Dubious Allegiance Page 5

  “Is it night, or is this Hell?”

  “Both,” Marc said. “You’ve been asleep for hours. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, I’ve got a splint on my best leg, which is throbbing like a dozen toothaches, and I got bruises on my bruises. But I’m alive.”

  “And if the sawbones has set your break well, you’ll live to ride another horse.”

  “But he won’t be Prince.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “It was my brother’s horse. I promised to keep him out of harm’s way.”

  “There’s no such place in a war. Which is what we’ve started, I’m afraid.”

  “Did we beat them?”

  “They beat the piss out of us. We’re on the run.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “You don’t sound too disappointed.”

  “I didn’t think when I joined up that we’d be shootin’ up a bunch of farmers with pitchforks and old geezers with rickety muskets.”

  Marc said nothing to that, but thought much. “I’m only halfway through my pipe; why don’t you finish it for me.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for what you—”

  “You’d better take a drink before you start.” Marc put his canteen to the lad’s lips, and after a tentative sip he gulped down several mouthfuls.

  “My name’s Eugene Yates.”

  “Lieutenant Marc Edwards.”

  For the next minute or so Marc walked silently beside the wagon while Corporal Yates drew in lungful after lungful of smoke from Marc’s clay pipe.

  “I’m a bit of a farmer myself,” he said to Marc, resting his head back on an improvised pillow and returning the pipe. “I grew up in Montreal, where my father is a merchant. But my older brother Stephen married a girl from New York State and moved to her family’s farm just outside the village of Waddington. A pretty little farm that runs right down to the St. Lawrence. When Callie’s dad died, she and Stephen took over the place, and they asked me to come down and join them when I turned eighteen.”

  “That was some time ago.”

  “Almost two years.”

  “And you took to farming?”

  “I took to horses, mainly. So when I heard about the troubles up here in Quebec, I talked my father into outfittin’ me for the cavalry unit that assembled in Montreal.”

  “Stephen supplied the horse?”

  There was a pause, and Marc thought that the corporal must have drifted into unconsciousness again. But then he said, as if to himself, “How am I gonna tell him Prince died in a battle we lost?”

  “I’m sure he would be a lot unhappier if you had died in a battle we’d won.”

  “I’ll have some story to tell, though, won’t I?”

  “You will. And you’re also out of the fighting, which we’ve only begun. You’ve done your duty. And don’t forget to tell Stephen that your unit’s bold gambit saved a number of lives.”

  “Can I quote you?”

  “Word for word. Now I think you should rest. We’ve still got two or three hours to go before Sorel.”

  “All right. But I want you to know that my brother is goin’ to hear the whole story. And if you’re ever anywhere near Waddington, just ask for the Yates place. We’ll roll out the welcome mat.”

  “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

  “We’ll share a pipe, eh?”

  Marc smiled. It was the last thing Corporal Yates saw before he fell into a deep, seemingly painless sleep.

  * * *

  Marc found himself dozing with both hands gripping the pummel of the saddle and his body, bruised and benumbed, rocking softly to the sway and pitch of his horse, who kept in lock-step with the ambulance-wagon beside him. The column was less than an hour from Sorel. Its constituents—soldiers, officers, cavalry, horses—were moving like zombies across a spectral landscape, as alien as the far side of the moon.

  “Your friend’s awake.”

  Marc gripped the pommel more tightly, irritated that anyone, officer or soldier, should be so thoughtless as to speak aloud.

  “Lieutenant . . . I think your friend’s awake.”

  Marc opened both eyes. The darkness, laced with snow, assailed them. How he longed to close them for good.

  “It’s me, Eugene. I heard your friend call out somebody’s name.”

  Marc slid from his horse. Pain shot up both legs, and he stumbled, then stamped about trying to get some feeling back into his feet. Finally, he was able to keep pace with the wagon as it lurched over the frozen ruts of the road.

  “Is he gonna be all right?”

  Marc reached out and touched Eugene Yates on the back of the hand. Then he turned his attention to Rick Hilliard a few feet away in the wagon. Tenderly, he lifted the greatcoat away from Rick’s face, exposing it to the night-air.

