit across from him. Seconds later, their driver gave a shout, cracked his whip, and the coach slipped
smoothly away on its formidable runners. Before they had left the town behind, it began to snow.

Marc was grateful that a fresh snowfall would fill in any frozen ruts on the main road to Upper Canada and Cornwall, make any viewing of the scenery floating by improbable, and provide some muted light in the otherwise shadowy interior of the coach. He leaned back against the pillowed headrest and dozed peacefully, letting the sporadic conversation of the others drift past him.

“I was sorry we were interrupted in the dining-room last night, Captain, as I was most intrigued by your account of the rebellion in your province,” Ainslie Pritchard began. “As a man wholly devoted to the other kind of accounts—the ones in ledgers, I mean—I have ever been fascinated by those who live a life of action and high risk.”

“Runnin' a hardware store in Kingston ain't exactly Cyrano de Bergerac,” interjected Sedgewick.

“You are right to correct Mr. Pritchard's misapprehension, Percy. There is some difference between myself as a mere militia officer and an officer of the British army like Lieutenant Edwards here.”

“But you have as splendid a uniform, a fine sword, and, I presume, a suitable steed to carry you into battle?”

“What happened near Kingston was hardly a battle, certainly not like those at St. Denis and St. Eustache. But there was danger, I must admit frankly. And the training we diligently carried out several times each year was, if I may be somewhat immodest, instrumental in the success of the Glengarrians.”

“You were telling us that your unit was asked to help track down rebels fleeing the fiasco in Toronto and local sympathizers guilty of harbouring those under warrant.”

“That's correct. There was no actual uprising around Kingston, which, you will see in a few days, is well fortified, nigh impregnable. But its proximity to the American border made it attractive to fugitives looking for sanctuary in that damnable republic.”

“And these ruffians were armed?”

“To the teeth.”

“How did you know whom to pursue?”

“That has not been difficult. The countryside has five loyalists for every rebel sympathizer.”

“Neighbour snitchin' on neighbour, you mean.”

“Doing their duty, dear brother-in-law.”

“So you actually got involved in the pursuit?”

“Yes. We received reliable information that the Scanlon brothers—notorious supporters of the Reform party and shills for Mackenzie and his republican gibberish—were heading home.”

“They've run a farm near mine peacefully for ten years or more.”

“Percy speaks part of the truth, Mr. Pritchard. But you have to understand that the uprising in Upper Canada was largely a farmers' revolt, not a racial and religious conflict like the one here in Quebec. It was so-called ‘peaceful' farmers like the Scanlons who took up arms against the Crown rather than work out their grievances through the lawful instrument of their Assembly and the appointed councillors.”

“Were the Scanlons in Toronto for the dust-up there?”

“They were on their way, apparently, but Mackenzie, they say, changed the date of his planned assault and they arrived too late. However, they did come in time to materially assist the mad Scotsman in escaping to the United States, where he has been threatening an invasion and encouraging cross-border forays in the southwest.”

“The blackguards!”

“Indeed, sir. Well, we Glengarrians did not hesitate when we learned of this piece of perfidy. A platoon under my command rode out to the Scanlon homestead, ordered the women and children off—”

“They come runnin' to my place, terrified. I gave them what comfort I—”

“Yes, yes, Percy, no-one's faulting your charity or blaming you for harbouring women and children, even though they themselves would flout the law, and you were technically aiding and abetting outlaws.”

Whatever retort Sedgewick may have contemplated, it was swallowed in a dismissive snort.

“And?”

“And we set the barn and coops ablaze, and scattered the livestock. We were just about to set the house alight when the three brothers roared out of the woods like banshees, firing upon us with pistol and musket.”

“My God!”

“My sergeant was wounded in the arm not a yard from me. Without delay or any thought for my own safety, I rallied my men and we returned shot for shot. The Scanlons retreated to
the bush, where they had hidden fresh horses, and took off. I concluded that they would soon circle back and look for their families at Percy's place.”

“And you surmised accurately?”

“I did. There was another exchange of gunfire not fifty yards in front of Percy's gate. This time it was the eldest Scanlon who took a bullet, in the shoulder, and the other two wisely tossed aside their weapons and threw up their hands.”

“I trust, Captain, that when this ruckus is all over, you will be rewarded with a well-deserved commendation, perhaps even a knighthood.”

“Possibly, sir. But I am satisfied that the Scanlons are in jail and almost certain to hang for their crimes.”

“Aren't you forgettin' about young Miles? He escaped last week, just before we left for my sister's funeral.”

“I haven't the slightest doubt that he is in custody even as we speak. There is simply no place for him to hide.”

“And you are not afraid that he might seek to avenge the destruction of his homestead, that he might hold you personally responsible?”

“I am not a man given to foolish fears, Mr. Pritchard. You see me here wearing my tunic in proud defiance of traitors and teenage hotheads. I shall continue to do so.”

“Bravo!”

Marc's thoughts meanwhile drifted to Owen Jenkin and to his loving yet painful description of the funeral held for Rick Hilliard, the only officer at that time to have died in the conflict, besides the assassinated Jock Weir. He recalled the sonorous solemnity of the bugle, the dreadful hollow-heartbeat
of the muffled drum, the ceremonial glory of Britain's beloved flag, and the slow march of severing and sorrow. The casket itself had not been buried, as the ground was frozen solid, but it had vanished inexorably from the far end of the parade-ground and took the brief laughing life of Rick Hilliard with it.

Pritchard was bent on conversation. “Mr. Lambert, I understand that you have just returned from the Richelieu Valley on business. Would you mind terribly giving us an account of the devastation up there?”

“Yes, I would.”

Marc opened his eyes a bit and peered across at Charles Lambert in the opposite corner. Having rebuffed Pritchard's disingenuous gambit, he had turned his face to the big window next to him and was staring vacantly out at the falling snow.

“That bad, eh?” Pritchard said. “Did your wife's family escape unscathed?”

“No-one escaped unscathed, sir,” Lambert said darkly, without turning his head.

“I believe the subject is too painful a one for Mr. Lambert.” It was Adelaide Brookner, speaking for the first time since they had left Montreal.

“Too painful for anybody,” Sedgewick said gruffly.

They travelled on in uneasy silence.

*   *   *

It was past noon. The journey along the roadway that shadowed the St. Lawrence, without being in actual sight of it, proceeded without incident. The chatter among those eager to
talk was desultory and uninformative. Adelaide said no more, nor did the morose Mr. Lambert, even when they stopped at several farmhouses doubling as way-stations to use the facilities, have a quick dram, or purchase a stale roll with bad cheese. There was a proper inn just across the provincial boundary where they planned to have a decent meal, rest for an hour, and have the horses tended to.

They were anticipating this stop when the coach halted abruptly under the driver's excited “Whoa!” Captain Brookner flung back the greatcoat he had laid over his knees, stepped over his fellow passengers, tore open the door, and leapt into the nearest drift—feet astride and one hand on the haft of his sword.

“What is it, Todd?”

“Up ahead, sir,” replied Gander Todd from his perch.

Through the haze of the snow could be seen, approaching the coach, a troop of men on horseback.

“Could be radicals lookin' fer mischief, sir. What'll we do?”