‘Yes. A far cry from the ploughboys we recruited in our first company, back in Stormont… John, we haven’t mentioned James Boydell.’
‘No,’ said MacLea.
‘It’s true we know the man well. He has helped us, many times. He offered to be your second when you challenged Lawrence; he did his utmost to capture Barton and his men when they fled from Niagara, and he and his company were right there in support when we charged at Queenston. He has never given us any reason to distrust him. But the fact remains that he is an Assemblyman, and he had dealings with Wilson.’
‘Dealings he has never concealed,’ MacLea said. ‘But you’re right, we must keep an open mind. As Robinson said, it could be anyone.’
They began to walk towards the distant houses of York, seeing smoke curling from a hundred chimneys. ‘What next?’ asked Murray.
‘We’ll seek out our four birds and interview them,’ said MacLea. ‘And then we’ll do what spies always do. We’ll wait for something to happen.’
* * *
Dusk was descending, the grey light dappled with the brighter specks of falling snow, when Josephine Lafitte stepped out of the Selby house on Frederick Street. Booted and gloved, in a long cloak with a hood pulled forward to conceal her face, she walked through a world of silence, every sound muffled save the squeak of her boots on the snow. A few people passed her, but none gave her much attention and they were soon swallowed up in the falling snow. All the same, she walked slowly, and sometimes took a small mirror from the folds of her cloak and held it concealed in her hand, watching to see if anyone was following her.
In her pocket was a sealed letter, written in a complex code.
This is to inform you that the British are aware of your intention to attack the port of Kingston on Lake Ontario. Since my arrival here, I have learnt that they have moved a dozen heavy guns to Kingston. Also, four companies of the 8th Foot have arrived to bolster the garrison, which now numbers more than a thousand men. The walls are said to be very strong. If you intend to attack, you would be wise to wait until January, when the lake freezes. Their ships will be trapped in the ice then, and your men can march over the ice and seize them, then turn their guns on the fortifications. That way you will be sure of victory.
It did not take her long to reach Palace Street; York was smaller and less spread out than Niagara, and nowhere was far from anything. After life in New Orleans and then London, she was still getting used to the scale of Canada, with its tiny settlements and the huge distances between them. As instructed, she reached a particular house and then walked down the lane beside it into the yard behind.
The door of the carriage house was ajar. The hair on her neck lifted as she contemplated the shadows inside, wondering what might be waiting there, but she steeled herself and walked inside. The black shape of a large coach stood in front of her. She felt for the door handle and opened it. Reaching inside, she lifted one of the seat cushions and placed the letter beneath it, then replaced the cushion and walked out of the coach house and back to the street. She realised she had been holding her breath.
She stopped for a moment. Dimly from inside the house came the sound of a violin playing a melancholy tune. She listened to it for a moment, not recognising the piece and wondering what it was.
Chapter Ten
John Stinson refused to receive MacLea and Murray at home. ‘If you want to question me, do it in public,’ he said when they met in the bar at Jordan’s Hotel. ‘That way, if you bastards try something, I’ll have plenty of witnesses.’
It was the 21st of December, and at the far end of the room hotel servants were climbing ladders to hang festive green boughs around the windows and doors. MacLea had expected Stinson to be recalcitrant, but he was not prepared for such open hostility. He kept his voice calm.
‘I assure you, sir, you have nothing to fear from us. We merely want a quiet conversation with you about some of your business associates.’
‘Don’t peddle that shit to me,’ said Stinson. He was a tall, angular man with greying hair. His face was already beet red with choler, and his eyes sparkled with anger. ‘Everyone in York knows who you are, MacLea. You’re hunting that American spy, aren’t you? And you think I’m him. That’s the only reason you want to talk to me.’
MacLea closed his eyes briefly. This is Lawrence’s doing, he thought. He knows I led the last hunt for Polaris. Now he has worked out why I am here and is trumpeting the news around the colony in hopes of putting a spoke in my wheels.
The pig-headed fool, he thought with a sudden flash of anger. He doesn’t care about the danger this country faces; all that matters is getting revenge for besmirching the name of his precious regiment.
He opened his eyes again and regarded Stinson. ‘Are you working with Polaris?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Are you spying for America?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped Stinson. ‘I’m a loyal Canadian. But I don’t suppose you know what that means.’
‘Suppose you explain it to me.’
‘It means, Mr MacLea, that I am loyal to Upper Canada and its liberties and people, not to some damned high-and-mighty British general or trumped-up bureaucrat who comes in from London and thinks they can order things as they please. And don’t tell me the war gives them an excuse to interfere.’
‘Some might disagree,’ said MacLea. ‘You left America twenty-six years ago. Do you mind telling me why?’
Stinson glared at him, and for a moment MacLea thought he might refuse. ‘Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I was a Loyalist during the revolution. After the peace treaty was signed, the American government accused me of harbouring pro-British sentiments. I heard about land grants and lower taxes for anyone settling in Upper Canada, and I went north for a quiet life.’
‘But you still have family in New Hampshire?’
‘Some. Most have moved up to Canada.’
‘Are you still in contact with those who remained behind?’ Murray asked.
‘Of course I am.’ Stinson glared at him. ‘Or I was, until this goddamned war started.’
MacLea nodded. ‘Did you know George Wilson?’ he asked.
Stinson shifted abruptly in his chair. ‘I met him once or twice, here in York. I didn’t know him well.’
‘What did you talk about when you met?’
‘Corn prices. Land prices. What every man talks about.’
‘Did you correspond with him after that?’
‘No.’
