Dubious Allegiance (10 page)

So here he was on the bright and wintry Monday morning of December 4, striving to tend to his own sheep, as it were, but acutely aware that others saw a man compromised by having friends in both camps. And which flag would he hoist when the revolution came? That was a question he tried not to ask himself too often.

As Cobb passed Jarvis Street, he nodded to several merchants who were sweeping the snow off the boardwalk in front of their shops. Ezra Michaels, the chemist, gave him a hearty “Good morning,” and Cobb felt obliged to reciprocate. But by and large the city's most bustling street was empty. Only the energetic puffing of smoke from stoked fires, above the chimney-pots, indicated that the troubled citizenry of the capital had decided to suffer another day to begin. Cobb reached Church Street, where the Court House, set back from the north side of King among shrubs and flowers, now wimpled with snow, gleamed arrogantly at the risen sun. With its bright-red brick and cut-stone pilasters soaring two and a half storeys into the skyline, it announced to the world that here was an edifice of prospering authority. Next to it, and facing Toronto Street, stood its exact replica—with a single exception: its windows were barred.

Cobb walked along the stone path until he came to the rear of the Court House, where, just above the tunnel that connected the two buildings (the accused, found guilty, could be whisked to the cells without getting his toes cold), the quarters of the constabulary were located. Loitering about the entrance
were two ragged, red-nosed urchins, hoping to be conscripted to run messages of official significance for a half penny or a maple-sugar sweet.

“Give us a penny, Cobb!”

“Shouldn't you two be in school?” Cobb asked, pushing open the door.

“They won't have us.”

“I'm not surprised,” Cobb said, chuckling for the first time this morning. He stepped into the welcome heat of the station's anteroom.

“Good mornin', Gussie,” he said to the wee, wizened leprechaun perched on his stool and shuffling papers on the table before him. “Great day to be alive, eh?”

“Not so far it ain't,” replied Augustus French, who peered out at the world from a pair of rheumy, myopic eyes with a squint of perpetual skepticism.

“Is Sarge in?” This was a rhetorical question at eight in the morning, for Wilfrid Sturges found it uncivil to let anything other than a full sun wake him from his comfortable slumbers. Even so, he was seldom seen these days in the tiny, adjoining closet that served as his office. For Governor Head, having only his aide-de-camp, Barclay Spooner, for immediate protection, thought it prudent to have a uniform of some kind lurking about Government House or popping up arbitrarily from time to time with menacing demeanour. These defenses were supplemented on occasion by the appearance of a brace of elderly militiamen brandishing swords and frightening the ladies of the house.

“Anythin' I should know about before I set out?” Cobb
enquired as he edged closer to the pot-bellied wood-stove that did its best to heat both rooms.

“You didn't make your report on Saturd'y night,” French said, taking this, it appeared, as a personal affront.

“I was too busy bustin' a couple of heads in the Crooked Anchor. To no
pre-vail,
I might add.”

“I gotta have yer report for Sarge.”

Cobb sighed. Even though he went into the taverns now only when called on to umpire disputes or drag deadbeats to the magistrate, he could not help but hear the wild tales being bruited there. People even stuffed his pockets with notes when he wasn't looking. “All right, then. Poise yer pen.”

While Cobb was the only one of the four constables who could read and write fluently, it was the clerk's job to prepare any reports that might be required in the course of policing the town. There weren't many, as all the writs, warrants, and depositions were handled by the sheriff, bailiff, and magistrate in the respectable rooms of the Court House.

Cobb cleared his throat and began, pacing his accounts so that Gussie French was almost able to keep up by scratching away as fast as he could and ignoring the blots and smears of half-congealed ink. Included were such facts as these: the rebels in Quebec had stormed the castle of St. Louis—Bastille-like—and taken Govenor Gosford prisoner; ten thousand troops, armed to the teeth, were marching up from Vermont to liberate the lower province in the name of republicanism; Mackenzie and Papineau were in Cornwall, conspiring to join forces and overthrow monarchist tyranny everywhere; the Iroquois at Brantford had thrown their lot in with Mackenzie's radicals and
were seen doing war dances by three independent witnesses; the rebels here had so many American rifles, they were issuing two to each conscript. And so on.