  “Are you in pain, Rick?”

  Rick’s eyes opened. It was too dark for Marc to see the expression in them or any signs of the story they might need to tell. With great care Marc reached down under the greatcoat and felt about for the wadding over the wound: it was dry.

  “You’re going to make it, old friend. We’re almost home.”

  Rick blinked, acknowledging the voice. His lips, dry and cracked, were beginning to move. His breathing was audible, laboured but much stronger.

  “I’ll get you some water.” Marc fumbled for his canteen, found it, and dribbled a few drops of icy water over Rick’s lips. They slid down his chin, and Marc wiped it gently with the sleeve of his jacket.

  Suddenly, the wagon bounced and careened. Marc watched Rick’s face anxiously, but no groan issued from the parched lips. He was not in pain. The bleeding had been stopped and had not started again, despite the ceaseless jouncing of the wagon. Marc began to hope.

  Once more Rick’s lips moved, and this time Marc could hear breath whistling through them, elongated sighs or half-formed, weightless words.

  He leaned over the side of the wagon as far as he dared.

  “Papa?”

  “It’s Marc. I’m right here beside you. We’re almost home.”

  “Take my hand, Papa.”

  From under the greatcoat, slowly and with great effort, emerged an ungloved, pallid hand, the selfsame hand that had cradled a sabre and wielded it willfully. Marc removed a glove and took Rick’s hand in his own. As he squeezed it, Rick’s eyes closed. His breathing softened and became more regular.

  For the next hour, Marc walked steadfastly beside his friend, never once releasing his grip, not even when, as lights from the houses of Sorel winked into view, it grew inalienably cold and began to stiffen.

  Marc’s request to accompany Colonel Gore and the bodies of the fallen comrades to Montreal was brusquely denied. The subalterns must remain in place in the Sorel barracks. The fractured morale of their men must be made whole again in readiness for the repeat engagement, which would come as surely as December’s ice on the Richelieu River. Uniforms needed to be cleaned, boots polished, rifles oiled, bayonets whetted. A few dress parades on the barracks-ground, with the band fifing and drumming, should serve the cause nicely, as well as impressing any habitants who might have been unnecessarily buoyed by the news from St. Denis. The five dead regulars would be buried with full military honours in Montreal, and next-of-kin duly informed of their glorious sacrifice in the service of the young monarch, Queen Victoria. Marc volunteered to write to Rick’s parents.

  What could he tell them? He began with an account of their adventures during the investigation of the murder of Councillor Moncreiff, for that had been the first time that he and Rick had been thrown together in any but a perfunctory way since Marc’s arrival in Toronto. In many respects they had been opposites. Where Marc tended towards caution and forethought, Rick was impetuous and free-spirited. And whereas Marc had decided, almost at first sight, that Beth Smallman was the woman with whom he would share the rest of his life, Rick’s eye had roved avidly and had found itself next to the pillow of more than one debutante (and occasionally her mother
), a propensity that had cost him dearly. While Marc played up Rick’s bold and fearless acts in the Moncreiff affair, he gave the ensign’s parents an edited version of his escapade with the American actress that had seen him accused of murder. But whatever cause or calamity Rick Hilliard found himself engaged in, it was his honesty, his fierce sense of integrity, and his loyalty as friend and fellow soldier that attracted, endeared, and endured. It was no exaggeration to claim that the son of Mr. and Mrs. Hilliard had risked, and given, his life to save that of his friend.

  Four days after the fiasco at St. Denis, the morale of the troops at Sorel was boosted by something more concrete and inspiring than dress parades and routine tactical manoeuvres. Scattered but credible reports began to reach them that Lieutenant-Colonel Wetherall had, at last, moved north from Chambly and attacked the rebels in their stronghold at St. Charles, seven or eight miles south of St. Denis. Wetherall had prevailed with ease, apparently, killing dozens and taking numerous prisoners. However, he had not moved on to St. Denis for fear of being cut off and unable to cross the river back to Chambly. So he had retreated with his captives and the Liberty Pole, with its irreverent red cap, and made triumphant march for Montreal. Perhaps this sharp blow would break the will of the rebels, and there would be no more fighting—or so went the sentiment being passed from lip to ear in the barracks.

