Dubious Allegiance (20 page)

The room was lit by a single lamp in one corner and heated by an iron stove whose fire had recently gone out. On a padded bench sat a woman, too tall and erect for Beth. Nestled in her arms was a baby.

“My God,” Marc cried, falling back against the chair opposite the bench. “Winnifred!”

*   *   *

“How in the world did you get here? And with baby Mary? Where's Thomas?”

Although she looked haggard and careworn, the tough intelligence that had seen her through a difficult year since her marriage to Thomas Goodall still shone through, and intimidated. “I can't answer a dozen questions at once, and I have a few of my own for you. But if you'll sit back and not interrupt, I'll try to tell you what's happened to us since October. Thomas is fine, as fine as he can be under the circumstances. And he's right here. In the barn, hiding out.”

“But he'll freeze!”

Winnifred reached down to the bench and picked up a thick roast-beef sandwich. “He's already had two of these—through the window over there—and there's more here if we get hungry.”

“You're not going to sleep in a barn with—”

“Of course not. I've paid for a room, and supper.”

“I'm baffled.”

“What else is new?”

They shared a brief laugh, but Marc's pale appearance and thinness and Winnifred's desperate circumstances made it bittersweet.

“You first, then,” Winnifred said, rocking the baby as she tried to come awake. “We heard you'd been wounded, but nothing more.”

As succinctly as he could, and with one ear alert for noises from across the foyer, Marc gave her an expurgated account of the battles, Rick's death, and his own injuries. He told her about Beth's promise to be back in Toronto by the end of the month.

Winnifred then explained that she and Thomas were desperately trying to find their way across the border. They had come from Prescott, arriving at this inn a few hours earlier. She was as surprised as he when she'd spotted him from the window of her room while he took in the outside air.

“We've all got troubles.” Winnifred sighed. “And to think that a year ago we were all happy and looking forward to living our lives peacefully and in the Christian spirit we were raised to revere.”

“These wars have been ruinous,” Marc said.

“And they're not over yet. Tell me what's happened to you both.”

Winnifred laid Mary in her bunting bag on the bench. “As you know, after his disastrous flirtation with the rebels in October, Thomas withdrew his active support and put all his energies into saving Beth's farm and looking after Aaron and us. But we lived in constant fear that Thomas would be betrayed to the magistrates for what he did—even though it failed. We even feared the radicals might think Thomas was a spy for the
Tories and burn us out. Terrible, inhuman things were happening, even before the actual revolt. But for a while matters were quiet, and we were beginning to hope that the troubles would die down. But in the second week of December came the awful news: Mackenzie and his band of farmers had attacked Toronto.”

“Hardly an attack, I've been told. But it cast the die as sure as a cannonade on Government House.”

“Yes. Before the week was out, rebels were running in all directions, and Mackenzie had scuttled away to the States, leaving hundreds to face the vigilante justice of high Tories and Orangemen.”

Marc smiled.

“I know, I've been on both sides of the fence, and I haven't liked what I saw on either. But it was Thomas I was worried about.” Her eyes misted, and Marc was aware of how much effort she was putting into maintaining her composure before him.

“Poor Thomas: honest and believing as a child. He only wanted to be a farmer. But that was not to be allowed. You can't ever know how my heart sank into my stomach when advance word came to us that there was a warrant out for Thomas, accusing him of sedition. We had only an hour to get away. We packed two suitcases and hustled Aaron and Charlene Huggan over to Father's place. Father was furious. I'd never seen him so angry. He cursed Mackenzie and all the magistrates and Francis Head. He offered to come with us, he offered to take baby Mary, but we calmed him down and told him we had worked out a plan.”

“That sounds very much like Winnifred Hatch.”

“The United States has opened the Iowa Territory to homesteading and settlement. If we can make it to New York State, to Buffalo and then to Pittsburgh, we'll head west and start a new life.”

“You have enough money to do this?”

“Yes. Father gave us more than we need. Our problem's not money. It's getting across the border, and that's defeated us so far.”