Gussie dutifully scribbled down this nonsense.

“I'll be off, then,” Cobb said. “To gather more
un-tell-igents.
”

“You better have a gander at this,” Gussie said, thrusting out a sheet of paper.

On it was the sketch of a man's face, below which were enumerated his crimes and aliases. The sketch was rudimentary (Gussie doubling as portraitist), but likely complete enough to have the culprit identified, should he be spotted in town. The features were sharp and rugged, the eyes piercing, the hair unkempt. He was thought to be a dangerous agent provocateur from the Buffalo area, who had been caught snooping about Fort York and fully armed, but had managed to escape before he could be questioned thoroughly. Subsequently, several break-ins had been attributed to him. A fairly accurate description of the fellow had been provided by the army, along with his various known aliases.

“Any of these names his real one?” Cobb asked.

Gussie shrugged, intent on tidying up the blots on his report. “Couldn't say. I ain't paid to think.”

And a good thing, too, Cobb mused. He himself, of course, had acknowledged the usefulness of the analytical only since his recent involvement with Marc Edwards and his investigations. He glanced at the list of aliases. They were all Irish, which might be significant: Colm O'Toole, Seamus Doyle, Sean Flanagan. Most likely he would be using the last of these, or a new
one. Well, he would show the sketch around and keep an eye out: you never knew.

*   *   *

By ten o'clock, Cobb's feet were numb with cold, and the tips of his fingers tingled. Normally, he would have warmed himself in a tavern, but he did not wish to step into these smoky rooms, hostile with gossip. Most of the merchants were friendly, but they were leery of a uniformed policeman hanging about their premises too long: the notion of a permanent constabulary patrolling the streets to discourage crime instead of reacting to it was still a novel one, here and elsewhere, and was greeted with a prudent wariness. So it was with evident relief that he found himself outside the millinery shop belonging to Beth and her aunt Catherine. He peered in through the window display and noted with satisfaction that there were no customers inside. He swaggered ostentatiously to the next alley, then darted along it and came out onto the service lane that ran behind the King Street shops. He rapped on a door, then walked in.

As he had deduced, Beth Smallman and Catherine Roberts were at tea in the anteroom behind the shop proper. He was about to utter a hearty “Hello,” but what he saw stopped the greeting in his throat. Aunt Catherine was in tears, her slight frame wracked by sobs. Beth's cheeks were stained with tears of her own, but her weeping was being constrained by an obvious concern for her aunt. Her left hand held a letter, but her right one was stroking Aunt Catherine's arm.

“He isn't dead, Auntie,” she was saying. “He's been wounded, that's all.”

“Who?” Cobb asked sharply, then realized that the women had not heard him enter and were startled by his sudden presence.

Aunt Catherine, normally as stoic as Beth, recovered enough to say with a grim little smile at her dear friend, “It's Marc. There's been a terrible battle. Ensign Hilliard's been shot dead, and Marc's been wounded in the leg.”

Cobb put a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself. “So the stories are true,” he murmured. “Things've started down there.”

“Please sit, Mr. Cobb. I'll get you a cup,” Beth said calmly, but the letter was trembling in her grip.

“No, no. Don't bother about me. Just tell me what happened.”

“We just got the letter this morning. It's from Major Jenkin,” Aunt Catherine said, blowing her nose and fumbling the hanky back into the pocket of her skirt. “I'm sorry to be such a blubberer—”

“Now don't go worryin' about a thing like that,” Cobb said.

Beth handed the letter to him, then went to fetch his cup of tea and one of his favourite biscuits. She spilled some of the tea, steaming, on her wrist, but apparently didn't notice.

