Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

Malvern looked abashed but still resolute. “I thought the lieutenant should know.”

“Know what?” Marc asked, rubbing his arms in the cold.

Brookner, who seemed immune to cold and thrived on long, dangerous walks, snorted and said to the small throng that had now gathered around him, “This ridiculous note.” And he waved a sheet of writing paper in the air with a dismissive flap.

“I found it in the coach, pinned to the seat, when I went to sweep it out,” Gander Todd said breathlessly.

“You’d better let me see it, then,” Marc said, and Brookner, not disliking the attention he had attracted, preened and feigned indifference: “Here, then.”

Marc skimmed the note, then decided to read it aloud. The message was printed in block capitals from hand-pressed wooden blocks. “Brookner: we have you in our sights. Revenge will be sweet. The Stormont Vigilantes.”

“It’s a death-threat!” Malvern sputtered. “And I warned the captain against going for his walk, I did.” He glared at Brookner. “Why, you could’ve been murdered, sir, right here on my own property.”

“Nonsense! I shall continue to take my morning constitutional, come what may.”

Percy Sedgewick stepped forward, looking hungover and miserable. “It sounds like the Scanlons to me. Young Miles is on the loose, you know.”

“Of course, I know. And for once I think you’re right. These woods aren’t brimming with rebel vigilantes: they’re all busy running for their lives. Miles Scanlon’s on his own, of that you can be sure. But we’ve got every road and ferry-crossing between here and Niagara covered. He won’t escape. And if he thinks he’s going to pot me before he jumps the border, he’ll find himself dead or on his way to a gibbet.”

A great buzzing and murmuring rolled through the crowd, along with sundry bits of advice and admonition. Finally, Marc said, “I think it best for all concerned if we change our plans and make for Prescott immediately.”

“We can’t get there today,” Sedgewick said. “But we could make Morrisburg.”

“Then that’ll have to do,” Marc said.

It was after eleven before the party of six and their anxious driver got dressed, packed, and otherwise prepared to leave the Malvern Inn. But the day remained cold and sunny, and they made reasonable progress. In fact, a determined push might well have seen them reach Prescott by early evening, but Captain Brookner, who seemed more pleased with the death-threat than frightened by it, insisted that they go no farther than Morrisburg, which could be reached at a leisurely pace by midafternoon. Thus, Marc would have the better part of this day and perhaps tomorrow morning to rest and regain his strength. He did not object.

However blasé chevalier Brookner might have appeared, the other members of the group had been spooked by the barricaded road yesterday, the continuing reports of outlaw gangs in the region, and the menacing note this morning. Little conversation of any kind took place. This served Charles Lambert well, for he seemed happy to remain disengaged, though his brooding eyes were more active in their furtive glancing. Sedgewick and Brookner, after their drunken exchange of threats late last night, seemed relieved not to have to pretend to be civil to each other. What specific behaviour of Brookner’s had angered Sedgewick, Marc could not even guess at, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with politics. Adelaide hid behind her veil. Only Ainslie Pritchard seemed truly disconcerted by the silence, but could find no neutral topic of conversation nor the tone required to keep it casual. Instead, he fidgeted with his fur helmet and cast wary glances left and right through the coach windows.

Whenever they made a “refreshment-stop” en route, Brookner would proceed to the door of the tavern or cabin and rap peremptorily on it with the haft of his sword. Only when he gave them the all clear were the others permitted to follow him in.

It was three o’clock when they approached the village of Morrisburg, without incident, and pulled up to the Wayside Hotel. Brookner addressed his companions with a solemn face: “A twice-weekly coach runs between here and Prescott, and from there you can get daily coaches that will take you to Kingston, then to Cobourg and Toronto. If any of you wish to leave this party, the local coach will arrive here in about an hour and then turn around and leave again for Prescott, getting there late this evening.”

No-one accepted Brookner’s generous offer. There was safety in numbers, it seemed.

The Wayside Hotel was a modest establishment on the edge of the village. The Battle of Crysler Farm had been fought nearby, Marc knew, and the St. Lawrence River, when not frozen, raced past not a quarter of a mile through the light bush behind the inn. The reception area was small and full of smoky heat from an eager but ill-functioning fireplace. Several cramped, adjoining chambers would serve as dining-room and lounge. There was no bar as such. A chalkboard sign announced that the Prescott stagecoach would arrive at four o’clock this day.

The proprietor bustled out of what appeared to be a kitchen, from the smells and metallic clangings, pulling a bloodied apron from his waist and letting it fall where it wished. His big black eyes were agog in his dark Welsh face. “My heavens, what have we here? Where on earth did you people come from? I heard the roads east were blocked by barricades and renegades and such.”

“We are a party of six and wish supper and rooms for the night. Can you accommodate us?” Brookner asked loftily.

The initial shock of such an unexpected sight soon began to wear off, and the little man was able to say, “Pardon me, sir, I have forgot my manners. I am Iain Jones, the owner of the inn, and you are most welcome, you gentlemen and the lady. I’ll have my wife take your coats, and my boy’ll fetch your cases and trunks. You’ll be needing a dram to drain away the chill. We’ve plenty of rooms, as you’ll be the only guests, unless the stage brings us a surprise or two.”

Within the next hour the party had been warmed with sherry and rum and shown to their modest but tidy rooms, where they chose to rest until supper at six. Marc decided he would take a nap, despite his having dozed a good deal of the way in the coach. While the threat against his life, or Brookner’s-or both-was still real, he was too fatigued to attempt any entrapment this night. As he would do after supper, he now pushed his bed so that its foot rested flush against the door. Then he lay down and began to drift into a pleasant sleep. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sleigh-coach from Prescott pulling up in front.

He was awakened by Percy Sedgewick rapping at his door and calling out his name. “Mr. Edwards! Supper is being served. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right. Tell Mr. Jones I’ll be down in a while for something cold. I’ve got to shave and change.”

“I’ll tell him. You sure you’re okay?”

Marc assured him. But he felt too groggy to shave or change his clothes, so he decided to slip downstairs and take a breath of fresh air to clear his head. As he crossed the reception area he could hear the voices of the others at supper in one of the rooms to his left. On his right was a tiny lounge with the door half ajar. He paused, then walked outside. The night was again cloudless, and the stars so bright and brittle they appeared about to shatter. He found his mind clearing wonderfully. A few minutes later he turned and went back in. Iain Jones was waiting for him.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Marc said, “I’ll just come down in an hour or so and have some cold roast and bread. I-”

But the Welsh eyes were bulging with other news. “The lady in the lounge over there, the one that come in on the stage from Prescott, she says she wants to see you,” he said, happily scandalized.