Six days passed. On the afternoon of the seventh, there was a knock at the farmhouse door. Mrs Hershey answered it, and then came into the parlour where MacLea was sitting before the fire, cleaning and oiling his musket.
‘Captain MacLea? You have a visitor.’
The man who was ushered into the parlour was young, barely more than twenty. He was tall and lanky, with a long nose, deep-set eyes and a straight, humourless mouth. He wore a cloak and heavy boots, both splattered with mud and slush from hard travelling.
‘Have I the honour of addressing Captain John MacLea?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘I am he.’
‘My name is Robinson,’ the other man said. ‘You wrote to me. I came post-haste as soon as I received your letter. Sir, I need your help.’
MacLea trusted the Hersheys, but even so, the walls of the farmhouse might have ears. He pulled on his own overcoat and they walked away from the farm and down towards the riverbank. The dark waters of the Niagara rushed past them. A few flakes of snow curled in the air.
‘In your letter, you indicated that you have knowledge of an American spy ring,’ Robinson said. ‘Do I take it you are referring to Polaris?’
MacLea looked at him. ‘How did you know?’
‘When I took over as attorney general from poor Macdonell, I found references to Polaris in his papers. One letter mentioned your name, and stated you had been given a commission to find him.’
‘Have you also been searching for him?’ asked MacLea.
‘Indeed I have. John Macdonell’s letters made it clear that Polaris was a serious threat. My initial enquiries made no headway, so I wrote to the governor general in Montreal, Sir George Prévost, explaining the situation and asking for help.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me?’
Robinson gazed at him. He is young, MacLea thought, but he does not lack self-confidence.
‘I will be candid with you, Captain,’ Robinson said. ‘I thought you were a loose cannon. I read the accounts of your behaviour at the Battle of Queenston, and I reckoned you were disobedient, insubordinate and unreliable. I was not certain you could be trusted.’
‘I see,’ said MacLea. ‘And why did you approach Sir George, and not General Sheaffe?’
‘Oh, I spoke to General Sheaffe directly after I learned of the existence of Polaris, but he was not interested. He informed me that so far as he was concerned, Polaris was dead. He had been identified as the American officer Captain Barton, who died at Niagara Falls on board the President Madison. But according to John Macdonell’s notes, you had told him this was not true, and Polaris was still alive.’ Robinson sighed. ‘I pointed this out to the general. Unfortunately, the mere mention of your name was enough to send him into a fury. He refused to discuss the subject any further, and declared the matter closed. Colonel Lawrence, who was present at the meeting, then proceeded to denounce you in the vilest terms, calling you various names that I shall not repeat and urging me not to rely on anything you said.’
MacLea said nothing.
‘It was then that I wrote to Sir George,’ Robinson continued. ‘Unlike General Sheaffe, he took the issue seriously. Sir George sent his own professional enquiry agent, a man named Magnus Fraser. He was very experienced, a former Bow Street Runner who had been in government service for many years. And I must admit, he knew his stuff. Within a week of his arrival, he had arranged a meeting with someone who was part of the Polaris organisation and was ready to turn his coat. I met him just before he went to the meeting. He was confident that before the night was out, he would be able to tell me who Polaris was and where to find him.’
‘What happened?’ MacLea asked.
‘He never returned from the meeting,’ Robinson said, and MacLea could hear the grim anger in his voice. ‘He was found the next day in a house on the edge of York, stabbed through the heart.’
Beside them the river bubbled and rushed. More snowflakes drifted on the wind.
‘Has the killer been found?’ MacLea asked.
‘No,’ said Robinson. ‘It seems clear that Fraser was betrayed, and Polaris’s agents were lying in wait for him. The investigation ground to a halt and I despaired of ever restarting it, but then your letter arrived. The fact that you appeared to have information was my first ray of hope since Fraser died. And so I hastened down here to see you.’
‘Despite your reservations about me,’ MacLea said.
