Dubious Allegiance (3 page)

Everything had begun smartly and according to protocol. The three hundred men and their support units had been mustered with enthusiasm and precision on the wharf at Montreal. The band had stirred the modest crowd of well-wishers to cheers as Colonel Gore led his troops up the gangplank and aboard the
Hochelaga,
bound for Sorel at the mouth of the Richelieu River. Major Owen Jenkin, who had become Marc's friend and surrogate father in the past year, shook Marc's hand and wished him luck before returning to Montreal. Neither of them had been willing to speak of the indefinite postponement of the wedding of Marc and Beth Smallman that had been made necessary by the transfer of Marc's regiment to Quebec. But it was never far from their thoughts.

Then, as the afternoon of November 22 waned, the steamer moved steadily downstream to the occasional shout of encouragement (or otherwise) from the shoreline. By six o'clock, with the sun setting behind foreboding clouds, Sorel was reached. By seven, in a darkness unrelieved by streetlamps—the town could no longer afford such a luxury—fife and drum conducted the colourful brigade to the barracks. Here it was expected they would have their evening meal and rest until daybreak. Horses would be conscripted, extra wagons
appropriated, scouts sent out to reconnoiter the riverside terrain, and couriers whisked ahead to Chambly to help co-ordinate the “pincer movement” envisioned by General Colborne, the supreme commander in British North America and an officer who
had
fought at Waterloo.

But eager to make his mark on something other than a requisition form, Colonel Gore had decided on his own merit to choose the age-old tactic of surprise over the more reliable deployment of scouts and dispatch riders. Thus, instead of filing into a warm barracks and a cold supper, the five companies and cavalry troop were commanded, without ado or explanation, to wheel back onto the main street and make for the road to St. Denis. The fog had already begun to turn traitorously into rain and, as the night-cold pressed down upon them, to intermittent snow. Any initial excitement on the part of the soldiers was quickly dampened by the hostile weather. Half a mile out of town, the sprightly music of fife and drum unraveled and died altogether when lips froze to mouthpiece. Then the standard-bearer had tripped on a rut, pitched cap-first into the muck, and watched in helpless horror as the Union Jack sank out of sight in a puddle.

“How are the men faring?” Marc asked his sergeant.

Ogletree, with a face as gnarled and craggy as a habitant woodcarving, peered up at his superior officer. “I spent two years on the Peninsula with the Iron Duke, sir, and I don't recall anythin' as bad as this. The lads are toughin' it out an' keepin' their mutinous thoughts to themselves, but damn it to hell, Lieutenant, if it's much farther to St. Denis, they won't be fit to fight a banty rooster with rickets.”

“It's a good ten miles from here, Sergeant.”

“An' we're makin' about two miles an hour, luggin' that blasted cannon over this peat-bog of a road. We can't possibly spend another five hours out in this stuff an' then be expected to make a surprise attack on an enemy, who're warm, an' well fed, an' just waitin' fer us to show our mugs.”

“I agree, but that seems to be the master plan at the moment.” Marc swung down from his mount and dropped beside Ogletree. “I'm going to walk with you and the men. Hilliard can look out for himself. If anyone gets a sniper's bullet, it's likely to be one of those fool militiamen hopping about like hares on a griddle.”

Marc immediately felt his right boot being sucked into the mud. The continuous wet snow and rain had begun to turn the stiffened ruts into oozing slime, more liquid than solid. Walking was reduced to slithering, with repeated pulling at one boot or another to prevent it from being sucked away in the stubborn undertow.

“Welcome to our world, sir!” Private Higgins called out behind his superior officer. But there was no malice in the remark. The men increased their pace a little. Twenty minutes later Hilliard and several others of the mounted vanguard drew to a halt.

“What's the problem, Ensign?” Marc said. “Rebels ahead?”

“No, sir. There seems to be two roads instead of one.” He looked perplexed, as if a fork in the road were an alien thing, inscrutable as the habitant's lingo he did not comprehend beyond a curse word or two.