“You're a long way from Cobourg and Crawford's Corners.”

“We've been on the road about a week. On the run, really. There are wanted posters with a sketch of Thomas's head on them all along the Kingston Road. Every ferryman and loyal fisherman with a boat has seen it. We've nearly been caught twice. Thomas is growing a beard, but it's not thick enough yet to disguise him. Luckily for us, the vigilantes and militia are only looking for Thomas, not a man with a wife and child.”

“So you've just run eastward, hoping to find a way across the St. Lawrence?”

“The Niagara route was too risky. We travelled nonstop for four days and nearly froze to death. Then two things happened. We found a safe house near Trenton, and the couple there gave us information about a group of sympathizers in Quebec who would, if we could make it to Lachine, guide us across the ice to New York State. I suggested to Thomas that we split up.”

“But I thought—”

“—and when he objected I suggested this: that Mary and I travel by coach or rented sleigh, as mother Hatch and her daughter on their way to Montreal to join relatives there. I
would travel only one town east each day or so. Thomas would walk on the back trails or near the main road and mainly at night and meet me at the coach inn. He would sleep in the stables while I supplied him with food.”

“Brilliant,” Marc marveled, “as long as Thomas is careful.”

“It's worked so far. I arrived at four o'clock, and Thomas has been here since noon. He's holed up in an abandoned hay-shed behind the main stable, warm and well fed. Tomorrow I've arranged to ride with a local farmer to Cornwall.”

Suddenly, her face fell, her hand trembling as she reached out to stroke the baby's head.

“You're worried about Cornwall?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “We've got to get around it. But we've heard that the militia have set up pickets everywhere to catch the French rebels coming this way and our rebels heading their way.”

“It's true,” Marc agreed reluctantly. “We saw them in action on our way here. Everything east of Cornwall is a minefield.”

Winnifred was silent, rocking gently back and forth as if her baby were still in her arms.

“Then you'll just have to cross the river here,” Marc said. “The river's still flowing here?”

“I don't think so. But I'm sure it will have enough ice on it to hold you three.”

“We can't just go wandering across the St. Lawrence hoping to land somewhere friendly on the far side, even if we don't drown first.”

“I'll check with the proprietor and find out if it's a feasible plan.” Before Winnifred could object, Marc went out into
the foyer. He could hear Jones's wife in the kitchen scolding the scullery maid, who was lashing back in what sounded like French. He went to the door of the dining-room, eased it open, caught Jones's eye, and motioned for him to come out.

“I need to know two things, sir, if you'd oblige me.”

“Anything for an officer of the Queen, sir.”

“Is the St. Lawrence frozen over?”

“Yessir, in a few places, but you got to know exactly where or you'll be thirty feet under before you can blink twice.”

“Is there a ferryman to take strangers across in the winter?”

“Yessir. Mr. Clark Cooper. He's got a dandy little skiff with a sail and iron runners. Quicker'n a fart, as old Coop says.”

“The young woman, Mrs. Hatch, is trying to get to New York State to find some missing relatives. But I've explained how dangerous coach-travel might be anywhere east of here.”

Jones nodded sagely.

“I'd like to arrange passage for her across the river. Tonight.”

Jones was not as taken aback as Marc had expected. “It's possible, sir. Coop lives beside the river a quarter mile behind here through a marked trail in the bush. He's always there. Though you gotta watch him: he may try and charge you double if you interrupt his supper!”

“I'll seek him out, then,” Marc said.

“But there's nothing on the other side. Just a hamlet without a hotel. She and the babe could be standing alone in the cold in the middle of the night.”

Marc sighed. He hadn't thought of that. Nor the possibility that American troops, recently mobilized by President Van Buren, might be patrolling the border on the lookout for
Hunters' Lodge fanatics threatening invasion, or for fugitive Canadians likely to further embarrass the U.S. government.

“No, sir,” Jones was saying, “Waddington, New York, is one sleepy little burg.”

*   *   *

Marc was grinning from ear to ear when he returned to Winnifred. She searched his face for clues and at last ventured a smile of her own. “What's happened?”

