Dubious Allegiance (12 page)

“This still sounds crazy to me.”

“Horatio, I know I'm asking a lot from you. I know how desperate you are to stay clear of politics—”

“I'll get the horses from Frank's livery and have a lad bring them around the back about six o'clock.”

“Thank you. I'll give you some money for them. We'll leave them at the Central Hotel in Manchester.”

They discussed a few more details of Beth's bold scheme; then Cobb allowed himself to be bussed by both women and turned, sadly, to go.

“Goddamn politics,” he muttered to an astonished shopper.

*   *   *

What on earth could happen next? Cobb wondered as he headed towards West Market Lane and Ogden Frank's livery. After arranging for the horses to be brought to the shop just after dusk by a trusted stableboy and concocting a cover story no-one at the livery actually believed, Cobb hurried to the station to find his sister-in-law.

“She just left,” Gussie intoned without looking up from his copy-work. “Can't wait fer certain people forever.”

“She say where she was goin'?”

“To catch the coach home—where she belongs.”

Cobb turned to go.

“You ain't give me yer report for the—”

Cobb slammed the door only slightly harder than he intended to.

May Madden and the stagecoach had left a few minutes before Cobb arrived at the depot on Yonge Street. By now he was craving a drink, but not enough to drive him to any of the nearby bars. He had a jug of whiskey hidden in the chicken-coop, but Dora might still be at home, alert and probably on the warpath. Young Jimmy was her favourite nephew. But what could Cobb do to help? The lad certainly wasn't in the city. And if Nestor's talk of a general mustering up at Montgomery's tavern were true, Cobb wasn't about to poke his nose in there and
get it shot off. But what if that mob, with or without Jimmy, came storming down Yonge Street tonight or tomorrow? What would he do then? What could anyone loyal to the Crown do?

At six o'clock Cobb slipped into the laneway behind King Street near Bay. Unobserved, he watched two male figures emerge from the millinery shop, peer anxiously about, toss their bulky bundles across the withers of the waiting horses, swing up into the saddle—boldly astride—and trot softly west until they vanished. Cobb cursed the goblins of all politics.

The rest of his evening was blessedly uneventful. The taverns were eerily subdued, with fewer than half their regular customers. Pub talk was carried on in low murmurs, and the very sight of Cobb's uniform, festooned with portions of the omelette Dora had cooked him despite his confession of having missed her sister at the station, was enough to silence men for whom silence was as feared as the heebie-jeebies. Where
was
everybody? After a while he gave the question up, grateful for a few hours of peace after the roilings of the day. As he walked towards his front door and the lamp-lit interior of his home, it began to snow. He thought of Beth and Catherine riding without escort in such weather, in such darkness, along roads congested in all probability with other muffled-up riders galloping towards one kind of mischief or another. He thought about Marc lying in pain in the fetid gloom of some hospital, ministered to by strangers. Then Dora opened the door, filling the rectangle of light with her generous, robust, motherly presence.

They whispered together far into the evening and early morning. Then, at last, they fell separately into an unquiet sleep.

*   *   *

The knock that repeated itself with blunt insistence upon the front door did not wake Cobb. He had long ago become immune to such interruptions, for it was Dora who was always wanted to ease some squalling infant into the world, to survive hardy or weaken and die. Nor did he notice her roll off the bed and pad in her nightgown off to the cold rooms beyond the coziness of their cocoon. In fact, it took two jabs to the ribs to bring him awake and muttering.

“Jesus, it can't be mornin' already!” he growled.

“It ain't. But there's a fella at the door who wants to see Mister Cobb, an' last time I checked below yer belly button, you was still he.”

“Tell him to bugger off and come back when the sun is shinin'.”

“He says he's been sent by the governor.”

“Jesus!”

Cobb tottered into the kitchen, pulling on his trousers and feeling about for his boots. The dampened fire barely glowed in the grate. He could see his breath.

“Constable Cobb?”

“I'm comin', I'm comin'!”

With his shirt misbuttoned and his jacket, helmet, and greatcoat in hand, he staggered to the door and out onto the stoop.