‘John Macdonell spoke very highly of you,’ Robinson said steadily. ‘I am prepared to admit that the impression I formed of you may have been incorrect.’
MacLea said nothing for a moment, wondering how far Robinson could be trusted. The attorney general was already looking for Polaris, and his anger over the death of the agent seemed genuine. On the other hand, MacLea had believed what Calder had told him too, and had been completely taken in. Once bitten, twice shy, he thought.
No, he could almost hear Josephine saying, we must trust someone. We cannot do this alone. If he is a traitor, we will expose him in due course and deal with him. But he could be the friend we need.
He smiled. ‘Actually, I think your summary of my character is remarkably accurate. I will tell you what I know. Last week, I received information that Squire George Wilson was working with the Americans. It was suggested that he might be Polaris.’
‘Wilson!’ Robinson stared at him. ‘Good God. I can’t believe it.’
‘He wasn’t Polaris,’ said MacLea. ‘But he was a traitor. I tracked him and a group of his followers. There was a fight, and Wilson was killed, shot by one of his own men.’
‘My God,’ said Robinson. He looked visibly shaken. ‘I’ve known George Wilson all my life. He and my father were friends. His own father fought alongside mine in the Queen’s Rangers under Major Simcoe during the revolution. I know he had his complaints about the government, as many people do, but I never doubted his loyalty. Why? Why would he turn his coat?’
‘We need to dig into his background and find out,’ said MacLea. ‘More importantly, if we investigate Wilson more fully, we might be able to identify Polaris.’ He paused. ‘Given your friendship, I am sure this will be distasteful to you. But it must be done.’
The other man shook his head. ‘This is a dirty war,’ he said.
‘If there is such a thing as a clean war, Mr Robinson, I have yet to see it.’
‘Yes… And I lack the experience and skills for this kind of work.’
The young man gazed out over the river for a moment, then looked back at MacLea. ‘I am laying my cards on the table, Captain. The only men I have to hand are three volunteer constables, and they too have no experience of this sort of work. I need your help. I am prepared to offer you a new commission to hunt down Polaris. Will you accept?’
‘I am a soldier,’ said MacLea. ‘A militia officer only, but still under the orders of General Sheaffe. If I do accept, he will countermand my commission and order me back to my post.’
Robinson nodded. ‘Mr Fraser’s commission came directly from Sir George Prévost, derived from his authority as governor general. I am prepared to transfer that commission to you. Sir George will approve my action once he learns of it, I am certain. And as Sir George outranks General Sheaffe, the general cannot interfere with you.’
MacLea considered this. ‘Then I accept,’ he said. ‘Though I should like to be a fly on the wall in General Sheaffe’s office when he hears the news.’
Robinson did not smile. ‘Where will you begin?’
‘We need to start with Wilson. You have met the man; what else do you know about him?’
‘To all appearances he was a respectable landowner. His father was given a grant of land when he brought his family to Canada after the revolution ended and was one of the first to settle in the Chippawa valley. He was much involved in trade with the Mohawks, and George carried on that trade. He was quite friendly with old Thayendanegea, Joseph Brant, before the chief died. Otherwise, I don’t know what to tell you. He was pr
osperous, of course, but he was also generous with his money. Everyone liked him, it seemed.’
MacLea nodded. ‘I shall go and search his house more closely,’ he said. ‘Mr Robinson, will you extend your commission to cover my men? I trust them implicitly, and I shall need their help.’
‘Yes,’ said Robinson. ‘Is there anything else you need from me?’
‘Wilson’s wife is in Montreal.’ MacLea reached into his pocket and handed over the letter and the watch. ‘These should be given to her. She may not know anything, but she should be questioned all the same.’
‘Yes.’ Robinson looked at the watch, and MacLea could see the sorrow in his serious young face. ‘I still cannot quite believe it. Poor Henrietta. My mother was very fond of her. This news will devastate her.’