“Everything,” Marc said. He had worked out a scheme in the minute or so he had stood watching Jones rejoin his guests in the dining-room. “Listen carefully. I'm going to go upstairs and write a letter of introduction for you and Thomas to a family who live on a farm near Waddington just across the river from here. I saved their brother's life at St. Denis, so they will help you in any way they can. Just go into the first house you see and ask for directions. My letter will do the rest.”

“But can we get across?”

“Yes. But we'll have to use the regular ferryman, who has a sort of ice-sled with a sail.”

Winnifred gulped but said nothing.

“I realize he'll probably have a sketch of Thomas and others, but we're going to send Thomas in disguise.”

“With a beard?”

“Much better. With a bonnet and a dress. He'll be your sister.”

Marc went upstairs while Winnifred waited below with the baby. It was too risky to try to inform Thomas just yet. Marc wrote a compelling note to the Yates family of Waddington,
to brothers Eugene and Stephen, and the latter's wife, Callie. Then he got his uniform out of his trunk and put it on—boots, shako cap, sabre, and all. He figured that Thomas in disguise, plus the sanctioning of the procedure by a uniformed officer, should be enough to deceive or intimidate someone as wily as Clark Cooper. At the very bottom of the trunk holding his gentleman's finery he found the last item he needed: a periwig. He tucked it under his jacket, pulled on his green greatcoat, and headed for the stairs.

“Well, Lieutenant, it is wonderful to see you at last in your full splendour.”

It was Brookner, leading his troupe out of the dining-room.

“Thank you, sir. I thought I should give it a bit of an airing before Toronto.”

“You're going out?”

“Just for a short walk.”

“Splendid. Enjoy yourself. You deserve to.”

Marc watched the others trail after him up the stairs, Adelaide bringing up the rear and whispering something urgent at her brother, who was more than a little tipsy. When they disappeared, Marc went into the lounge.

“Have you got a suitable dress?” he asked Winnifred, who had baby Mary tucked back into her embrace. “And a winter hat with a veil on it?”

“Yes. But he hasn't shaved for seven days.”

“I hope he has a razor, then. He'll love this.” Marc held up the grey barrister's wig.

Winnifred giggled. “And you're back in uniform!”

Marc explained why. “Can that window be opened?” he asked.

“Of course. I served the sandwiches through it.”

“We're going out that way, then. Jones is busy cleaning up after supper. He'll assume you've gone to your room. I've told the others I'm out for a walk.”

As Marc gently handed the still-sleeping baby through the window to Winnifred, her eyes lit up, as of old. “Are we really doing this?” she asked excitedly.

There was no time to fill Thomas in on the details of Marc's plan. But the man's absolute trust in his wife's judgement was both sad and wondrous to behold. In the darkened barn, he shook Marc's hand over and over, unable to stop shuffling and moving his arms about: he seemed a man on the brink. His craggy features and sturdy yeoman's body were ready to crumple. Still, he scrabbled through his kit for his razor, and Marc helped him use it as best he could with cold water and a dull edge. Thomas made no complaint when they stripped him to his long johns and began pulling a taffeta dress over his head. Its skirt was long enough to cover his work-boots. Winnifred had brought only one overcoat, so they draped “Thomasina” with shawls and scarves, and crowned the effort with the wig and a winter cap that covered most of it and held it in place. A fur muff would camouflage the unmistakably male hands.

“Now remember, you're Thomasina. You've got a cold and lost your voice. So just nod and shake your head to any questions. Winn and I will do the talking. You're the Hatch sisters, all right? And the baby belongs to Winnifred.”

Winnifred had turned away to muffle her giggle when
Thomas took a ploughman's mighty step, caught his toe in the hem of the skirt, and pitched into the hay.

“We'll try a little practice first,” Marc suggested.

Fifteen minutes later they came out of the woods and spotted, in the bright moonlight, Clark Cooper's log cabin. There was a candle in the window, but before Marc could reach the door, it opened and the ferryman emerged to greet them.