Dubious Allegiance (7 page)

“Could you spare a smoke?”

The sound of an English voice uttering a full sentence startled Marc, and he glanced about in search of its author. None of the men tramping near him had looked up or shifted his rhythm.

“I think I'd feel better if I just had a puff. . . .”

It was a soft voice, weakened by fatigue or pain. And it came from the wagon carrying the severely wounded. Marc peered over the still form of Rick Hilliard and saw that the bundle of blankets next to him had suddenly produced a head and an arm. Marc swung down off his mount and began to walk alongside the wagon. He found himself face-to-face with
the young cavalryman he had rescued from under his dying horse. He was propped up on one elbow and smiling.

“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.

M
arc'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.