Dubious Allegiance

by Don Gutteridge

  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.

  What he saw was a wiry-looking fellow stumbling back into cover about fifteen yards away. Under his right arm, in screeching protest, wriggled a suckling pig.

  “Stop!” Cobb hollered. “You’re under arrest!”

  Which command, though ringing with authority and threat, had contrary effects on the hog-thief and his prize. The man seemed to take wing, and the piglet, terrified, shut up. Cobb glanced down at what he took to be his trusty truncheon in his right hand, was surprised to note that
it was a loaded pistol, and, squeezing his eyes closed, fired it into the air.

  The felon stopped, about twenty yards away. He turned slowly to face his assailant. His eagle eye spotted the smoking pistol. A huge grin spread across his visage. He wheeled nimbly and sped off. But in doing so, he relaxed his grip on the piglet, and it scurried away, zigzagging and bewildered.

  Cobb had glimpsed the face for no more than a second or two, but he recognized it. He plunged ahead into the trees in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the fellow was gaining ground on him, Cobb halted and shouted loud enough to be heard on Gallow’s Hill.

  “You won’t get far! I know your face and your name, Silas McGinty!”

  But, of course, Cobb realized the moment he said it that McGinty would indeed get as far away from the city as possible, since he was now aware that his latest alias was known to the police and his mug would be popping up on posters all over town.

  Cobb was just about to return to his post, empty-handed, when he spotted something dark against the snow, next to one of the thief’s footprints, something that had fallen unnoticed during his frantic escape. Cobb picked it up. It was a billfold. Inside he found a wrinkled American dollar, tucked forlornly into a much-thumbed envelope. But it was the inscription on the envelope that arrested his attention:

  SERGEANT CALVIN RUMSEY

  FORT NIAGARA, NEW YORK

  xoxoxoxo

  Silas McGinty, my fanny! Cobb thought. Could this fellow be related to the man who had been involved in a crime that he and Marc Edwards had investigated the previous year, one Philo Rumsey? What was he doing skulking about Toronto? Spying? Or looking for some sort of payback on behalf of his “wronged” brother? If so, then Marc might be in danger—were he not lying wounded in a hospital somewhere in Quebec.

  * * *

  It was dusk when the intrepid band of twenty, under the command of Sheriff Jarvis, turned north off King Street onto Yonge. They were a motley crew of policemen, bailiffs, deputies, and half a dozen ordinary citizens co-opted or “volunteered.” Each had been handed a British rifled musket, scavenged earlier by Lieutenant Spooner from Fort York, and two bullets in paper cartridges. Jarvis and his men were to establish a picket on Yonge Street just above College Avenue. A force of five hundred militia, who knew how to load and fire a musket, were on their way by steamer from Hamilton, and were expected to arrive around midnight. Jarvis’s orders were to stall the rebels’ advance, if possible, and otherwise watch their movements and send back reports to Government House.

  Much had happened since midafternoon, but Cobb had learned only bits and pieces from a variety of unreliable sources. Members of Cobb’s class were not routinely briefed by officialdom, after all. What was known for sure was that Sir Francis had placed his wife and family and that of Chief Justice Robinson aboard a steamer on Queen’s Wharf with instructions to flee to Kingston should the capital fall and the fast-forming lake ice permit. The first truce up at Gallow’s Hill had lasted for two hours, with Mackenzie demanding a constitutional convention and the governor offering only amnesty.

  The rebels then moved farther down Yonge Street, past Bloor. A second truce and parley—with the governor refusing to put his amnesty offer in writing—broke up in disarray. Now it seemed that if the rebels could somehow be tricked into further delay, the militia would arrive to save the day and do honour to the Queen.

  Jarvis had ordered his pickets to remain silent as they trudged over the snowy, rutted roadway through the chill of a December twilight. There was a bright half-moon about to ascend in the East, but scudding clouds made its illumination uncertain. Cobb wasn’t sure whether it was safer to see where he was going or to be obscured in total darkness. With fellow constables Wilkie and young Rossiter on either side of him, Cobb fingered his musket nervously. It had been twelve years at least since he had fired a gun at his father’s side, hunting rabbits or grouse. And he had certainly never used one of these new-fangled paper cartridges. Besides that, there was the question of killing someone anonymously. There was every chance that one of the rebels up ahead was his nephew, Jimmy Madden, clutching his father’s stolen gun. What could have driven the boy to such a pass? To jettison his family, his new-found love, his own future? Something had gone terribly wrong, that was all Cobb knew. And good men, young and old, were about to die because of it.

  It was pitch black when Sheriff Jarvis called a halt and ordered the men to set up their picket behind a snake-fence a few yards above College Avenue. But even with the moon blocked by thick cloud, the snow on the ground conspired to make their hunched silhouettes alarmingly visible. Cobb set his rifle down and tried to thaw his fingertips under his armpits. Stretched out on either side of him, his colleagues-in-arms stamped their feet incessantly, in a vain attempt to keep the blood circulating or ward off a numbing terror. There was little else to do but wait.