‘Tell her that her husband died in battle,’ MacLea said quietly. ‘If she is innocent, there is no need to burden her with the truth.’
Robinson nodded.
‘We also killed several of the men who were with Wilson,’ MacLea continued. ‘I will give you a list of their names. The rest fled; some may have tried to get to America, but others may still be hiding in Upper Canada. Can you start tracking them down, while I look into Wilson’s affairs?’
Robinson nodded. ‘Once the fugitives are identified, they will be dealt with swiftly.’
‘Go cautiously,’ MacLea urged. ‘Do nothing that will arouse resentment against the government or the army, I beg you. We must not lose the support of the people.’
‘I understand,’ said Robinson. ‘But equally we cannot allow traitors to roam freely. The stakes are high, Captain, higher than you can imagine. News arrived in York just before I left; I daresay it will soon reach Niagara too. Bonaparte is victorious. He defeated the Russians at the gates of Moscow and has now occupied the city. The Russians will soon sue for peace, and Bonaparte will be free to concentrate his entire army against Wellington in Spain. Britain will once again be alone, facing the might of the French empire; only this time, fighting a war on two continents.’
‘There will be no reinforcements from home,’ said MacLea.
‘No,’ said Robinson. ‘Two more regiments, the 104th and the 8th, have been ordered to Upper Canada, but they will not arrive until spring at least. We are short of men, short of ships, short of guns. For the moment, it seems, the Americans have gone into winter quarters, but come spring, the giant will rouse from its slumber and turn on us once more. We cannot hope to repel the armies they will throw at us; especially while we have Polaris undermining us at every turn. We must stop him, before it is too late.’
‘Even if we do, it still might not be enough,’ MacLea said.
‘I know. But we have our duty, Captain MacLea. To king and country.’
MacLea shook his head. ‘I care a lot less about king and country than I do about the seventy thousand people in Upper Canada, many of whom, whites, blacks and Indians, came here because they wanted to be free. I’m damned well not going to see them sold into slavery – literally, in the case of our black inhabitants – without putting up a fight. I will find Polaris for you, Mr Robinson. You have my word on it.’
Chapter Six
After Robinson left to begin his long, weary ride back to York, MacLea called his men out of the farmhouse and gathered them in the field behind the barn. Daylight was already beginning to fade.
‘We have been given a job of work,’ he said. ‘We’re going to find Polaris.’
He told them what Robinson had said, and watched them perk up at the prospect of something to do. The idea of spending the rest of the winter sitting around in this remote farmhouse had little appeal.
‘Is this likely to be dangerous?’ McTeer asked.
‘Very possibly,’ said MacLea. ‘Polaris is a ruthless bastard. If we get too close to him, he will strike back.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ McTeer said happily. ‘I’m in.’
The others nodded.
‘Where do we start, John?’ asked Murray.
‘I’m going to see Colonel Bisshopp,’ said MacLea. ‘After that, we’ll carry out a proper search of Wilson’s house. Get your kit together and make ready. We depart in the morning at first light.’
The men turned back towards the house. Murray lingered for a moment, looking at MacLea. ‘Last time we went after Polaris, you were nearly killed.’
‘I don’t expect this time will be much different,’ said MacLea.
‘I don’t suppose the attorney general offered us any assistance?’
‘He is investigating the families of the men we killed. He will let us know if he learns anything.’
Murray looked dubious. ‘So, the eleven of us are going to stop Polaris.’
‘Twelve,’ said MacLea. ‘You are forgetting Josephine.’ He clapped Murray lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Alec. We missed Polaris before, but we won’t miss again. This time we will get our man.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
MacLea smiled. ‘Because I promised Mr Robinson,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s go tell the Hersheys they are finally about to be rid of their guests.’
* * *
‘So, you have sidestepped General Sheaffe’s authority,’ Colonel Bisshopp said the next morning. He and MacLea were sitting in the former’s office at Chippawa while Murray and the men waited outside. ‘He won’t like that.’
