Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Spooner paused to let the collective gasp rise and ebb.

“Seven hundred armed rebels have gathered around the outlaw Mackenzie at Montgomery’s tavern two miles up Yonge Street. Several thousands more are said to be on their way to join them. They have set up pickets along the road to stop any innocent citizen from entering the city and giving the alarm. About midnight Colonel Robert Moodie, a militiaman and one of the finest gentlemen in this province, tried to evade the pickets and run the blockade. He was shot dead by the rabble.”

Shocked murmurs at this, and several angry outbursts.

“Two hours ago, I am happy to say, Alderman Powell was making his way north along Yonge to visit his ailing sister in the township when he was illegally detained by the same thugs. But he made an heroic escape, killing one of the ringleaders in the process, one Anthony Anderson. It was John Powell who arrived here less than forty minutes ago to raise the alarm. The rebels’ feeble attempt at surprise has been thwarted!”

If Spooner expected the assembled officials to break into a cheer at this news, he was quickly disappointed. To a man they were more concerned with the mustering of thousands of armed insurgents, who were, no doubt, already marching southwards with murderous intent. And the first line of defence for the besieged capital now stood here in the governor’s anteroom: groggy, dazed, horrified.

“The governor and I, you will be pleased to learn, have not been idle in the face of imminent danger. While you were being fetched from your slumbers, we have been busy developing a stratagem for delay, until we can get word through to the nearest militia in Hamilton.”

Among the mutterings consequent on this stirring revelation-not all of them patriotic-Cobb had his own particular thoughts. Had Catherine and Beth reached Hamilton? Would they find themselves in the midst of a military confrontation? Would any general alarm now raised not put them in danger of being stopped and challenged? And if so, what plausible excuses could they concoct for riding in disguise at night towards the United States, where sympathy and support for the rebels was widespread?

The governor had finally found his voice, and briefly explained that he was organizing a party of loyalists to ride north with the intention of parleying with Mackenzie. An offer of amnesty would be made if the rebels would agree to disband and return peacefully to their homes. Working out the details ought to buy the city’s defenders-all twenty of them-some valuable time. In the interim, each man in the room would be assigned an area of the grounds of Government House and its park, where they would act as sentries and, if required, lay down their lives for the Queen’s representative. Loaded pistols would be handed out to each loyal watchman.

Sir Francis then wheeled and marched smartly back into his office, unaware that he was still in his frothy, bedtime attire.

* * *

As the sun rose on the morning of Tuesday, December 5, Horatio Cobb found himself squatting on the stump of an elm tree somewhere in the park of Government House. In actuality, it was six acres of unreclaimed bush, a city block of it that stretched out behind the gardens and farm buildings of the house proper. In spots, much of the scrub had been cleared so that Sir Francis and his Tory chums could enjoy a sleigh-ride when the snows really arrived. At the moment there was just enough of it to cover the desiccated fall grasses and mantle the limbs and boughs of the trees. And there Cobb sat, pistol cocked, as the sun climbed above the horizon and shone belligerently in a blue sky, while offering little warmth to anyone trusting enough to admire it. It was a cold day, near zero, and Cobb stamped around the stump like a Mississauga shaman around his campfire, then lay down the pistol and smacked his leather mitts together.

Despite the cold and discomfort, Cobb discovered that he was sweating. He wasn’t overly worried about assassins sneaking up through the park from Market Street on the south; in fact, by noon Cobb would have gladly given them a map to the governor’s sitting-room. What made him nervous was the fact that no armed force or authority stood between him and the rebel mob on Yonge Street. Surely, they would take advantage of the defenceless city and this cold, clear day to march down the frozen road into the heart of the capital, wheel to the west along King (looting the fashionable shops as they advanced?), and storm the seat of government. Time and again he caught himself listening for sounds from the distant north-the crackling of musket-fire or the boom of a field gun-knowing how foolish this was because the insurgents would have no need to deploy their weapons. There was no-one left worth shooting at!

It was well after noon when one of the Government House servants, armed only with a half loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a partly consumed bottle of wine, came noisily up behind and hailed him.

“I’m Colson, sir. I’ve brought you some luncheon.”

Cobb thanked him, had trouble removing his mitts, but managed to bite off a bit of cheese and flush it down with a swig of bitter wine. Colson turned to go.

“Any news?” Cobb asked.

Colson, his English as buttery as any royal butler, stopped and said, “I was thinking of asking you the same question, sir.”

“Have they sent a dele-whatever up to parley with Mackenzie yet?”

“They’ve just left, sir. About six of them, I think. On fast horses.”

“Jesus, what’ve they been doin’ all mornin’? The rebels’ll be here by now.”

“A scout just returned as I was coming out here, sir. The insurgents have indeed begun to march on the city, but have stopped at Gallow’s Hill for some reason not known to us.”

“Who’ve they sent to parley with them?”

“That was the problem, sir. It took several hours of debate among the governor’s privy councillors to sort that out. The two men finally chosen to do the bargaining were Mr. Robert Baldwin and Dr. John Rolph.”

“Reformers!” Cobb dropped his bread.

“My sentiments entirely, sir.”

And with that editorial remark, Colson departed.

Cobb decided he would simply stop thinking and do his duty as a policeman and as a citizen. There was no fathoming the ways and means of politicians, so it was fruitless to try. But once having practised the business of pondering, he discovered that it was no easy task to keep the mind free of such incursions. Fortunately, the snap of twigs off to his right provided a helpful diversion.

With all of his senses alert for the first time today, Cobb hopped off the stump and trotted soundlessly towards the noise. Someone was running hastily through the park-but away from the house, not towards it. Could it be an assassin who had already carried out his contemptible deed? Cobb’s heart began to pound. Suddenly, he burst out into a clearing and stopped in puzzlement. Where was the bugger? He looked towards the house and saw that he had come out just behind the modest farm-grounds in back of the residence, where there were several small barns, pens, and coops. A loud crashing noise at the south end of the clearing brought him upright and sent him scampering in that direction. The culprit had fallen. And from the high-pitched cursing, it appeared he had injured himself. Cobb closed in for the capture, charging out of a clump of spruce to surprise the felon.

What he saw was a wiry-looking fellow stumbling back into cover about fifteen yards away. Under his right arm, in screeching protest, wriggled a suckling pig.

“Stop!” Cobb hollered. “You’re under arrest!”

Which command, though ringing with authority and threat, had contrary effects on the hog-thief and his prize. The man seemed to take wing, and the piglet, terrified, shut up. Cobb glanced down at what he took to be his trusty truncheon in his right hand, was surprised to note that it was a loaded pistol, and, squeezing his eyes closed, fired it into the air.