Don Gutteridge - Dubious Allegiance

“I need to know two things, sir, if you’d oblige me.”

“Anything for an officer of the Queen, sir.”

“Is the St. Lawrence frozen over?”

“Yessir, in a few places, but you got to know exactly where or you’ll be thirty feet under before you can blink twice.”

“Is there a ferryman to take strangers across in the winter?”

“Yessir. Mr. Clark Cooper. He’s got a dandy little skiff with a sail and iron runners. Quicker’n a fart, as old Coop says.”

“The young woman, Mrs. Hatch, is trying to get to New York State to find some missing relatives. But I’ve explained how dangerous coach-travel might be anywhere east of here.”

Jones nodded sagely.

“I’d like to arrange passage for her across the river. Tonight.”

Jones was not as taken aback as Marc had expected. “It’s possible, sir. Coop lives beside the river a quarter mile behind here through a marked trail in the bush. He’s always there. Though you gotta watch him: he may try and charge you double if you interrupt his supper!”

“I’ll seek him out, then,” Marc said.

“But there’s nothing on the other side. Just a hamlet without a hotel. She and the babe could be standing alone in the cold in the middle of the night.”

Marc sighed. He hadn’t thought of that. Nor the possibility that American troops, recently mobilized by President Van Buren, might be patrolling the border on the lookout for Hunters’ Lodge fanatics threatening invasion, or for fugitive Canadians likely to further embarrass the U.S. government.

“No, sir,” Jones was saying, “Waddington, New York, is one sleepy little burg.”

Marc was grinning from ear to ear when he returned to Winnifred. She searched his face for clues and at last ventured a smile of her own. “What’s happened?”

“Everything,” Marc said. He had worked out a scheme in the minute or so he had stood watching Jones rejoin his guests in the dining-room. “Listen carefully. I’m going to go upstairs and write a letter of introduction for you and Thomas to a family who live on a farm near Waddington just across the river from here. I saved their brother’s life at St. Denis, so they will help you in any way they can. Just go into the first house you see and ask for directions. My letter will do the rest.”

“But can we get across?”

“Yes. But we’ll have to use the regular ferryman, who has a sort of ice-sled with a sail.”

Winnifred gulped but said nothing.

“I realize he’ll probably have a sketch of Thomas and others, but we’re going to send Thomas in disguise.”

“With a beard?”

“Much better. With a bonnet and a dress. He’ll be your sister.”

Marc went upstairs while Winnifred waited below with the baby. It was too risky to try to inform Thomas just yet. Marc wrote a compelling note to the Yates family of Waddington, to brothers Eugene and Stephen, and the latter’s wife, Callie. Then he got his uniform out of his trunk and put it on-boots, shako cap, sabre, and all. He figured that Thomas in disguise, plus the sanctioning of the procedure by a uniformed officer, should be enough to deceive or intimidate someone as wily as Clark Cooper. At the very bottom of the trunk holding his gentleman’s finery he found the last item he needed: a periwig. He tucked it under his jacket, pulled on his green greatcoat, and headed for the stairs.

“Well, Lieutenant, it is wonderful to see you at last in your full splendour.”

It was Brookner, leading his troupe out of the dining-room.

“Thank you, sir. I thought I should give it a bit of an airing before Toronto.”

“You’re going out?”

“Just for a short walk.”

“Splendid. Enjoy yourself. You deserve to.”

Marc watched the others trail after him up the stairs, Adelaide bringing up the rear and whispering something urgent at her brother, who was more than a little tipsy. When they disappeared, Marc went into the lounge.

“Have you got a suitable dress?” he asked Winnifred, who had baby Mary tucked back into her embrace. “And a winter hat with a veil on it?”

“Yes. But he hasn’t shaved for seven days.”

“I hope he has a razor, then. He’ll love this.” Marc held up the grey barrister’s wig.

Winnifred giggled. “And you’re back in uniform!”

Marc explained why. “Can that window be opened?” he asked.

“Of course. I served the sandwiches through it.”

“We’re going out that way, then. Jones is busy cleaning up after supper. He’ll assume you’ve gone to your room. I’ve told the others I’m out for a walk.”

As Marc gently handed the still-sleeping baby through the window to Winnifred, her eyes lit up, as of old. “Are we really doing this?” she asked excitedly.

There was no time to fill Thomas in on the details of Marc’s plan. But the man’s absolute trust in his wife’s judgement was both sad and wondrous to behold. In the darkened barn, he shook Marc’s hand over and over, unable to stop shuffling and moving his arms about: he seemed a man on the brink. His craggy features and sturdy yeoman’s body were ready to crumple. Still, he scrabbled through his kit for his razor, and Marc helped him use it as best he could with cold water and a dull edge. Thomas made no complaint when they stripped him to his long johns and began pulling a taffeta dress over his head. Its skirt was long enough to cover his work-boots. Winnifred had brought only one overcoat, so they draped “Thomasina” with shawls and scarves, and crowned the effort with the wig and a winter cap that covered most of it and held it in place. A fur muff would camouflage the unmistakably male hands.

“Now remember, you’re Thomasina. You’ve got a cold and lost your voice. So just nod and shake your head to any questions. Winn and I will do the talking. You’re the Hatch sisters, all right? And the baby belongs to Winnifred.”

Winnifred had turned away to muffle her giggle when Thomas took a ploughman’s mighty step, caught his toe in the hem of the skirt, and pitched into the hay.

“We’ll try a little practice first,” Marc suggested.

Fifteen minutes later they came out of the woods and spotted, in the bright moonlight, Clark Cooper’s log cabin. There was a candle in the window, but before Marc could reach the door, it opened and the ferryman emerged to greet them.

“Evenin’, folks. You lookin’ fer a sail across the ice?” He had a leprechaun’s body, the head of a wrestler, and a voice like a mallard’s on a windy day. His eyes flicked across the officer, the woman with the baby, and the creature behind her.

“Yes, we are. This is Winnifred and Thomasina Hatch, acquaintances of mine from Cobourg. They wish to go to Waddington tonight en route to Montreal because the roads east of here have become too dangerous for two women to travel unescorted. I met them by chance at the hotel-I’m on my way back to my regiment in Toronto-and offered to see them safely across to New York.”

“You comin’, too, are ye?”

“No, but I’ll stand here and watch till you’re on your way. I doubt you’ll fail to reach the other side if Mr. Jones’s account of your work is true.”

“I ain’t drownded nobody yet.”

“How much?”

“A pound apiece.”

“But that’s-”

“And a shillin’ fer the littl’un.”

He peered warily at Mary. “That babe won’t cry, will it?” he asked Winnifred.

“Not if you give us a ride worth a pound,” she replied.

He chuckled throatily. “Yer elderly sister looks a bit frail to be tryin’ such a trip on a night like this. How old are ya, anyway, old gal?”

Thomasina uttered a hollow rasping sound they had rehearsed.

“She’s got laryngitis and hasn’t been able to say a word for two days,” Winnifred explained. “And she’s not yet forty.”