  Just after six o’clock the white ribbon that was Yonge Street began to disappear into a tumble of shadows and to echo hollowly with the tramp of several hundred boots.

  “They haven’t seen us yet,” Jarvis whispered. “When I raise my sword, I want everybody to fire at once. Take aim at a single figure. Do not shoot blindly. If we kill a dozen of them with one volley, we may stall the advance. God be with you.”

  Which was precisely the prayer going round the rebel side, too, Cobb thought with a grimace. Soundlessly, those next to him laid the barrels of their rifles on top of the log-fence and began sighting a target. They had the advantage of being partially hidden and of being able to fire effectively without having to stand. Just then the moon made an untimely appearance. The front rank of the rebels, armed with rifles, had spotted them and dropped to one knee in preparation for a killing volley. The two groups were now no more than thirty yards apart. A wild susurration rose up from the rebels. Sheriff Jarvis raised his sword in defiance.

  As the air was shattered by the roar of nineteen muskets exploding around him, Horatio Cobb, loyal officer of the Crown, levered his rifle aloft, took dead aim at the alabaster belly of the half-moon, and pulled the trigger.

  With considerable difficulty Marc forced his eyes open, then snapped them shut. Someone was shining a bright light directly into them: they throbbed with the pain of it. He felt another throb in his left thigh, and remembered the gunshot and the indignity as the bullet struck. He listened for the sound of footsteps; surely Sergeant Ogletree had heard the explosions? He could discern only a low murmur of voices and someone groaning through his teeth.

  Marc tried to get a sense of where he had fallen. He was definitely on his back, even though he recalled pitching forward as he lost consciousness. He had no memory of hitting the floor. His thought now was that he ought to roll onto his side and try to get up. He didn’t want Ogletree and the men bursting in here and blazing away at civilians. But he couldn’t move. It wasn’t only his injured leg; it was the other one, too, and both his arms. He just seemed too weary to move, even lifting his eyelids had been an effort. What had happened to him? Mustering as much courage as strength, he opened his eyes again. Blinking away the intrusive light, he kept them open. He had been staring into a thin sunbeam angling into a shadowy, dank room of some sort through a crack in the siding.

  “Nurse, come quickly! He’s awake!”

  The voice, off to his right, was excited, and very Scottish. He didn’t recognize it. Then came the pounding of several feet on a wooden floor. The groaning, farther off, continued, muted but piteous. A sequence of odours struck his nostrils: privy-stink, animal gore, a dankness of rot and mouldy decay, his own fetid sweat. Two shadows suddenly blocked the sunbeam. He opened his eyes wide but found he could not raise his head to see who was now hovering over him. He tried moving his lips; the ghost of a voice emerged, but no words. A woman’s moon-face swam across his vision. A stubby finger brushed his upper lip and came to rest under his nose.

  “You’re right, MacKay. He’s awake and breathing. I wouldn’t’ve given a farthing for his chances.”


  “I’ll fetch the doctor and the major.”

  “Don’t go bothering Dr. Wilder. Major Jenkin will do.”

  “He’s tryin’ to tell us somethin’.”

  Marc heard a voice somewhat like his own say, “I’m co–ode.”

  “It’s okay, Lieutenant. I’ll fetch ye another blanket.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Mr. MacKay. Do you want all these other wretches crying out for one?”

  * * *

  The next time Marc opened his eyes, Owen Jenkin, quartermaster of the 24th and his loyal friend, was seated beside him and smiling as if he could do nothing else. Marc felt tears hot upon his cold cheeks. The major reached over and pulled a fresh-smelling blanket up to his chin.

  “Don’t expend your energy trying to talk, lad. You’re going to need it all for putting some flesh and muscle back on your bones—now that you’ve decided to live.”

  Marc shaped a question with his lips, cracked and dry though they were.

  “Well, you may think you’re in one of Hell’s vestibules when you get a chance to look around you,” Jenkin said, “but this is what passes for a military hospital in Montreal these days. We’ve been practically suffering a siege for two weeks, but things’ve quieted down now.”

  Marc’s puzzlement must have shown.

  “There’s a lot you’ll want to know, and I’ll do my best to fill you in. It’s hard to know where to start, but I’ll begin with you and go from there. In a day or so you’ll be peppering me with questions and correcting my Welsh grammar!” He took a few moments to laugh, which was only a slight exaggeration of his smile. “You were shot in the leg down in St. Denis late on December 1. Ogletree figures you passed out from shock. They carried you back into the village after making sure the habitant you shot dead was the only armed Frenchie in the house or on the property. But the surgeon had been called out to a place on the other side of town, and by the time he got to you, you’d lost a ton of blood. He told me he had to tie up some cord or other in your upper leg, then cauterize the wound. He told Captain Riddell that if you survived the shock of the blood-loss, you’d be healthy as a cart-horse, though you’d have a slight limp on the left side.”