  The next day, news of a more disturbing nature arrived. The mutilated and desecrated body of Captain Weir had been discovered, and the account of his cowardly assassination, wondrously swollen in the retelling, made plain to every regular, militiaman, and red-blooded Tory in the province. The mood in the barracks abruptly changed: it was now “Avenge the captain!” Marc felt obliged to call his squad together and remind them that they were British soldiers, whose duty was clear and unequivocal. They were to obey their officers to the letter: to put down the rebellion, disarm the combatants, and take into custody their ringleaders. All of this would be carried out with dispatch, economy of movement, strict discipline, and studied objectivity. There was no room for superfluous emotion. The adrenaline of battle and the will required to sustain courage were all that would be necessary.

  The men listened politely.

  Seven days after St. Denis, on November 30, Colonel Gore returned from Montreal on board the big steamer John Bull, with four additional companies of regular infantry and four field guns. Gore ordered everyone to be ready to embark at daylight; this time they would ride upriver in style and finish the job that had been temporarily interrupted. It was rumoured that both Papineau and Wolfred Nelson were holed up at St. Denis. A final blow would be struck, Captain Weir’s death avenged, and the principal gangsters captured and brought back to swing on the nearest gibbet. The men cheered, even those who ought to have known better.

  Unable to sleep that night, Marc sat up and wrote two letters. To Major Jenkin, sequestered in Montreal as quartermaster to the 24th, he penned a lengthy and impassioned narrative of the failed military expedition, holding nothing back. In the past year the major had proffered wise and discreet advice with the tact of a gentleman who has seen much of the world’s horror and somehow managed to remain this side of cynicism. He had fought with Marc’s uncle Frederick under Wellington; he knew Marc’s adoptive father, Uncle Jabez; and he had even—unknowingly—met Marc’s mother. These were familial connections dear to the heart of a young man who had been orphaned in more than one way during his short, eventful life.

  While being suitably modest in describing his own contributions to the abortive efforts at St. Denis on the twenty-third, he depicted the courage and heroism of his comrades with stirring accuracy, especially those final moments in the little barn and just outside of it. He confessed the fears and doubts he had experienced, not only about his fluctuating courage but also about the nature of the opposing force. These were not Bonaparte’s fusiliers or the hard-bitten professionals whom the major and Uncle Frederick had fought hand to hand and mile by mile across Spain and France to the gates of Paris, soldiers to be respected as much as feared. The Quebec rebels were farmers and townspeople, volunteers and amateurs—without training, tactics, or military leadership.

  Whatever the shortcomings of Colonel Gore and however tenacious the citizen army of Quebec might prove, Marc insisted that the outcome was not in doubt. The ragamuffin rebels would be routed or driven relentlessly into the last redoubt of their hinterland. They would perish by the score. Yes, the brave men of the 24th would do their duty, but what glory, Marc wondered to Major Jenkin, could accrue to such a victory? What satisfaction in shooting a man armed with a hoe or rusty arquebus? Even as he wrote this, the image of the young habitant wriggling through that bolt-hole in a vain attempt to escape the fury of the redcoats hovered over his writing hand. The boy’s horrific death at Rick’s hands had haunted Marc’s dreams and disturbed his waking hours for the past seven days.

  What he said finally to his elder friend was that, even if they should strike a deathblow to the rebellion tomorrow at St. Denis, the troubles would not end, as his men and many officers seemed to believe. For the “army” they were being asked to vanquish appeared to Marc to be an entire populace whose anger, despair, and unassuaged resentments would only deepen at defeat, grow sullen and secretive, and smoulder like fire under a forest. “Pray we do not have such a rebellion in Upper Canada. Once started, it may be unstoppable. And there will be no winners.”

