Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“The best way I can help is by talkin’ you outta this foolishness. Your aunt here is in no shape to ride, and you won’t get a mile before some howl-i-ganders on one side or the other’ll stop you.”

“We need two sturdy horses who can get us all the way to the Niagara.”

Cobb was about to remonstrate with her again when Aunt Catherine seemed to awaken out of a trance to say, “I rode like a man when I was a girl in Pennsylvania. I will do so again.”

“I’m determined to take Auntie home, and I intend to stay with her till she’s got her life settled again.”

“What about Marc?”

Beth’s face darkened. “He knows me,” she said quietly. “I’ve got a letter for him right here. I’d like you to mail it. As soon as we get to Pennsylvania, I’ll write you and Major Jenkin and give you our mailing address.”

“This still sounds crazy to me.”

“Horatio, I know I’m asking a lot from you. I know how desperate you are to stay clear of politics-”

“I’ll get the horses from Frank’s livery and have a lad bring them around the back about six o’clock.”

“Thank you. I’ll give you some money for them. We’ll leave them at the Central Hotel in Manchester.”

They discussed a few more details of Beth’s bold scheme; then Cobb allowed himself to be bussed by both women and turned, sadly, to go.

“Goddamn politics,” he muttered to an astonished shopper.

What on earth could happen next? Cobb wondered as he headed towards West Market Lane and Ogden Frank’s livery. After arranging for the horses to be brought to the shop just after dusk by a trusted stableboy and concocting a cover story no-one at the livery actually believed, Cobb hurried to the station to find his sister-in-law.

“She just left,” Gussie intoned without looking up from his copy-work. “Can’t wait fer certain people forever.”

“She say where she was goin’?”

“To catch the coach home-where she belongs.”

Cobb turned to go.

“You ain’t give me yer report for the-”

Cobb slammed the door only slightly harder than he intended to.

May Madden and the stagecoach had left a few minutes before Cobb arrived at the depot on Yonge Street. By now he was craving a drink, but not enough to drive him to any of the nearby bars. He had a jug of whiskey hidden in the chicken-coop, but Dora might still be at home, alert and probably on the warpath. Young Jimmy was her favourite nephew. But what could Cobb do to help? The lad certainly wasn’t in the city. And if Nestor’s talk of a general mustering up at Montgomery’s tavern were true, Cobb wasn’t about to poke his nose in there and get it shot off. But what if that mob, with or without Jimmy, came storming down Yonge Street tonight or tomorrow? What would he do then? What could anyone loyal to the Crown do?

At six o’clock Cobb slipped into the laneway behind King Street near Bay. Unobserved, he watched two male figures emerge from the millinery shop, peer anxiously about, toss their bulky bundles across the withers of the waiting horses, swing up into the saddle-boldly astride-and trot softly west until they vanished. Cobb cursed the goblins of all politics.

The rest of his evening was blessedly uneventful. The taverns were eerily subdued, with fewer than half their regular customers. Pub talk was carried on in low murmurs, and the very sight of Cobb’s uniform, festooned with portions of the omelette Dora had cooked him despite his confession of having missed her sister at the station, was enough to silence men for whom silence was as feared as the heebie-jeebies. Where was everybody? After a while he gave the question up, grateful for a few hours of peace after the roilings of the day. As he walked towards his front door and the lamp-lit interior of his home, it began to snow. He thought of Beth and Catherine riding without escort in such weather, in such darkness, along roads congested in all probability with other muffled-up riders galloping towards one kind of mischief or another. He thought about Marc lying in pain in the fetid gloom of some hospital, ministered to by strangers. Then Dora opened the door, filling the rectangle of light with her generous, robust, motherly presence.

They whispered together far into the evening and early morning. Then, at last, they fell separately into an unquiet sleep.

The knock that repeated itself with blunt insistence upon the front door did not wake Cobb. He had long ago become immune to such interruptions, for it was Dora who was always wanted to ease some squalling infant into the world, to survive hardy or weaken and die. Nor did he notice her roll off the bed and pad in her nightgown off to the cold rooms beyond the coziness of their cocoon. In fact, it took two jabs to the ribs to bring him awake and muttering.

“Jesus, it can’t be mornin’ already!” he growled.

“It ain’t. But there’s a fella at the door who wants to see Mister Cobb, an’ last time I checked below yer belly button, you was still he.”

“Tell him to bugger off and come back when the sun is shinin’.”

“He says he’s been sent by the governor.”

“Jesus!”

Cobb tottered into the kitchen, pulling on his trousers and feeling about for his boots. The dampened fire barely glowed in the grate. He could see his breath.

“Constable Cobb?”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!”

With his shirt misbuttoned and his jacket, helmet, and greatcoat in hand, he staggered to the door and out onto the stoop.

“You’re the governor’s stableman,” he said accusingly.

“You’re to come to Government House right away, sir.”

“What in hell’s happenin’?”

“I don’t know. They just rousted me outta bed an’ sent me here with the horses.”

Cobb soon found himself cantering through the deserted streets of Toronto at six in the morning, shivering, unfed, and fighting back a feeling of dread.

As they neared Government House on King Street west of Simcoe, Cobb could see other figures, mounted and on foot, speeding down the long lane that wound its way up to the verandah of Francis Head’s sprawling residence. No-one was speaking. Something serious was afoot. Cobb hobbled up onto the porch in the wake of a very familiar rump.

“Wilkie?” he called.

Constable Ewan Wilkie kept on going towards the double-doors that had been swung open to let those summoned enter with dispatch. In the ample foyer Cobb bumped against several bundled-up bodies. All were staring at the door of the governor’s office at the far end of the visitors’ vestibule. Under a quarter-lit chandelier stood Lieutenant-Governor Sir Francis Bond Head in his nightshirt. His hair looked as if it had been dragged through a briar bush against the grain. His normally handsome features were distorted by the glassy stare of his eyes. His jaw was moving, but to no effect that anyone present could determine. Beside him, pistol à la main, quivered his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Barclay Spooner, similarly disheveled, and blinking anxiously at the arrivals.

The latter, Cobb could see even in the shadowy light, included Wilfrid Sturges, his chief; the other three constables, Wilkie, Brown, and Rossiter; Sheriff Jarvis of York; and half a dozen of his petty officials.

It was Barclay Spooner who broke the silence. “Thank you all for coming. Sir Francis has requested that I deliver the news to you as delicately as I can.”

Sir Francis looked as if he would have a difficult time even recognizing his aide-de-camp, let alone dictating instructions to him. Beneath the silk nightwear, his limbs trembled, and it was quite apparent that his agitation had left him catatonic.

“I regret to inform you-officers of the Crown, all-that we are now in a state of apprehended insurrection.”