The letter was less than a page long, and the major promised a longer and more detailed one as soon as he could find time. But the rebellion in Lower Canada was in full swing, and the outcome not certain. Hilliard, he said, had died beside Marc, taking a bullet that otherwise might have killed his friend. Marc himself had risked all to save another wounded comrade in the field. Then, on the evening of December 1, while on
patrol in St. Denis following the brigade's triumphant re-entry into the town, Marc had been shot by an insurgent. At present, he was in hospital in Sorel awaiting transportation to Montreal. The surgeon who had attended him on site reported to the major that, while the wound itself was not life-threatening, the bullet had severed a vein in the thigh and Marc had lost a lot of blood before the wound could be cauterized. While he had not yet regained consciousness, the overall prognosis was good.

“What do you think?” Aunt Catherine asked, as if Cobb could somehow make a pronouncement that would at least make matters bearable.

Cobb looked up, tried to smile, and was relieved to be able to turn to Beth and take the cup from her hand.

“Sounds like he might come home with a bit of a limp,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” Beth said, and her look indicated that she was grateful for her aunt's sake, not her own. Beth, he knew, did not require constant reassurance from others to bolster her own views or quiet any anxieties she might harbour.

“Beth says she must go to him,” Aunt Catherine said, appealing to Cobb's masculine judgement, “even though Major Jenkin expressly warns her not to.”

The major had indeed ended his letter by discouraging any such gesture. The province was in turmoil. No-one was safe. Travellers were being stripped of their money and goods. To be English in the wrong quarter was enough to get one beaten, or worse.

“It don't sound like Quebec's a place for ladies,” Cobb offered.

“My place is by my beloved's side.”

Aunt Catherine blushed, and Cobb uttered a protective cough.

“You oughta wait till you hear from Major Jenkin again,” he said, glancing at Aunt Catherine for support. “Montreal might be safe, when Marc's moved there.”

“Mr. Cobb's right, you know.”

Beth said nothing.

“Besides, darling, I don't know as I could manage here alone, what with our own troubles and all.”

Beth's look said, That isn't really fair, Auntie, but she replied in a soft, firm tone, “I'll wait for Major Jenkin's next letter.” Then added: “But I won't wait long.”

*   *   *

Cobb had decided to have lunch at home, thus avoiding the taverns. The news about Marc had unsettled him more than he was willing to let on. Seeing its effect on the ladies had been equally unsettling. He had grown inordinately fond of them both, and was now paying the price for such attachments. It was a hard world they lived in, and one could survive only by being as hard as one's humanness allowed. That was not the way Cobb himself would have arranged affairs, but then no-one had ever asked him to assist in that business. Such unnerving speculations were skittering through his mind when a sound familiar to his policeman's ear assailed it from the direction of the alley he had just passed near Front Street and Market Lane. He moved quickly towards the grunts, wheezes, and general scuffling noises.

Two bulky men, unknown to him, were thumping their fists on a smaller creature, well known to the constabulary, on any part of his wriggling body that presented itself. Other than a groan or sigh as the blows struck, the victim did not cry out for help; he expected none. Cobb drew his truncheon.

“Stop that
now!
” he shouted, as the adrenaline rush hit him. “You're both under arrest!”

The two toughs halted what they were doing, more in astonishment than fear. Finally, the taller one barked, “And just how's a tub o' lard like you gonna make us?”

Cobb's girth was often the object of amusement among the lower life of the city, often to their instant and eternal regret. For it nicely disguised the fact that he was quick, nimble, and strong as a bullock. Before the tall fellow could snicker or blink, he took Cobb's truncheon above the left eye and tumbled backwards, gasping in disbelief and pain. The shorter one was able to get a forearm up, but the truncheon-blow broke it without remorse. Unfortunately, at this point the victim decided to try to get up. In doing so, he got himself tangled in Cobb's feet, and the latter's momentum caused him to pitch forward and fall onto his side. But the toughs had seen enough, and they took the opportunity to scuttle down the alley and into King Street. Cobb struggled to his feet in order to initiate pursuit when he was once again upended by the object of the assault.

“Christ, Nestor, can't you do anything right?”

“I'm hurtin' all over. Whaddya expect me to do, lay here an' get punched to death?”

Cobb got up and hauled Nestor Peck to his feet.

Nestor, who would have been described as gnome-like if his
sallow skin had not begun to sag on the bones, essayed a toothless grin. “I guess I gotta thank you fer this.”