Dubious Allegiance (8 page)

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.

A bugle on the parade-square sounded a peremptory blast. He had to go. There were immediate and overriding exigencies. He would find time to grieve his losses later. And for a while at least, he was not unhappy to buckle on his sabre and scabbard.

The
John Bull,
weighed down with eight infantry companies, four guns, and assorted baggage, tried to ram its way through the ever-thickening ice of the Richelieu River. Three hours and one mile later, Colonel Gore admitted defeat. So, shortly after noon on this first day of December, Gore's brigade was once again on the river road. Whereas a week ago it had been wet snow, rain, and a muddy morass that had made the twenty-mile trek to St. Denis a living hell, it was now the frozen ruts (their own, alas) that made their passage no better than travelling over a rock-strewn wasteland. A corduroy road in April would have been heaven.

Despite the bone-jarring obstacles, they made good progress. The sun shone cold and bright. No skirmishers threatened from the occasional woods they had to pass through. When they marched into St. Ours at dusk, no sniper fired on them
from the shuttered houses. Not a soul emerged to greet or spit at them. This time Gore called a halt, and the troops bivouacked for the night—to eat heartily and rest for the battle expected on the morrow.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. All the omens were good. Colonel Gore addressed the assembled troops. He reminded them of their duty to the Queen, made ambiguous references to the misadventures of the previous week, and concluded by asking them to remember how Captain Weir had been slaughtered, mutilated, and tossed aside like a butchered calf. “Do not be fooled,” he said in a pinched, effeminate drawl, “into thinking that because the rebels have no uniforms they are not soldiers determined to kill you in a blink. A farmer with a pitchfork is as murderous as a fusilier. And it was ordinary-looking ploughmen who stabbed Captain Weir to death and laughed at his sufferings. Show no mercy. Our orders are to defeat these outlaws utterly. Their leaders will be captured and clapped in irons. Any farmer or householder known to have taken part in the revolt is to have his goods confiscated and his buildings put to the torch. I know you will all do your duty. May God be with you.”

*   *   *

They were within a mile of St. Denis when Captain Riddell rode up beside Marc and engaged him in conversation.

“Major Jenkin was telling me that you've been involved in several murder investigations.”

“That's true.” Marc smiled, relieved for the chance to talk
about something other than war or politics. “I found them more diverting than cards and dice.”

“Everybody in the mess knew about how you helped catch Councillor Moncreiff's killer, but I hadn't known about the other two.”

“Well, I don't boast about them, sir, because in my first investigation I managed to discover the killer, but he got away, in part because I wasn't quick enough to nab him.”

“But you got him in the end?”

“With the help of others, yes. And his accomplice as well.”

“What happened in the third case?”

“Well, I did manage to solve it, but the killer bolted across the border.”

Captain Riddell, a jolly, open-faced Englishman, laughed. “Two out of three, eh? That may be a higher success rate than our good colonel will ever achieve!”

Marc acknowledged the point with a small, rueful smile.

“You did well out here last week,” Riddell said, suddenly grave. “You're a natural soldier: no-one would have guessed it was your first engagement.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“By the way, I've written to Ensign Hilliard's father. We'll all miss him.”

Marc nodded, and they rode on in respectful silence.

They were approaching the creek where they had had so much trouble trying to save their twenty-four-pounder. The makeshift bridge had since been blown to pieces, but the cannon lay as they had left it—snout down in the mud, now
frozen solid—like an ancient beast trapped forever in ice. Beyond it, the path to the coulee was littered with tree trunks to impede their progress towards the village and its fortifications. The colonel was about to send his sappers down to test the thickness of the ice when the scouts came riding back to make their report on what lay ahead.

The news took everyone by surprise. The rebels had deserted the town. The stone house was unoccupied. Several new ramparts had been constructed but were unmanned. Even the residents of St. Denis had, it seemed, taken to the woods. There would be no return engagement: the rebels had anticipated the result and, after the débâcle at St. Charles a few days before, had more or less abandoned the Richelieu Valley to its fate.

That fate was soon decided. Colonel Gore met with a delegation from the village, who had appeared as soon as the troops had gained the coulee. One of the elders, clutching a white rag in trembling hands, assured the colonel that Nelson and Papineau had fled to the United States. There would be no organized resistance. As innocent bystanders, they wished to be left in peace.

“I'll determine who is innocent,” Gore proclaimed from his lofty perch. “I have orders to destroy the property of anyone who joined the renegades or aided and abetted them.” He turned to his captains. “We'll start with the distillery.” He looked down at the old man. “You will point out to us Wolfred Nelson's house and any others, as required. Meanwhile, we shall need billets in the town. I want the officers to secure these, and turn out any occupants who do not fully co-operate.
If there is any real resistance, the premises are to be burnt to the ground.”

“It is starting to get dark, sir,” Captain Riddell said tactfully.

“Then the fires we shall start will burn more brightly, won't they?”

Marc was relieved that his squad was assigned the task of reconnoitring the outskirts of the village and nearby woods to make sure there really were no rebels waiting to ambush or entrap the invaders. However, the only people they scared up in the fast-failing light were townsfolk hiding among the trees, cold and starving. Many refused to return to their homes, awed by the spectacle of flames roaring into the sky from several houses in the distance. But the presence of the government troops soon became known to another group also hiding out in the woods: those few loyalists, most of them English-speaking Tories, who had remained faithful to the Crown and had suffered for it by having their barns razed, their crops and cattle stolen, and their lives threatened. They knew exactly which locals had made their lives miserable since Lord Gosford, the civilian governor, had left them to the mercies of Papineau and the Papists. And they wanted revenge. Now.

By the time Marc rode back into the village to report to Captain Riddell that the periphery of the town was clear of the enemy, the local Tories were already in the process of leading squads of soldiers along the narrow streets, pointing out the houses of traitors and seditionists. Moments later, these burst into flames.

“Jesus, we don't even know whether these wretches are guilty of anything,” the captain said, his face dark with anger.
“A single finger pointed that way, and it's all over. I didn't join the army to burn out civilians and raze crops. Christ, these people are all starving!”

“What are my orders, sir?”

“Take your troop and clear out that log house up there at the end of this street.”

“And set it on fire?”

“I'm afraid so, Lieutenant. Colonel Gore insists it was used to hide rebels.”

Marc sighed, but nodded his assent, numbly. As much as he had tried to suppress such thoughts, all he could think of—here among the wailing of women and children as they fled their flaming homes, the shouts of rage and defiance among the returning Tories, the flare of sudden conflagrations against an indifferent, indigo sky—was that this sort of chaos and self-perpetuating reprisal could very easily happen in Upper Canada. With barn burnings, secret assassinations, and the rule of law frayed by rage.