  When he had calmed down, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing to his beloved Beth. With great tact he outlined the excursion to St. Denis, deleting much of the sad, sordid detail. He broke the news of Rick’s death, as he must, but took care not to put the least romantic gloss on his friend’s heroic gesture. Beth knew better. He suggested that the fighting here looked as if it would soon be over, then stressed how vital it was that she and Aunt Catherine keep well away from politics. The millinery shop that the two women—both Americans—operated on King Street in Toronto had twice been vandalized by gangs of ultra-royalists, looking for scapegoats as tensions mounted in Upper Canada amidst fears there of a farmer’s revolt. In her last letter Beth had tried to reassure him by saying that their good friend, Constable Horatio Cobb, had been keeping a close watch on the premises. Beth could not hide her concern for her former neighbours in the hamlet of Crawford’s Corners, who were equally in danger, though surely after a brief and near-disastrous entanglement with the rebel cause in October, Thomas and Winnifred Goodall would be lying low. Besides, there was now their baby, Mary, to consider.

  “The cause of the French here is real, the injustices deep and universal,” Marc wrote. “Ours in Upper Canada pale by comparison. People are literally starving in the townships, on the seigneuries, and in the back alleys of the towns. The flood of immigrants from Britain since 1832 has dumped thousands of penniless unemployed onto the docks and streets of Montreal and Quebec City, bringing cholera and other pestilences, which have recurred yearly since then. Not only that, but over one hundred thousand pounds sits undistributed in the vaults of St. Louis Castle, so that salaries and pensions have not been paid in months. Many once-prosperous people have lost their homes and enterprises as creditors close in.

  “But armed revolt is not the answer. I foresee only needless death and loss and even more profound humiliation. Take care and be well, my darling. I shall be home by New Year’s: that’s a promise.”

  Marc fell asleep on his writing desk.

  * * *

  With sunlight just beginning to squeeze through the trees along the eastern horizon, Marc and his fellow officers finished their breakfast in the improvised mess. Many ate enough for several meals, as it could be long hours before they saw food again. As they got up from the table to go and organize their squads for their march to the steamer, Colonel Gore’s adjutant came in carrying a packet of letters that had arrived the night before from overseas. One of them was for Marc.

  Edwards Estate

  Kent, England

  October 2, 1837


  Dear Marc:

  It is my sad duty to inform you that Jabez passed from this world at two o’clock this morning. I was by his side during the final hours, and it pleases me to tell you that his thoughts were principally upon you, upon your faithfulness as his adopted son, upon your splendid and worthy life so far, and, more importantly, upon the prospects for your future. His only regret regarding you was that he could not circumvent the entailments of our father’s will and leave you some part of the family estate. But as you know, the property and the funds to perpetuate it are indivisible and come to me and, eventually, to my eldest son, your cousin. However, Jabez did amass a sizeable sum of his own as a solicitor in London all those years ago, and as soon as the will is probated, I shall write to you with details of your legacy, which could be considerable. For the next while, though, we shall devote our energies to mourning the death of one whom we loved and who loved us, and life, dearly. We talked often of your heroic exploits in North America, and I want to assure you that he was as proud of you as a soldier as I was. Please take care: the life of an officer in the British army is dangerous and unpredictable.

  Delores and the boys are coming from France for the funeral, and I must go to Dover to meet them. I’ll write to you more fully as soon as I can: there is much to discuss between us.

  Your loving uncle,

  Frederick.

  Marc stood with the letter dangling from two fingers. He felt empty inside, incapable for the moment of feeling anything: sadness, grief, or anger at the gods. Too much was happening to him all at once. Rick was dead, and yet his voice and image, the joie de vivre of his being, were everywhere around him. He himself had been within a week of his wedding with Beth before being wrenched away to a battle he had once longed for more than life itself. Now Jabez, his adoptive father, was gone, without a chance to say good-bye. And despite his faults and the secrets he had inexcusably kept from Marc, Jabez Edwards had raised him as his own, given him his name, and, against his own better judgement, had set him free to seek his own fortune.