Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Somewhere just a mile or two west of the inn they were seeking, the coach stopped again.

“What is it this time?” Brookner demanded, content to open his window and shout up at Gander Todd.

“Trees, sir. Across the road.”

This time Marc followed Brookner out to have a look. Ten yards ahead and seemingly blocking the entire right-of-way lay a tangle of felled trees, festooned with fresh snow that was still sifting pleasantly down.

“We was warned about such tricks.” Gander sighed from his perch.

“Let’s take a closer look,” Marc suggested, happy to exercise both his sound leg and his gimpy one.

“Let me, Lieutenant.”

Brookner and Marc tramped up to the barricade. Marc gloved some of the snow away. “It’s just brush and branches. No trunks. We can clear a path through it in a few minutes.”

“True, Lieutenant, but this could be a trap or an ambush. I’ll have Todd get at these branches, but in the meantime, I intend to scout the woods on either side, just in case.”

“You take that side then, Captain, and I’ll take this.”

“But you’re unarmed.”

“I’ll roar loudly.” And before Brookner could object Marc made his way into the spruce thickets a few yards from the roadside. As he did so, he heard the coach door open as the others, to Brookner’s voiced disgust, decided to stretch their legs (or find a private tree behind which to perform a private function). Marc was certain that if an ambush had been arranged, it would have manifested itself by now. He urinated behind a thick elm-trunk. Gander Todd and farmer Sedgewick were now busy pulling back the impeding brush. Brookner had disappeared into the woods opposite, and the other two men were edging cautiously into the spruce bush behind him. Adelaide remained in the carriage.

Marc smiled and continued to exercise his legs and practise striding through knee-deep but fluffy snow. Ahead of him he heard the gurgle of creek-water and was delighted to come upon a pretty tributary, a section of which was spring-fed enough to be still flowing. Somewhere a half-mile or so away it would join the mighty St. Lawrence. Feeling just a little tired, Marc sat down and watched the bubbling blue-black water race on unperturbed by war and its casual inhumanities.

Fearing the others might be concerned for his safety, Marc got up stiffly and turned back towards the road. Just a touch dizzy, he half fell against a convenient tree-trunk. As he did so, he was aware of two almost-simultaneous sounds: the distinctive snap of a pistol-shot and the splintery thunk of a lead ball striking the trunk just above the tip of his fur hat.

I’ve been shot at! was his only thought as he dropped to his knees and rolled over as deeply as possible into the camouflaging snow.

The first thing Marc tried to do was stem the surge of adrenaline pummelling his body and stunting his breath. He had to think. And quickly. What he had heard was definitely a pistol-shot, which meant that the accuracy of any second shot would not be great. It also meant that the shooter had not been very far away, perhaps no more than ten or fifteen yards. If there were just one would-be assassin, it would take thirty seconds for his weapon to be reloaded, provided he did not have more than one pistol primed and ready. The light snow was still falling, further obscuring vision and aim. Soundlessly, Marc slid behind the bole of the tree beside him and sat up warily.

At first he heard nothing: no voices behind him in the direction of the road and the coach-where was everybody? — and no rasp of the assassin’s breathing as he closed in for the kill. With a sinking feeling, Marc realized that he was helpless against further attack. He could barely walk, let alone run and dodge. He had no strength even if he could somehow surprise the assailant and try to wrest the pistol away from him. He thought briefly of simply calling out for help, but decided against this because such a cry would instantly alert the gunman as to his whereabouts, and the deed could well be over before anyone at the coach could locate him.

When nothing occurred for the next half minute, Marc had to assume that the attacker thought his victim had escaped the first attempt and that Marc was probably armed and ready to retaliate. He could not know that Marc’s pistol lay packed in the trunk with his uniform and all that gentleman’s finery that Owen Jenkin had purchased to provide a disguise. Marc’s best hope seemed to be that the assailant, more cautious now that his ambush had been bungled, would be creeping from tree to tree, hoping to pick up footprints or other signs of his prey. The snow was falling more heavily, making disorientation even more likely. Marc began to breathe easier.

Could the assassin be someone from the coach? It did not seem probable. Captain Brookner had displayed his pistol for all to admire, but any of the others, including Adelaide, could have had one secreted under their winter coat. But they would have to have a reason to try to kill him. Brookner protested adoration of him ( sans uniform), some of which could be genuine. But why would any of them-none of whom he knew nor had even met until this morning-want to do so? Lambert had been up to St. Denis and witnessed the carnage there, but he was a lawyer, an English-speaking Upper Canadian, and most likely a Tory sympathizer. Pritchard was a recent arrival and Tory to his toes. Adelaide and her brother were both deep in mourning for their sister.

This thought was interrupted by the sound of sudden footfalls, no more than twenty yards away, between Marc and the river. He braced himself for what was to come. But the footfalls, faint, muffled thumping of boots or raquettes on snow, were receding towards the St. Lawrence. Soon they vanished. He was safe. The assailants-there seemed to be more than one-were in all probability the gang who had barricaded the roadway and, surprised by Marc’s unexpected presence, had taken a pot-shot at him, and decided to beat a hasty retreat while they could. Or perhaps that loyalist posse combing these woods had prompted them merely to hit and run.

Grateful for his good fortune, whatever the cause, he struggled to his feet, then grabbed a branch to steady himself. He was amazingly and maddeningly weak, without stamina. The cauterized wound in his thigh began to throb. Slowly and carefully he picked his way back towards the road. The fact that he seemed to have been a random target-a grey-coated, fur-capped gentleman in the wrong place at the wrong time-steadied him as he stepped through a screen of trees and spied the coach. There was no need, he thought now, to tell the others of his misadventure: it would only alarm them unduly and perhaps provoke Brookner to some rash, needless action.

The brush barricade had been moved far enough aside to allow passage of the coach through it. Gander Todd was quietly feeding the horses some bran from a feedbag. He grinned a gap-toothed grin at Marc, giving no sign that he had heard the recent commotion. Marc came up to the coach. Adelaide was seated in her place inside.

“Where are the others?” Marc asked.

She had raised the veil to reveal a face that was handsome more than it was beautiful, and a pair of blue eyes that shone with intelligence but also wariness.

“The men are off doing their business,” she said, and again Marc, whose experience with colonial women over the past two years had sharpened his sensitivity to nuances in their gender he had never before imagined, detected a deliberate ambiguity of tone.

“They seem to have been rather long about it.”

“Gentlemen set their watches by their own time.”

Marc smiled to acknowledge the quip, and would have further engaged Adelaide in conversation had not the sound of voices from the far side of the road interrupted. Marc noted carefully that each man emerged from the woods alone, having sought the privacy of his own tree. Brookner stopped to talk to the driver, but Pritchard and Sedgewick ambled up to the coach.