Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Dr. Wilder laid down strict criteria for Marc’s travel arrangements: he was to move no more than forty miles per day, the going rate for this time of year, after which he was to remain for at least a night and half a day at the staging inn to rest, eat, and take moderate exercise before moving on. However, because many of the regular stagecoach schedules had been abandoned for the present, it was not likely that such intermittent arrangements for Marc could be smoothly executed. Nonetheless, he optimistically estimated that the four- or five-day trip could be accomplished in less than two weeks, which would bring him into Toronto by the end of the month. Happily, Beth’s most recent letter suggested that she, too, would arrive there at about the same time.

Major Jenkin began looking about for a coach-sleigh leaving Montreal for Cornwall, one that would be both secure and comfortable for his young friend. Two days after the doctor had pronounced Marc fit to travel, Major Jenkin arrived with good news. He had taken a place in a coach that had been chartered by several worthies and was going as far as Kingston, from which spot Marc could easily arrange public or private transportation to Toronto. There would be five fellow passengers in a luxurious, roofed carriage fitted out with runners, with a reliable driver and four of the best horses money could lease. There would be overnight stops at Cornwall and Prescott. Moreover, for a suitable fee, the passengers had gladly agreed to extended stopovers to accommodate the “hero of St. Denis.” Marc winced at this characterization of his rescue of a single soldier from the battlefield, but he did not interrupt Jenkin, who went on to explain that the head of this party was a captain in the Glengarry militia. The fellow carried a weapon and was capable of providing additional security, should it become necessary.

“He’s travelling home to Kingston from his sister-in-law’s funeral here this week with two other members of his family,” the major informed Marc. “The fourth fellow is a wealthy wine merchant on his way to Toronto, as English and Tory as one might wish. The fifth chap is a notary or solicitor, I’m told, en route to Cobourg, your sometime stamping ground.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Marc said. He was seated on the edge of his bed, not yet dressed.

“I do: be well, and get yourself married.”

“And what are these?” Marc asked lightly, pointing to a bundle of clothing piled on top of a large trunk that dwarfed Marc’s own modest box. “Extra layers of wool in case of blizzard?”

The major almost blushed. “I want you to forget about your uniform and put on these things I’ve laid out for you. There are several other ensembles and gentleman’s accessories inside. I bought the works from a tall but impecunious barrister yesterday morning and had Davey haul them in here last night.”

“Go in disguise, you mean?” Marc was laughing as he held up a finely tailored suitcoat and worsted trousers.

“I’m serious. You are defenceless-unless you agree to carry a loaded pistol everywhere you go. You are still very weak, and with your game leg, you couldn’t outrun a duck. I hate to be so blunt, but-”

“It’s all right, Owen. If you insist on this, I’ll go along with it. But remember that you’ve already told my fellow passengers they’re accompanying the ‘hero of St. Denis,’ so my identity won’t be secret for long. And where on earth did that ridiculous appellation come from?”

“It’s not the passengers or the innkeepers I’m worried about. But we’ve heard tales of sleighs and wagons being stopped randomly and searched for fleeing rebels and, on the other side, of exasperated rebels taking random shots at anybody in uniform, particularly officers like you, who have been made instant heroes by the English populace.”

Marc was still eyeing the haberdashery. “I’ll look like the wine merchant’s partner,” he chuckled, holding up the ruffled blouse and chequered vest. “And why this monstrous dull greatcoat? My own is perfectly fine.”

“Yes, with the gold and green trim of the 24th Regiment, recognized everywhere in the province. Besides, Davey’s already packed it with your uniform.”

“My God, where did you come by this?”

“That, sir, is all the rage in Montreal and New York.” He plunked the fur helmet on Marc’s head and pulled down the flaps.

“Did you liberate this from some Cossack?” Marc grinned like a lunatic and flapped the fur wings of the hat.

“It’ll keep your ears warm and aid your disguise.”

“I agree: no officer in the Queen’s army would be caught dead in this.”

“And I want you caught alive: by your long-suffering bride.”

Marc said good-bye to Owen Jenkin and Davey MacKay at the barracks, where a cutter had been hired to take him over to the Royal Arms hotel to rendezvous with the stagecoach.

“I’ll be joining you soon, I trust,” the major said. “In the meantime, I’ll pass this news along to Beth and forward any of her letters to you in Toronto. I may even give them to the military courier who rides daily between here and Kingston. Privileges of a quartermaster, eh?”

“Thank you for everything, Owen. I’ll write you as soon as I get home.”

Davey now stepped respectfully forward, his open, freckled face grave: “May the Lord bless you, sir.”

“He’s more likely to bless you ,” Marc said in farewell.

In front of the Royal Arms on a cold but still winter’s morning, Marc spotted a splendid coach sitting on a pair of formidable runners and in the reliable grasp of four, shiny-coated dray-horses. The driver, a craggy-faced fellow of indeterminate years, was arranging several bags, portmanteaux, and small trunks on top of the carriage. Watching him with proprietorial interest from the boardwalk in front of the hotel were four well-turned-out gentlemen and a lady. All eyes swung towards the sound of Marc’s cutter pulling up behind the coach. One of the figures detached itself from the group and sprang forward to help Marc out of his seat. Marc took the gloved hand and raised himself onto the snow-packed street.

“Thank you, sir. My name is Marc Edwards.”

“Oh, we know, Lieutenant. We know all about you! I’m Captain Randolph Brookner of the Glengarry militia.” Of that there could be little doubt, for despite the subfreezing temperature the good captain had disdained either greatcoat or hat-the former draped over one arm and the latter, a fur helmet, tucked under the other-in order not to deprive the onlookers or his travelling companions of the resplendency of his tunic and trimmings: a livid green broadcloth with mustard piping and vermilion epaulettes. An officer’s sword was ostentatiously buckled on and glittering, and a pistol sat perky in its studded holster. His boots gleamed, begging to be admired.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m quite able to walk unaided.” Marc smiled as he politely removed the captain’s hand from his elbow. “But don’t ask me to sprint to the corner!”

“Then the word of your miraculous recovery has not been exaggerated. What an honour it is to meet an officer who fought at St. Denis and to be able to assist you on your way back to your glorious regiment.”

Marc limped resolutely towards the other passengers. It was at this moment that Captain Brookner noticed that Marc was not in uniform: even his boots were low-cut and quite ordinary, and the fur hat demeaning his manly brow was exactly like the one seen on a hundred pedestrian heads in town-and on two of his companions.

“But you are not in uniform, sir!” he declared to Marc’s back.

Marc paused. “It’s in my luggage. There’ll be plenty of time to put it on when I reach my regiment, as you say.”