“I don't recall our map showing the river road dividing
anywhere near here, sir,” Marc said to Captain Riddell, the company commander, when he rode up to see what had caused the stoppage.

“Neither do I, Lieutenant. But then we have not been provided with proper military maps. My instinct is to stick to the river. The
frogs
usually do.”

Marc was about to agree when Colonel Gore arrived, looking like a waterlogged peacock. The issue at hand was explained to him. No advice was sought. The deputy quartermaster-general simply waved them towards the narrower road to their left—away from the river and through a dense bush. Officers and men obeyed, as they must.

As he wheeled to ride back to his rear position, the colonel snapped at Marc: “Lieutenant, please get on your horse at once. Your uniform is a disgrace, and you are in danger of demoralizing your men!”

Marc obeyed, as he must.

*   *   *

Along the road to the right that the colonel had disdained to take, an incident was to occur less than half an hour later, one that would be significant in determining the course and nature of the rebellion. Neither the deputy quartermaster-general nor any of his officers or men would be witness to it, but it was recounted to them, again and again and in such horrific detail by those claiming to have been present, that they felt themselves to be not merely witnesses but guilty, even prurient, bystanders. It gave them just cause for revenge and reprisal.

An hour after Gore's brigade departed Sorel, Lieutenant
Jock Weir of the 32nd Regiment arrived there with urgent dispatches from General Colborne: Colonel Gore was to delay his advance on St. Denis until Wetherall arrived from Chambly in two or three days, and even then, should he meet with any resistance, he was to retreat. But Gore was already gone, and with him Jock Weir's uniform and weapons. Undaunted, Weir commandeered a calèche and its driver and, disguised as a Quebec City merchant, set out in pursuit along the river road. But the weather, the near-impassable roadway, and his periodic interception by curious habitants en route made his passage only marginally faster than Gore's column. In the stormy darkness he did not notice the fork in the road beyond St. Ours and so continued on the route that hugged the river.

Two miles outside of St. Denis, and puzzled that he had not yet overtaken Gore's column, he was arrested and soon found himself face-to-face with Dr. Nelson in the rebel leader's living room. The ruse was immediately admitted. Still uncertain about the possibility of an armed clash, Nelson was courteous and conciliatory. He ordered Weir to give his parole, after which he would be taken to St. Charles and kept under house arrest. Old Captain Jalbert, white-haired veteran of the War of 1812 and now a different kind of patriot, was put in charge of the transfer.

Weir was placed in the back of a wagon and bound with a leather belt. Captain Jalbert rode a few paces ahead, resplendent in scarlet sash and upraised sword. The driver was a reluctant conscript, Migneault the postmaster. Beside the prisoner and clutching the belt sat Maillet, a local firebrand. In his right hand he brandished a rusty two-foot bayonet. They set off. It
was almost dawn. The road was alive with shadowy male figures making for St. Denis and Nelson's fortification. Others—crouched, wary, female—hurried the other way. The wet snow had softened to a cold mist. Suddenly, several gunshots rang out somewhere behind them. Had it started at last?

Weir flinches, notices that Maillet is dozing, and leaps off the wagon in an attempt to free himself and join the battle he has been waiting for all his life. But Maillet's grip on the belt about his prisoner's waist is unbreakable. Weir gasps as if he has been kicked in the stomach and tumbles against the rim of a rear wheel, face up. Citizen Maillet, fired by the pain of a thousand slights at the hands of the
maudit Anglais,
drives the bayonet through the conqueror's neck. Weir collapses onto the road, blood spouting from his wound. Then he scrambles on hands and knees under the rear wheels. Crazed by the deed he has begun, Maillet reaches down and stabs at Weir through the spokes of the wheel. Weir screams like a gutted cat. The cowled figures on the roadside pause, stare, glower, and close in, like a Greek chorus coming awake in the third act. Postmaster Migneault, horrified, tries to rein in the spooked horses, but they lunge forward, dragging Weir with them under the wagon, tumbling and spraying blood like a grotesque Catherine wheel.

