Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“We’d better keep this news from the rank and file,” Marc said. “We can’t be sure that those habitants weren’t spies or scouts for the rebels.”

“Quite right, sir. Although three hundred soldiers marching on a farm road at ten in the evening in a snowstorm is bound to occasion some notice,” Rick responded.

As Marc’s outriders entered the main street of St. Ours, a sudden peal of church bells rang out from the cathedral tower just ahead in the town square. It was no summons to the faithful, but a clanging cacophony of warning-or threat. When it paused for a minute, in the far distance to the south and east, several more such tocsins echoed ominously across the sombre countryside.

“Jesus,” Hilliard said, “the whole damn province knows we’re coming.”

“Let’s hope Colonel Gore has a backup plan,” Marc said. “I’d better go and tell him what we’ve seen and what these bells mean. Have Sergeant Ogletree form up the troop here to wait for the main body of the column to move up.”

When Hilliard looked skeptical, Marc said quickly, “Remember, Rick, we are in enemy territory.”

Thirty minutes later, near midnight, the full brigade was ready to enter the village. The colonel had allowed the men to pause long enough to scrape the worst of the gumbo off their boots and weapons, and to reassemble into their double column. One of the draught horses died in its frozen harness and had to be extricated and dumped on the roadside. A drummer and two fifers were commanded to strike up their most flamboyant martial air, and the entire column then marched in glorious, daunting formation down the main thoroughfare of St. Ours. The mounted officers and cavalry pranced warily along both flanks. Colonel Gore, a small moustachioed gentleman more adept at whist than war, rode impassively before the gun carriage and its awesome intimidation.

No sniper opened fire from rooftop or belfry. No curtain shifted surreptitiously at its casement. The shrill bells had stopped abruptly. The only sounds were the tramp of boots in unison, the jangling of harness and scabbard, the padded thump of weary horses, and the strident disharmonies of the fife and drum. And while the silence of the town itself was welcomed, it was also eerie, unreadable, and just a little unnerving. So it was with some relief that the column moved out of the village and into the countryside again, to the relative safety of the quagmire.

“I don’t suppose it matters all that much whether we surprise Nelson and Papineau at St. Denis,” Hilliard said a few minutes later when wet snow and frozen fingers had put an end to the musical escort and the column had begun to unravel once more in the dark. “After all, General Colborne’s orders are to move on St. Denis from the north while Lieutenant-Colonel Wetherall attacks from the south.”

“In a pincer movement, you mean,” Marc said dryly, behind a smile that his good friend could not see.

“Don’t you find it exciting that in our first campaign we are going to execute one of the classic battle strategies, going all the way back to Caesar, Alexander, Hannibal-”

“Maybe we should have commandeered a few elephants.”

Immune to Marc’s ripostes, Hilliard carried on boldly. “And if it’s true that Papineau, Nelson, O’Callaghan, and the other rebel leaders are all in St. Denis, then this tin-pot revolt will be put down by this time tomorrow night. If we don’t get them, Wetherall will nab them from the south. Their only hope is the American border, and the Yankees are welcome to them!”

“I trust you’re not putting Gore and Wetherall, fine gentlemen though they be, on the same rostrum as Caesar and Wellington.”

“Well, no. But as unregimented as this rabble up ahead may be, they nonetheless threaten the stability and very future of British North America. The outcome of tomorrow’s battle will surely be as significant as Wolfe’s vanquishing of Montcalm.”

The cry of a beleaguered cavalryman immured in the mud to their left recalled Hilliard to his duty, and he vanished into the swirling snow. That the coming clash of forces was not Waterloo was evident to everyone who had resided in Quebec for more than a month. Despite the rumours and frenetic news reports, no arms or cash had poured in from the republic to the south. Marc knew that Louis-Joseph Papineau, like William Lyon Mackenzie in Upper Canada, was principally a politician, a talker, a negotiator, and a high-stakes gambler. While his followers armed themselves with ageing muskets and pistols, and drilled in pastures in the dead of night, they were, though numerous, not a cohesive army. No man of military stature and experience had stepped forward to take command. So even if the hundreds or thousands who had gathered around the Liberty Pole at Nelson’s distillery chose to fight, there would be no classic battle between uniformed, disciplined armies serving under their national flag. What, then, would there be? Shooting, mutual determination, and death. And with Colonel Gore’s superior force already exhausted, hungry, and dispirited, who but God knew the outcome. Perhaps Lieutenant-Colonel Wetherall had arrived from Chambly in the south and settled the issue. Certainly, their own colonel’s judgement was already suspect.

Everything had begun smartly and according to protocol. The three hundred men and their support units had been mustered with enthusiasm and precision on the wharf at Montreal. The band had stirred the modest crowd of well-wishers to cheers as Colonel Gore led his troops up the gangplank and aboard the Hochelaga, bound for Sorel at the mouth of the Richelieu River. Major Owen Jenkin, who had become Marc’s friend and surrogate father in the past year, shook Marc’s hand and wished him luck before returning to Montreal. Neither of them had been willing to speak of the indefinite postponement of the wedding of Marc and Beth Smallman that had been made necessary by the transfer of Marc’s regiment to Quebec. But it was never far from their thoughts.

Then, as the afternoon of November 22 waned, the steamer moved steadily downstream to the occasional shout of encouragement (or otherwise) from the shoreline. By six o’clock, with the sun setting behind foreboding clouds, Sorel was reached. By seven, in a darkness unrelieved by streetlamps-the town could no longer afford such a luxury-fife and drum conducted the colourful brigade to the barracks. Here it was expected they would have their evening meal and rest until daybreak. Horses would be conscripted, extra wagons appropriated, scouts sent out to reconnoiter the riverside terrain, and couriers whisked ahead to Chambly to help co-ordinate the “pincer movement” envisioned by General Colborne, the supreme commander in British North America and an officer who had fought at Waterloo.

But eager to make his mark on something other than a requisition form, Colonel Gore had decided on his own merit to choose the age-old tactic of surprise over the more reliable deployment of scouts and dispatch riders. Thus, instead of filing into a warm barracks and a cold supper, the five companies and cavalry troop were commanded, without ado or explanation, to wheel back onto the main street and make for the road to St. Denis. The fog had already begun to turn traitorously into rain and, as the night-cold pressed down upon them, to intermittent snow. Any initial excitement on the part of the soldiers was quickly dampened by the hostile weather. Half a mile out of town, the sprightly music of fife and drum unraveled and died altogether when lips froze to mouthpiece. Then the standard-bearer had tripped on a rut, pitched cap-first into the muck, and watched in helpless horror as the Union Jack sank out of sight in a puddle.

“How are the men faring?” Marc asked his sergeant.