Don Gutteridge - Desperate Acts

“Surely we are right to see Cassius as a kindof Willie Mackenzie, organizing the overthrow of the legitimategovernment for his own selfish ends,” Dutton said with somepassion, “and in the process deceiving both ordinary, naïvecitizens and his own associates, like Bidwell and Rolph – and poor,pathetic Matthews and Lount, whom we hanged for their sins.”

“And who, then, would our Brutus be?”Fullarton said, giving Brodie a gentle nudge, “Robert Baldwin?”

This drew a laugh that puzzled Shuttleworthbut was well understood by the assembled Tory gentlemen.

Brodie, no Tory, knew that the others aroundthe table saw Robert as a reluctant rebel who had not exercised hisconscience so much as his sense of self-preservation in not joiningMackenzie’s revolt. He felt it was time to make his maidencontribution to the discussion. “Are there, then, no circumstancesin which an oppressed people can legitimately seek to relieve theirgrievances by some kind of insurrection?” he said.

Those around the table turned as one to thenineteen-year-old upstart – more expectant than hostile. How wouldthe Yankee youngster and prospective banker answer his ownquestion, given his upbringing in the breakaway republic to thesouth?

“You are alluding to the soi-disant revolutionary war, I presume?” Sir Peregrine said, lifting bothchins and staring down the table with a watery, blue-eyed gaze.

“If the grievances of the American settlershad been addressed, perhaps Queen Victoria would still have herThirteen Colonies,” Brodie said.

“I take great exception to that remark,”Cyrus Crenshaw said. “My father, God rest his soul, died a hero’sdeath on the bloody battlefield of Moraviantown in a gloriouseffort to halt the advance of General Harrison’s Yankeefreebooters, who burned and pillaged as they drove into the heartof our land.”

The direct relevance of this outburst to thedebate was not readily discernible, but its passionate deliveryoverwhelmed any logical inconsistencies. It was not, of course, thefirst time that Crenshaw had insinuated his father’s martyrdom intothe club’s deliberations. It was a subject upon which thecandle-maker and legislative councillor was fixated.

“But we survived that war, didn’t we?”Fullarton said, his banker’s instinct for propriety and equanimitytaking hold. “And we have welcomed into our midst thousands of menand women from the Republic and made them loyal subjects of theQueen. And Willie Mackenzie was a disaffected Scot, not a rabiddemocrat from the United States.”

“I trust, Cyrus, that you and the LegislativeCouncil will fight against the pernicious tide of Durham fever?”Dutton said, unconscious of both his non-sequitur and the mixedmetaphor.

Crenshaw smiled his gratitude for thequestion and the opportunity it bestowed. “There will be no unionbetween our province and the French traitors of Quebec as long as Iam a member of the Council and have a voice to speak for the livingand the dead.” And it was clear that the dead included oneparticular hero of the War of 1812.

A chorus of “here-here’s” greeted this boldproclamation.

“And it should be noted also,” retiredattorney Dutton added when the hubbub had subsided, “that UpperCanada is very much a place where a humble farmer’s son can risethough the social ranks and make his mark.” He looked benignly atCyrus Crenshaw, inviting assent but drawing from that self-madecandle-maker only a grudging quarter-smile.

Brodie was happy to see the elderly lawyerenjoying himself, for he had heard from Horace Fullarton the sadstory of the fellow’s life. His first wife, Felicity, the love ofhis life, had died tragically three years after their wedding.Dutton had been almost forty by then, having married late.Felicity, it seemed, was a fragile and anxious young woman who hadsuffered two miscarriages. A decision was taken for the couple tosail to her home in Scotland, where it was hoped the bracing airand the comfort of relatives would restore her health. But during astopover in Montreal, Felicity caught a fever and died. Duttonburied her there and came back home to Toronto. Five years later hemarried his housekeeper, and then watched in anguish as shesuccumbed to puerperal fever. Their son was stillborn.

The discussion continued for another twentyminutes without once veering close to the originating topic. Almosteveryone had his say and a portion of his neighbour’s as well -except for Sir Peregrine, who wished he had brought his gavel withhim.

It wasn’t exactly a gavel, but the arrival ofGillian Budge and Etta Hogg laden with trays of food and drink hadthe same effect as one. All serious talk ceased, and the members ofthe club moved quickly back across the room to the “lounge” area,where the women were laying the trolleys there with dozens ofpastries and bottles of white wine. From a large hamper, Ettaremoved a decanter of brandy and a box of cigars. The gentlemensettled in without ceremony, and suffered themselves to be servedby the fairer sex. Several pairs of eyes lingered upon the pleasingcurves of the elder of that gender, but were averted speedilywhenever Gillian swung her own gaze in their direction. Mrs. Budge,not yet forty, was still a handsome woman – an ageing butconscientious sprite. However, she brooked no funny business, ofword, deed or glance. That she owned The Sailor’s Arms lock, stockand barrel (having inherited it from a wise father who had entailedit to discourage gold-digging suitors) was a fact she was eager tobroadcast, and those who crossed her soon found themselves outsidelooking in.

Etta was another matter. Her supple figure,not yet in full bloom, and her fair-haired allure drew many alecherous glance. Moreover, such appreciative attention was usuallygreeted with a coquettish swish of pink tresses and a shy smile,but only when her employer was looking the other way. This evening,however, Etta appeared pale and distracted, the consequence, Brodieknew, of her run-in with the blackguard in the taproom and theviolent reaction of Tobias Budge.

When the women had finished and departed, themen helped themselves to the various pastries, washed them downwith chilled wine, and then moved on to the cigars and brandy,feeling no doubt the supreme satisfaction of having theirworthiness recognized and indulged. Just as the comfortable buzz ofconversation was winding down and several members were thinkingabout trying to rise out of their chairs with some dignity, SirPeregrine surprised everyone by calling for their immediate andsolemn attention.

“Gentlemen,” he began, after giving the stubof his cigar a lubricious lick, “as you know, our theme for nextWednesday is ‘What does Shakespeare tell us about love in hisincomparable comedy, A Midsummer Night’s Dream ?’ We shall ofcourse devote the main segment of our meeting to a full discussionof that question, and I urge you to reread the play and chooseappropriate illustrative excerpts. Thereafter, however, I shouldlike to devote some quarter-hours to a dramatic reading ofpre-selected passages – en rôle. ”

This final phrase was delivered with adaintily trilled French “r” and a delicious shiver of the baronet’sjowls.

“You mean in role as in acting ?” saidchemist Michaels.

“In the sense that I am calling for dramaticprojection – of voice and gesture – yes. What I am proposing isthat such a session, where we try out our voices and talents invarious parts from the play, be a prelude to a fully stagedversion.”

Seven cigars ceased moving, as if their fieryends had been summarily and simultaneously snuffed.

“You’re not talking about putting on aShakespeare play?” Dr. Pogue said, aghast. “On a stage ?”

Sir Peregrine smiled in a way that was bothpatronizing and indulgent. “I am, good sirs.”