“You're the governor's stableman,” he said accusingly.

“You're to come to Government House right away, sir.”

“What in hell's happenin'?”

“I don't know. They just rousted me outta bed an' sent me here with the horses.”

Cobb soon found himself cantering through the deserted
streets of Toronto at six in the morning, shivering, unfed, and fighting back a feeling of dread.

As they neared Government House on King Street west of Simcoe, Cobb could see other figures, mounted and on foot, speeding down the long lane that wound its way up to the verandah of Francis Head's sprawling residence. No-one was speaking. Something serious was afoot. Cobb hobbled up onto the porch in the wake of a very familiar rump.

“Wilkie?” he called.

Constable Ewan Wilkie kept on going towards the double-doors that had been swung open to let those summoned enter with dispatch. In the ample foyer Cobb bumped against several bundled-up bodies. All were staring at the door of the governor's office at the far end of the visitors' vestibule. Under a quarter-lit chandelier stood Lieutenant-Governor Sir Francis Bond Head in his nightshirt. His hair looked as if it had been dragged through a briar bush against the grain. His normally handsome features were distorted by the glassy stare of his eyes. His jaw was moving, but to no effect that anyone present could determine. Beside him, pistol
à la main,
quivered his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Barclay Spooner, similarly disheveled, and blinking anxiously at the arrivals.

The latter, Cobb could see even in the shadowy light, included Wilfrid Sturges, his chief; the other three constables, Wilkie, Brown, and Rossiter; Sheriff Jarvis of York; and half a dozen of his petty officials.

It was Barclay Spooner who broke the silence. “Thank you all for coming. Sir Francis has requested that I deliver the news to you as delicately as I can.”

Sir Francis looked as if he would have a difficult time even recognizing his aide-de-camp, let alone dictating instructions to him. Beneath the silk nightwear, his limbs trembled, and it was quite apparent that his agitation had left him catatonic.

“I regret to inform you—officers of the Crown, all—that we are now in a state of apprehended insurrection.”

Spooner paused to let the collective gasp rise and ebb.

“Seven hundred armed rebels have gathered around the outlaw Mackenzie at Montgomery's tavern two miles up Yonge Street. Several thousands more are said to be on their way to join them. They have set up pickets along the road to stop any innocent citizen from entering the city and giving the alarm. About midnight Colonel Robert Moodie, a militiaman and one of the finest gentlemen in this province, tried to evade the pickets and run the blockade. He was shot dead by the rabble.”

Shocked murmurs at this, and several angry outbursts.

“Two hours ago, I am happy to say, Alderman Powell was making his way north along Yonge to visit his ailing sister in the township when he was illegally detained by the same thugs. But he made an heroic escape, killing one of the ringleaders in the process, one Anthony Anderson. It was John Powell who arrived here less than forty minutes ago to raise the alarm. The rebels' feeble attempt at surprise has been thwarted!”

If Spooner expected the assembled officials to break into a cheer at this news, he was quickly disappointed. To a man they were more concerned with the mustering of thousands of armed insurgents, who were, no doubt, already marching southwards with murderous intent. And the first line of
defence for the besieged capital now stood here in the governor's anteroom: groggy, dazed, horrified.

“The governor and I, you will be pleased to learn, have not been idle in the face of imminent danger. While you were being fetched from your slumbers, we have been busy developing a stratagem for delay, until we can get word through to the nearest militia in Hamilton.”

Among the mutterings consequent on this stirring revelation—not all of them patriotic—Cobb had his own particular thoughts. Had Catherine and Beth reached Hamilton? Would they find themselves in the midst of a military confrontation? Would any general alarm now raised not put them in danger of being stopped and challenged? And if so, what plausible excuses could they concoct for riding in disguise at night towards the United States, where sympathy and support for the rebels was widespread?

The governor had finally found his voice, and briefly explained that he was organizing a party of loyalists to ride north with the intention of parleying with Mackenzie. An offer of amnesty would be made if the rebels would agree to disband and return peacefully to their homes. Working out the details ought to buy the city's defenders—all twenty of them—some valuable time. In the interim, each man in the room would be assigned an area of the grounds of Government House and its park, where they would act as sentries and, if required, lay down their lives for the Queen's representative. Loaded pistols would be handed out to each loyal watchman.

