Don Gutteridge - Unholy Alliance

“It’s all right! I’m coming to help!” heshouted in French.

Several minutes later, panting and sweating,Marc thrashed his way past a bushy cedar-tree and spotted thesource of the cry for help. Maurice Tremblay lay on his back in ahuge drift. One leg — still snowshoed — was sticking up in the airand being shaken about as if it were trying to get a purchase onthe air itself. The other was, apparently, twisted underneath himat an unnatural angle. He’s tipped over and sprained or broken hisleft ankle, was Marc’s thought as he pushed his way the final fewyards to the stricken man.

“Don’t try to speak,” Marc said firmly. “I’mhere to help. I’ve got a sleigh nearby on the driveway. If you canstand it, I’m going to lift you onto my back and carry youthere.”

Tremblay, his face white and contorted,nodded, then grimaced horribly and sighed against the pain tearingup through his injured leg.

Marc quickly removed the raquette from thesound right foot, then got behind Tremblay and very gently liftedhim upright. But as the bent leg and twisted ankle straightened outwith the rest of his body, Tremblay screamed in agony, and theshock of his scream almost sent Marc toppling. Realizing that itwould be too painful to try and remove the other snowshoe, Marcsimply eased himself around Tremblay’s body, squatted down, andheaved him up onto his shoulders, pick-a-back.

As he staggered forward with his burden, Marccould feel the man’s trembling and his hot, wheezing, pain-drivenbreath on the back of his neck. The extra weight caused Marc tosink even deeper in the drifts as he made his way back towards thecutter. At times he sank up to his hips, and had to use onemittened hand to paw a path through the snow ahead while balancingTremblay and steadying him with the other one. Soon Marc’sbreathing became heavy and tortured. His chest tightened and burnedas he gasped at the icy air. He lost count of the number of timeshe had to pause and rest, while Tremblay continued to whimperpitifully. Perhaps he should have driven back to the house andgotten a sled or toboggan, and expert assistance, Marc thought. ButTremblay’s suffering had been acute and the cutter had seemed sonear.

Finally, Marc staggered onto the firmer snowof the driveway, almost tipped over, righted himself and, using thelast reserves of his strength, eased Tremblay across the cutter’sleather seat. He set the injured leg down tenderly and beganunlacing the raquette. Tremblay’s cries had now become a single,heart-wrenching moan.

Marc took the reins and stood up behind theseat to guide the horse. He was forced to take the cutter out ontothe Kingston Road in order to get it turned around, after which hewas able, at last, to transport Maurice Tremblay back to themanor-house and whatever comforts it might offer.

“It’s not broken,” Macaulay informed Marc, who wassitting in the kitchen being pampered by Hetty and Tillie Janes.“It’s a severe sprain, which is often a damn sight more painfulthan a clean break.”

“He’s settled in his room, then?” Marc said,waving off another cup of tea from Tillie.

“Mrs. Blodgett’s been her usual wonderfulself. She poured brandy down his throat, probed for breaks, foundnone, packed the ankle in ice, and made him put it up on a highstool. When the swelling goes down, she’ll wrap it tightly or applya splint. Meantime, she’s given him a dose of laudanum.” He smiledand added, “From her private supply.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Marc said. “It’shard to think what else could go wrong, eh?”

“By the way, Marc, Tremblay wishes to speakwith you — now, before the sedative takes effect.”

“I’ll go right up,” Marc said, putting downhis teacup and giving the sisters a grateful smile.

Upstairs, Marc found Tremblay sitting in achair with his leg propped up on a pillowed stool. He was lookingsomewhat dazed, and barely able to open his eyes wide enough totake in his visitor. He gave Marc as broad a smile as he couldmuster.

“I’m pleased to hear that your injury was notas serious as we thought it might be,” Marc said. “You’ll be ingood hands here, at any rate.”

“I wanted to thank you personally,” Tremblaysaid, looking straight at Marc as he spoke. “What you did out therewas courageous and very — very generous. ”

“I did what anyone would do in thecircumstances,” Marc said, meaning it.

“After the way I have treated you and yourcolleagues, and abused our host’s hospitality, I could not haveblamed you for driving on and leaving me to my own devices. Whowould have known if you had? I wish to apologize with allsincerity, and hope you will convey my apologies to Mr. Macaulayand the others.”

“I will make certain of it.”

“I have been in turmoil all week,” Tremblaysaid, fighting hard against the onset of the sleep his body wasdemanding. “I have had to admit to myself the logic of many of thearguments put forth on both sides of our discussions, but have beenunable to put aside the kind of hate and outrage that has built upin me since the failure of the rebellion. This surprised me, andmade me even more difficult to get along with.”

“I do understand.”

“I wish you every success in yourinvestigation.”

“Thank you. Now I’ll leave you to rest.”

Tremblay had already closed his eyes.

In the hall, Marc joined Macaulay, and asthey descended the stairs, Marc said, “I think we may have done ourcause some good in that quarter.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Marc. Now it’s timefor you to do some good for yourself. Go home to Beth and Maggie — this minute!”

***

Cobb estimated that there were fewer than two hoursof daylight remaining as he left the village of Port Hope. He hadbeen on the road for almost twelve hours, and had made five or sixstops along the way. At three of them he had been given reliableinformation that confirmed the east-to-west progress of thered-headed impostor in Weller’s stagecoach on the Thursdayafternoon of the week past. Exhausted as he was, and disappointedthat the spot where the ambush and exchange of identities occurredseemed to be farther east than he had hoped, Cobb was determined toreach Cobourg before he gave up for the day. He debated urging Beninto a brisk canter, but the horse had been wonderful throughoutthe arduous journey, requiring only brief respites and twofeedbags, and not once complaining — as long as he was permitted toset his own steady pace.

So, Cobb just closed his eyes and dozed asthe cutter skidded and bumped along the province’s principalthoroughfare. He awoke with a start when the motion of the sleighceased abruptly, and was surprised to find himself parked in frontof a commercial building on the main street of Cobourg. Hepersuaded Ben to go one block farther to the hitching-post besidethe verandah of The Cobourg Hotel. In the foyer he was warmlygreeted by the proprietor, who introduced himself as Seth Martin.It was clear from his effusive manner that he had interpreted thefine cast of Alfred Harkness’s overcoat, calfskin gloves and tooledleather boots as indications of affluence — despite contrary signsin the gentleman’s rough-hewn, weather-beaten face.

“Will you be staying the night, Mr. Cobb?” heenthused. “We serve a supper here that’s the talk of thecounty.”

“I’m sure it is,” Cobb said generously.“Whether I stay or not depends on the information you may have forme.”

“You’d like a rundown on the beauty spots ofour region?”

Cobb went straight to the point. He waslooking for his missing cousin, a young Englishman, lost somewhereen route from New York to Toronto a week ago. “Your hotel is wherethe Weller’s passengers from Kingston stop overnight before makin’a run fer Toronto, ain’t it?”