“Officer! Officer!” The chant is taken up, and turned malevolent: among these witnesses there are old wounds and fresh hurts aplenty. As Maillet continues to hack at the helpless Weir, they cheer each blow, dazzled by hate, astonished at its unstoppable irruption.

Three severed fingers lie on the road, the mutilated hand clutches at air, while the bayonet, avid as any guillotine,
continues to hack and slash. Weir's moans are liquid, unhuman. Captain Jalbert is trying to bull his way through the maddened throng back to the carnage, but no-one will give way. A young schoolteacher leaps from the mob towards the victim, huddled and groaning under the stalled vehicle, and begins to stab at him with a carving knife.

“For Christ's sake, kill him!” Jalbert screams.

A volunteer, on his way to Nelson, steps up, puts a pistol to Weir's blood-smeared forehead, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He tries again. There is no sound but the ventilation of Weir's agony. A sword whips at the air and reaches Weir's neck. The body pitches forward. But there is breath in it yet. Enraged, the mob drags it across the grass to an alley between two houses. Then in sudden, awed silence they keep vigil until there is not a twitch of pomp or imperialism left to defile the morning breeze.

Days later, Weir's corpse will be recovered from a frozen creek where it had been dumped. There will be no truce now, no negotiated settlement. Rubicons were made for crossing.

L
ight was seeping through the mist when Marc's skirmishing party emerged from the rutted morass of the winding pathway Colonel Gore had chosen for his troops. Known locally as the Pot-au-Beurre, it lived up to its name. The grey of exhaustion on the faces of the men matched the mud that coated their tunics and sullied the bright image of the British regiment of foot. No-one had eaten since noon the previous day. The threat of snow and a wintry day lay ominously on the morning air.

“They've seen us!” Hilliard shouted, but there was no alarm in his voice. “Over there, just past that little bridge.”

“Which they've just destoyed,” Marc observed, urging his mount forward.

Distinguishable as the enemy only by their flowing capotes, the retreating figures suddenly stopped and turned.

“They're going to shoot!”

The pop of musketry was heard, three puffs of smoke rose above the enemy horsemen, and one of the soldiers behind Marc cried out.

“Form up and fire!” Marc called out to Sergeant Ogletree.

Ogletree assembled half a dozen riflemen, and seconds later they fired off an ineffectual volley at the snipers. But it was sufficient to send the rebels scampering south. Three of the British rifles had misfired: damp powder or frozen fingers, no doubt. Colonel Gore and the company captains arrived moments later to survey the situation and develop a plan of attack. Marc and Hilliard, along with the other junior officers, dismounted and stood nearby, hoping for an order to pause, rest, eat, and re-group.

Hilliard had his scope to his right eye. “I can see the tops of the distillery buildings, sir. And there's a huge stone house in front of them. They've knocked loopholes in the walls. And there's a makeshift barricade of broken wagons and farm implements ringing it. The riverbank is close to the right, so that flank can't be used to approach or enfilade. On the left there's a small woods and a group of barns and outhouses. They'll be nested in there and difficult to take out.”

“What's the good news?” Marc asked wanly. He found himself leaning against his horse, suddenly faint from hunger and fatigue. Where would the infantry, who had struggled for eight hours on foot, find the resources to mount an all-out attack on a well-fortified position? In an open-field engagement, the superior training, ingrained discipline, and proven weaponry of the British troops would make short shrift of any collection of rebels—whatever their advantage in numbers and however
committed they might be. But the rebels would not be foolish enough to come out and fight, as Montcalm had.

“There's a coulee about a hundred yards in front of the stone house,” Rick enthused. “It will give us all the cover we'll need. The Frenchies certainly won't abandon their fortification to attack us there, not with a cavalry unit to protect our flanks. And they don't know, poor fools, that Wetherall is moving up the river road from Chambly. If our pincer movement goes as planned, all we need to do is dig in here and wait for Wetherall and his gunners, and then hit the buggers from three sides.”