Don Gutteridge - Turncoat

Putting a hand on his wrist, she said, “It’s not your fault-the bush, the politics, the mess we’re in. You’ve done me a great service, so great that nothing I can do or say will ever be enough to repay you.”

Marc knew this was not so, but offered no suggestions.

“You’ve given me answers to questions that would’ve plagued me-perhaps for the whole of my life. You’ve given me back the father I loved more than any other, a man who did not wander foolishly to his death in a blizzard but died for what he was, what he stood for. And you’ve given me back a husband I can mourn and remember as I ought to.”

“I did my duty,” Marc said, “that is all.”

For the moment they both accepted the lie.

Marc shook hands with Aaron, and Beth accompanied him to the back door, where the colonel’s horse waited.

“I’ll write Erastus and James in detail as soon as I can, but I’d be obliged if you would, in the meantime, extend my sincere thanks to them for their many kindnesses.”

“They’ll want to know about Elijah.”

“Yes. You may tell them anything I’ve revealed to you.”

“Still, they’ll be disappointed not seeing you off.”

“Yes. I’ve grown quite fond of them. I have never made friends quickly, but this week has been like no other in my life.”

“Your long and interestin’ life.”

“My short and boring life.”

“Till now,” she said, smiling.

“You won’t be able to run this farm on your own,” he said softly.

“I know. But we’ll be all right just the same.”

“You could come to Toronto. Open up a shop.”

“You mustn’t talk like that. We’re only allowed one hope at a time. You must go back to your regiment. I need time to grieve, and reacquaint myself with God after our recent quarrel, and be a mother to Aaron, who’s never had one.”

“I understand,” Marc said, though he didn’t. “But I’ll come back, just the same.”

“Hush,” she said, laying a finger on his lips. “Don’t make promises you may regret having to keep. Remember, you’re still a Tory at heart and I am not.”

Before he had a chance to argue his case, she eased the door shut.

He waited for the latch to click into place before he took three reluctant steps to Colonel Margison’s second-best horse, which was already dancing with traitorous thoughts of an open road and the company of its own kind somewhere at the end of it.

Elijah Gowan was apprehended a week later, cowering and bewildered in a pantry off the summer kitchen of his cousin’s house. He was eager-proud even-to make a full confession, viewing his actions as righteous and necessary. Moreover, he readily implicated Philander Child. In fact, he had kept the note he had removed from Joshua’s body (telling Child that he had destroyed it)-the one in the magistrate’s own handwriting. Gowan’s trust in his benefactor, it seemed, had not been total: the note was his insurance against betrayal.

It was a clearly worded missive in which Child explained that he had been approached by a mysterious stranger who wished to remain anonymous and who had information concerning the death of Jesse Smallman. The informant would agree to meet only in a safe, neutral spot-the cave at the end of the old Indian trail beside the lake. It was enough to lure Joshua to his death.

Child was subsequently arrested and bound over at Kingston to the spring assizes.

Marc’s own actions and his report to Sir John Colborne, who forwarded it to Sir Francis Head, the newly arrived lieutenant-governor, had two immediate consequences for the young ensign, one happy and one not. Marc was promoted to lieutenant on Sir John’s enthusiastic recommendation, for which he was more than grateful, but that gentleman also suggested that Sir Francis put him in charge of security for Government House and make him his aide-de-camp. Both of these honours were regarded as promotions and were the cause of much envy among his fellow officers. Marc, however, saw the new posting as an insuperable obstacle to his being transferred to Quebec, where rebellion and true military action were thought to be imminent.

Ferris O’Hurley, the escaped peddler, never reached the border. He had unwisely decided to circle back to Perry’s Corners and liberate his donkey, still in the hands of its captors, and was caught trying-unsuccessfully-to persuade it to accompany him home. O’Hurley soon confessed to having “witnessed” Ninian T. Connors as he “assisted” Jesse Smallman to hang himself in his barn, following a violent quarrel over the spoils of their rum-running business. And while he admitted that he was aware of the American dollars that Marc had impounded, he maintained that all he was ever told was that it had come from the Hunters’ Lodge in New York State and that Connors was taking it to a group of Upper Canadians to aid them in their ongoing struggle against tyranny. Only Connors knew who the contact person was, and that secret died with him.

As Marc sat at his desk pondering these matters, he could not help feeling that his week in Crawford’s Corners had been somewhat more than an adventure. He had carried out a successful murder investigation. He had learned much about this odd colony and its extraordinary citizens. He had made some friends. He had met a woman to whom he would shortly send a long and, he hoped, persuasive letter.

He picked up his pen and began to write.