Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“You were telling us that your unit was asked to help track down rebels fleeing the fiasco in Toronto and local sympathizers guilty of harbouring those under warrant.”

“That’s correct. There was no actual uprising around Kingston, which, you will see in a few days, is well fortified, nigh impregnable. But its proximity to the American border made it attractive to fugitives looking for sanctuary in that damnable republic.”

“And these ruffians were armed?”

“To the teeth.”

“How did you know whom to pursue?”

“That has not been difficult. The countryside has five loyalists for every rebel sympathizer.”

“Neighbour snitchin’ on neighbour, you mean.”

“Doing their duty, dear brother-in-law.”

“So you actually got involved in the pursuit?”

“Yes. We received reliable information that the Scanlon brothers-notorious supporters of the Reform party and shills for Mackenzie and his republican gibberish-were heading home.”

“They’ve run a farm near mine peacefully for ten years or more.”

“Percy speaks part of the truth, Mr. Pritchard. But you have to understand that the uprising in Upper Canada was largely a farmers’ revolt, not a racial and religious conflict like the one here in Quebec. It was so-called ‘peaceful’ farmers like the Scanlons who took up arms against the Crown rather than work out their grievances through the lawful instrument of their Assembly and the appointed councillors.”

“Were the Scanlons in Toronto for the dust-up there?”

“They were on their way, apparently, but Mackenzie, they say, changed the date of his planned assault and they arrived too late. However, they did come in time to materially assist the mad Scotsman in escaping to the United States, where he has been threatening an invasion and encouraging cross-border forays in the southwest.”

“The blackguards!”

“Indeed, sir. Well, we Glengarrians did not hesitate when we learned of this piece of perfidy. A platoon under my command rode out to the Scanlon homestead, ordered the women and children off-”

“They come runnin’ to my place, terrified. I gave them what comfort I-”

“Yes, yes, Percy, no-one’s faulting your charity or blaming you for harbouring women and children, even though they themselves would flout the law, and you were technically aiding and abetting outlaws.”

Whatever retort Sedgewick may have contemplated, it was swallowed in a dismissive snort.

“And?”

“And we set the barn and coops ablaze, and scattered the livestock. We were just about to set the house alight when the three brothers roared out of the woods like banshees, firing upon us with pistol and musket.”

“My God!”

“My sergeant was wounded in the arm not a yard from me. Without delay or any thought for my own safety, I rallied my men and we returned shot for shot. The Scanlons retreated to the bush, where they had hidden fresh horses, and took off. I concluded that they would soon circle back and look for their families at Percy’s place.”

“And you surmised accurately?”

“I did. There was another exchange of gunfire not fifty yards in front of Percy’s gate. This time it was the eldest Scanlon who took a bullet, in the shoulder, and the other two wisely tossed aside their weapons and threw up their hands.”

“I trust, Captain, that when this ruckus is all over, you will be rewarded with a well-deserved commendation, perhaps even a knighthood.”

“Possibly, sir. But I am satisfied that the Scanlons are in jail and almost certain to hang for their crimes.”

“Aren’t you forgettin’ about young Miles? He escaped last week, just before we left for my sister’s funeral.”

“I haven’t the slightest doubt that he is in custody even as we speak. There is simply no place for him to hide.”

“And you are not afraid that he might seek to avenge the destruction of his homestead, that he might hold you personally responsible?”

“I am not a man given to foolish fears, Mr. Pritchard. You see me here wearing my tunic in proud defiance of traitors and teenage hotheads. I shall continue to do so.”

“Bravo!”

Marc’s thoughts meanwhile drifted to Owen Jenkin and to his loving yet painful description of the funeral held for Rick Hilliard, the only officer at that time to have died in the conflict, besides the assassinated Jock Weir. He recalled the sonorous solemnity of the bugle, the dreadful hollow-heartbeat of the muffled drum, the ceremonial glory of Britain’s beloved flag, and the slow march of severing and sorrow. The casket itself had not been buried, as the ground was frozen solid, but it had vanished inexorably from the far end of the parade-ground and took the brief laughing life of Rick Hilliard with it.

Pritchard was bent on conversation. “Mr. Lambert, I understand that you have just returned from the Richelieu Valley on business. Would you mind terribly giving us an account of the devastation up there?”

“Yes, I would.”

Marc opened his eyes a bit and peered across at Charles Lambert in the opposite corner. Having rebuffed Pritchard’s disingenuous gambit, he had turned his face to the big window next to him and was staring vacantly out at the falling snow.

“That bad, eh?” Pritchard said. “Did your wife’s family escape unscathed?”

“No-one escaped unscathed, sir,” Lambert said darkly, without turning his head.

“I believe the subject is too painful a one for Mr. Lambert.” It was Adelaide Brookner, speaking for the first time since they had left Montreal.

“Too painful for anybody,” Sedgewick said gruffly.

They travelled on in uneasy silence.

It was past noon. The journey along the roadway that shadowed the St. Lawrence, without being in actual sight of it, proceeded without incident. The chatter among those eager to talk was desultory and uninformative. Adelaide said no more, nor did the morose Mr. Lambert, even when they stopped at several farmhouses doubling as way-stations to use the facilities, have a quick dram, or purchase a stale roll with bad cheese. There was a proper inn just across the provincial boundary where they planned to have a decent meal, rest for an hour, and have the horses tended to.

They were anticipating this stop when the coach halted abruptly under the driver’s excited “Whoa!” Captain Brookner flung back the greatcoat he had laid over his knees, stepped over his fellow passengers, tore open the door, and leapt into the nearest drift-feet astride and one hand on the haft of his sword.

“What is it, Todd?”

“Up ahead, sir,” replied Gander Todd from his perch.

Through the haze of the snow could be seen, approaching the coach, a troop of men on horseback.

“Could be radicals lookin’ fer mischief, sir. What’ll we do?”

“Leave them to me,” Brookner said. “Everybody stay put inside.”

“My God! We’re about to be murdered by. . by riffraff!” Pritchard’s cry was high-pitched, squeezed between umbrage and terror.

One of the horsemen detached himself from the group and trotted slowly up to Brookner.

“Good afternoon, Captain. We’re on the lookout for rebels fleeing Quebec. Can you vouch for all aboard?”

“I can, sir. And I wish you luck.”

“Thank you. Be very careful. This is a dangerous route these days. The stagecoach from Prescott to Kingston was robbed yesterday, and one gentleman assaulted for no reason other than that he was a gentleman.”

“We’re forewarned and well armed,” Brookner said.

“Good. I’d keep that pistol primed, Captain. Good day to you.”

Gander Todd urged his team onward, but with a little less enthusiasm than he had earlier in the day. There was a nervous tension inside the coach. Even Ainslie Pritchard lapsed into uncharacteristic silence.