‘I can’t help it, sir,’ said MacLea. ‘As I now have a commission from Sir George Prévost, I hope you will give me and my men permission to leave our post.’
‘I should not presume to stand in the way of our beloved governor general. Of course you may go wherever you wish, and good luck to you.’ Bisshopp paused for a moment. ‘Answer me one question, though, before you go,’ he said. ‘The Americans landed at Frenchman’s Creek, not far from where you were billeted. Do you think they knew you were there?’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea.
‘They wanted you specifically to hear that Wilson was Polaris, and they hoped you would swallow this story about an insurrection. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
Bisshopp nodded. ‘So. Polaris has issued you with an engraved copperplate invitation to come after him. He is inviting you to dance.’
‘Yes,’ said MacLea again.
‘And that in turn can only mean one thing: he wants to use you to help him carry out his plan. Unwittingly, you will be doing his work for him. If I may be allowed to mix my metaphors, he will play you like a salmon on a hook until you are no longer useful. And then, of course, he will kill you.’
‘That is understood,’ said MacLea.
‘Is it? I hope so. You’re a good soldier, MacLea, although occasionally prone to elasticity when it comes to obeying orders. But you’re in a different kind of war now. I know. I’ve done my own fair share of fighting in the shadows.’
MacLea raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been a spy, sir?’
‘No, I’ve been a politician, and trust me, the world of politics is a damned sight more devious and murky than espionage. You don’t yet know who Polaris is, but he certainly knows who you are. He will have been studying you, and will know your habits and something about how you think. Watch your back, MacLea.’
‘I will, sir.’
They rose to their feet. To MacLea’s surprise, Bisshopp shook his hand. ‘I wish you good hunting,’ he said.
* * *
They borrowed horses from the stables of the Niagara Dragoons just outside the fort and rode up the track along the Chippawa under slow-drifting clouds pregnant with the promise of snow. Smoke curled from the chimneys of some farmhouses as they passed, but all was quiet.
They reached Wilson’s big whitewashed house just as the winter dusk began to fall. The front door still hung open. Inside, they lit lamps and candles, looking around. Nothing appeared to have been touched.
‘I wonder if the neighbours know he is dead,’ Murray commented.
‘If they did, they would have been in here by now,’ Schmidt said, eyei
ng the porcelain on the sideboard. ‘There are many things here worth stealing.’
‘Not everyone thinks like you do, Schmitty,’ said young Appleby. Although Schmidt never talked about his past, it was generally agreed among the others that he had spent some time on the wrong side of the law. Some thought he had been a thief, others that there was a woman involved. The smart money was on both.
‘All right,’ said MacLea. ‘Split up into small groups. Each group take a room, search it, then move on to the next.’
‘What are we lookin’ for, Cap’n?’ asked Miller.
‘Papers, letters, diaries, notebooks. Anything that might tell us more about Wilson and give us the names of his friends.’
They scattered through the house, some going upstairs to look through the bedrooms and dressing rooms. MacLea and Murray took the study, a big room with full bookshelves, a desk with a high-backed leather chair, and two big oil paintings in gilt frames on the wall. One was a portrait of a man MacLea guessed to be Wilson’s father; the other was a seascape with fishing boats and white cliffs in the background that looked like the English Channel.
The drawers of the desk were full of ledgers and accounts. One held an iron-bound strongbox; Murray placed this on the floor before the hearth and then battered it with a cast-iron firedog until it broke apart.
‘Anything?’ MacLea asked, going through the papers in the desk.
‘Letters from his wife,’ said Murray. ‘Deeds to various properties in the peninsula, including this house and farm. Business contracts with various people. David Secord, Jim’s brother, is one of them. There are others, too, all local worthies: Samuel Street, Robert Hamilton, Richard Woodruff… Here’s one that mentions Captain Hatt.’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 8