Don Gutteridge - The Widow's Demise

“Not that I’ve heard, but the poll has beenopen only two days.”

“You’re planin’ to take the buggy?”

“I could walk it, but the buggy is faster andsafer.”

“Do you really think the Reformers willstraighten out the banks, and help us out?” She poured John anothercup of tea.

“It’s our only hope. Our mortgage is due in aweek, and I’ve got to get an extension.”

“At least they can’t take the farm.”

“But they can take my cattle andequipment.”

“Perhaps if we could give them a littlemoney.”

“And where would we get it? I’ve got barelyenough crop for next year’s seed. Even five or six dollars wouldlikely satisfy the bank, but I’d have to sell a cow, and then howwould we replace it?”

“I’ve got some sewing to take to the marketon Saturday. It’ll fetch a couple of dollars.”

“Every bit will help. In the meantime we’vegot to pin our hopes on Robert Baldwin.”

“And he wants you to vote for thatFrenchman.”

“I don’t care if he’s a Dutchman. If Baldwinsays he’s all right, I’m willin’ to go along with him.”

“Well, then, finish your tea. I’ve packed youa lunch. It’s fifteen miles to Danby’s Crossing.”

Snow finished his tea and went outside tohitch up the horse to the single-seater buggy. His route was southto an east-west sideroad that would take him to Yonge Street justnorth of Danby’s Crossing. The sideroad was barely a bush-pathhacked out of the forest, but it hadn’t rained for two weeks andthe way was passable, if not comfortable. He flicked the reins overthe horses’ ears, and horse and buggy eased out through the farm’sgate. The sun was shining and the weather warm, a fineIndian-summer day. There was a tinge of yellow on the maples thatinched inward on either side of the road. Several different kindsof birds sang heartily. John Snow began to whistle.

Just before he reached Yonge Street, he saw agroup of men standing in a clump of trees by the side of the road..Could this be one of the Tory goon squads? He slowed his pace. Hefelt all eyes upon him and his progress. He was twenty yards awaywhen he recognized one of the men as his near neighbour.

“Hello, John,” the fellow said, hailinghim.

“Am I glad to see you,” Snow said. “I thoughtfor a moment I was heading into trouble. What are you fellas doin’out here?”

The other faces were now familiar, though hecouldn’t put a name to any of them.

“We’ve just come from the poll,” hisneighbour said. “We figured there was safety in numbers.”

“You must’ve started at the crack ofdawn.”

“That we did.”

“Did you meet any goons on the way?”

“We did see one bunch of ‘em, but weoutnumbered them and they let us pass.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Just at the corner of Yonge and the Danbycrossroad.”

“I’d better step carefully then.”

“You can always tell them you’re goin’ intothe harness-maker’s or the general store.”

“I’ll try to avoid them if I can.”

“Well, then, good luck.”

The other men repeated the wish, and JohnSnow moved on, apprehensive. In a few minutes he came within sightof Murphy’s Tavern at the intersection with Yonge Street. Hedecided it would be politic to stop there for a drink and a restbefore going on to Danby’s and the poll. Perhaps by then the goonswould have dispersed. He stepped into the taproom.

It was a dark, smoky, low-ceilinged room witha rough bar at one end and several tables and stools scatteredabout. Snow was surprised to see close to a dozen men inside, threeat the bar and the rest seated. They gave him but a desultoryglance as he walked over to the bar.

“I’ll have a flagon of ale,” he said to thebarkeeper, a florid, fleshy man with mean eyes and a superficialsmile. “Right you are. In from the farm, then, are you?”

“On my way to the store in Danby’sCrossing.”

“It could be crowded up there,” thebarkeeper, who was Murphy himself, said.

“Oh, how’s that?” Snow did his best to soundnonchalant.

“The poll’s at Danby’s, didn’t you know?”

“Politics don’t interest me much.”

Murphy smiled. “You’re a rare bird in theseparts, then.”

Snow took a great swig of ale, enough toquench his thirst, and Murphy moved away to serve another customer.Snow was just draining his flagon when he felt someone come up andsit beside him.

“On your way to the poll?” the fellowsaid.

Snow turned to look at the interloper. “Notreally. I’m headin’ fer the store at Danby’s Crossing.”

The fellow was short and wiry, with sharplychiselled features and beady, brown eyes. When he smiled he flasheda set of brilliant white teeth. He was well dressed, certainly nota farmer.

“I can smell a voter a mile away. No need tofret, though, I’m not workin’ for either of the parties. Just aninterested citizen.”

“I see, but you’re mistaken about me, I’mafraid.”

“Then I do apologize. My name’s Rutherford,D’Arcy Rutherford.”

Snow automatically put out his hand. “JohnSnow,” he said.

“I’m a salesman, not a pedlar, mind you, buta bona fide salesman. I peddle cigars and good wine to the tavernsin this part of the province.”

“A worthy occupation, I’m sure,” Snow said tobe friendly.

“I notice your cup is empty, sir. May I havethe privilege of buying you another?”

“Why, that’s kind of you. I’m in the mood feranother.”

“A flagon of ale, barkeep, for my new friendhere.”

As the two men drank their ale, Rutherfordregaled Snow with stories from his travels. Snow turned out to be agood listener. Another ale was ordered. Snow tried to pay for it,but Rutherford wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’d be surprised at the kind of dives Ifind myself in from time to time, John. Why, I remember one not toofar up Yonge Street that had one window with no glass and a hole inthe roof for the smoke to make its way into the fresh air. Therecertainly was none of that in the interior. You can imagine mysurprise when the proprietor orders a case of French wine and tenboxes of Cuban cigars. Like I always say, you can’t tell a dive byits door.”

Snow nodded his agreement. He was beginningto feel decidedly mellow, but the poll would be open all day. Hewas in no hurry. And another ale had appeared suddenly beforehim.

“I say a pox on both parties,” Rutherford wassaying now. Snow couldn’t remember when or how the subject hadturned to politics. “What have the Tories ever done for us, eh?Except to lead us straight to revolution and economic stagnation.Then along come the Reformers, preaching a new gospel. But whatgood did they do, the first time they were in power? They gave usfire-breathing radicals like Willie Mackenzie. And what are they upto in the new Parliament? Makin’ pacts with the Devil, that’s what.Gettin’ in bed with French rebels who should be in jail not theLegislature. And what is the final result? The greatest rebel ofthem all, Louis LaFontaine, is put up as our candidate by noneother than Robert Baldwin himself. Who can you trust, eh? No-one.And I’m sure glad you’re not going to Danby’s to vote. You’ve madethe right decision.”

“But – but I thought I’d vote sometime,” Snowmanaged to say in a slurred fashion.

“What’s the point? Any right-thinking citizenwould protest by not casting his vote. I took you for a perceptiveman. Another ale?”

Another ale appeared, as if in a haze. Snow’shead felt too heavy for his body. He wanted to lay it on the bar.And sleep . . .

It was sometime later when he woke up. Thebarkeeper’s face swam before him.

“I think you’ve had one too many, youngman.”

Snow looked around. The bar was empty exceptfor one person seated alone at a table.