Sir Francis then wheeled and marched smartly back into his office, unaware that he was still in his frothy, bedtime attire.

*   *   *

As the sun rose on the morning of Tuesday, December 5, Horatio Cobb found himself squatting on the stump of an elm tree somewhere in the park of Government House. In actuality, it was six acres of unreclaimed bush, a city block of it that stretched out behind the gardens and farm buildings of the house proper. In spots, much of the scrub had been cleared so that Sir Francis and his Tory chums could enjoy a sleigh-ride when the snows really arrived. At the moment there was just enough of it to cover the desiccated fall grasses and mantle the limbs and boughs of the trees. And there Cobb sat, pistol cocked, as the sun climbed above the horizon and shone belligerently in a blue sky, while offering little warmth to anyone trusting enough to admire it. It was a cold day, near zero, and Cobb stamped around the stump like a Mississauga shaman around his campfire, then lay down the pistol and smacked his leather mitts together.

Despite the cold and discomfort, Cobb discovered that he was sweating. He wasn't overly worried about assassins sneaking up through the park from Market Street on the south; in fact, by noon Cobb would have gladly given them a map to the governor's sitting-room. What made him nervous was the fact that no armed force or authority stood between him and the rebel mob on Yonge Street. Surely, they would take advantage of the defenceless city and this cold, clear day to march down the frozen road into the heart of the capital, wheel to the west along King (looting the fashionable shops as they advanced?), and storm the seat of government. Time and again he caught
himself listening for sounds from the distant north—the crackling of musket-fire or the boom of a field gun—knowing how foolish this was because the insurgents would have no need to deploy their weapons. There was no-one left worth shooting at!

It was well after noon when one of the Government House servants, armed only with a half loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a partly consumed bottle of wine, came noisily up behind and hailed him.

“I'm Colson, sir. I've brought you some luncheon.”

Cobb thanked him, had trouble removing his mitts, but managed to bite off a bit of cheese and flush it down with a swig of bitter wine. Colson turned to go.

“Any news?” Cobb asked.

Colson, his English as buttery as any royal butler, stopped and said, “I was thinking of asking you the same question, sir.”

“Have they sent a
dele-whatever
up to parley with Mackenzie yet?”

“They've just left, sir. About six of them, I think. On fast horses.”

“Jesus, what've they been
doin'
all mornin'? The rebels'll be here by now.”

“A scout just returned as I was coming out here, sir. The insurgents have indeed begun to march on the city, but have stopped at Gallow's Hill for some reason not known to us.”

“Who've they sent to parley with them?”

“That was the problem, sir. It took several hours of debate among the governor's privy councillors to sort that out. The two men finally chosen to do the bargaining were Mr. Robert Baldwin and Dr. John Rolph.”

“Reformers!” Cobb dropped his bread.

“My sentiments entirely, sir.”

And with that editorial remark, Colson departed.

*   *   *

Cobb decided he would simply stop thinking and do his duty as a policeman and as a citizen. There was no fathoming the ways and means of politicians, so it was fruitless to try. But once having practised the business of pondering, he discovered that it was no easy task to keep the mind free of such incursions. Fortunately, the snap of twigs off to his right provided a helpful diversion.

With all of his senses alert for the first time today, Cobb hopped off the stump and trotted soundlessly towards the noise. Someone was running hastily through the park—but away from the house, not towards it. Could it be an assassin who had already carried out his contemptible deed? Cobb's heart began to pound. Suddenly, he burst out into a clearing and stopped in puzzlement. Where was the bugger? He looked towards the house and saw that he had come out just behind the modest farm-grounds in back of the residence, where there were several small barns, pens, and coops. A loud crashing noise at the south end of the clearing brought him upright and sent him scampering in that direction. The culprit had fallen. And from the high-pitched cursing, it appeared he had injured himself. Cobb closed in for the capture, charging out of a clump of spruce to surprise the felon.