‘Did he make any other approach to you? Did he, perhaps, ask you to support a popular rebellion?’
Stinson sneered at him. ‘Rebellion, my arse. George Wilson was just a businessman like myself. He dared to speak out against the government, and you bastards murdered him, just like you’ll try to murder me one day. Well, I won’t be silenced. Do you hear me?’
‘We hear you, sir,’ said Murray. ‘For someone who only met Wilson once or twice, you have strong feelings about him. Did you really have no other contact with him?’
The anger was back in Stinson’s voice. ‘Are you deaf? I wasn’t working with George Wilson and I’m not a fucking spy. Is that clear?’ He rose to his feet, scraping back his chair. ‘No more questions? Good, then I’ll be off.’
They watched him leave, slamming the door behind him. The men on the ladders shrugged at each other and resumed their work. ‘He wasn’t happy,’ Murray said.
‘Agreed,’ said MacLea. ‘He wasn’t.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Polaris is clever and subtle. Stinson is about as subtle as Vesuvius. I cannot imagine Polaris employing anyone so temperamental as an agent.’
‘There certainly was an awful lot of bluster. He has a grudge against the government, just as Robinson said, but I reckon he’ll never do anything other than rant about it. Still, I think the boys should keep watching him.’
‘They will,’ said MacLea.
Murray nodded. ‘Who’s next?’
‘Street. We’re meeting
him this afternoon.’
* * *
Around noon that same day, a young man in an army greatcoat and battered hat with a wool scarf around his neck walked through the snow down Frederick Street. He passed the Selby house just as Josephine’s young maidservant came out of the servants’ entrance carrying a basket. She too was well muffled against the cold.
The young man stopped and doffed his hat, revealing a mop of black curls. ‘Good day to you, miss,’ he said politely. ‘Am I right in thinking your name is Marie?’
Marie looked up at the pleasant face and smiled. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘And I think you must be one of Captain MacLea’s company.’
‘That’s right, miss. My name is Moses Crabbe. Might I walk with you a little way?’
They walked down the street together. None of the passers-by so much as glanced in their direction. There were plenty of people of colour living in York, and most of the rest of the population paid them no attention whatsoever. They might have been invisible.
‘I think, Mr Crabbe, that you did not come here today by chance,’ the girl said.
Even though there was no one nearby, Crabbe lowered his voice. ‘Indeed I did not,’ he said. ‘I have a message for your mistress. Will you deliver it to her?’
‘That depends on the message,’ she said.
‘The captain wishes to know if she is well, and what has brought her to York. If she wishes to send a letter to the captain, I will deliver it for her. Can you contrive to meet me again?’
Marie nodded. ‘I go to the market every day. It would not be remarkable if I should meet a handsome young man there from time to time.’
She smiled as she said it, but her eyes were deadly serious. She knew this could be dangerous, but Crabbe could see the steel inside her. She’ll do anything for her mistress, he thought. Just as I would lay down my life for Captain MacLea.
‘But I do not think my mistress will send a letter,’ she said. ‘There is too much risk. She will tell me what to say, and I will tell you.’
‘I understand,’ said Crabbe. ‘I will see you tomorrow, miss.’ He doffed his hat once more, then turned and walked back down the street. Marie watched him for a moment before carrying on towards the market, her pretty face frowning a little.
* * *
Caleb Street lived in a whitewashed house with a grandiose portico in the north of the town. The forest began almost immediately behind it, dark leafless trees crowding together, their limbs crusted white with snow. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house.
Inside, the place was furnished lavishly, its contents intended to display wealth rather than please the eye. Gilt-framed paintings, Indian carpets, Wedgwood vases and ornate silver-gilt candlesticks jostled with each other, glittering in the lamplight. A log fire roared in the hearth, keeping out the cold.
Street looked like exactly what he was: a prosperous merchant and land speculator climbing the social ladder. He wore a rich dark red coat and a heavily embroidered satin waistcoat. At thirty-five, he was a few years older than Murray and MacLea, and he brushed his wavy dark hair forward to disguise the signs of a growing widow’s peak.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said once they were seated by the fire, glasses of sherry in hand. ‘I assume your visit is in connection with the unfortunate Mr Wilson. How may I assist you?’
Like Stinson, he knew exactly why there were here, but his voice and demeanour were courteous. MacLea could detect no trace of the oleaginous manner Boydell had referred to.
‘I am told you had business dealings with Wilson. Will you tell us more about these?’
Street picked up a sheaf of papers lying on a side table and handed them over. ‘I anticipated your question, and have already searched my records. You have in your hands evidence of every transaction I undertook with Squire Wilson over the past ten years.’
MacLea and Murray scanned the papers quickly. Ten years in farming had turned them both into passable businessmen, and the records were clear. The transactions were simple: purchases of timber, flour, bolts of cloth, saw blades, blankets, hammers and nails, leather harness, salt pork, all the traffic of frontier settlements being built in a hurry by men anxious to make money.
‘What was your opinion of Wilson?’ MacLea asked.
‘My opinion?’ Street blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. What did you think of him? Did you like him?’
Street stared at him, trying to work out the question’s real intent. He knew full well, of course, that it was MacLea who had hunted Wilson down in Canby Marsh, although presumably he did not know that Wilson had been killed by one of his own men. Or perhaps he did.
‘Wilson was honest,’ he said finally. ‘Always delivered goods on time, never a day late in making a payment, that sort of thing. Did I like him? Yes, I suppose I found him pleasant enough, though we were hardly firm friends.’
‘Did you know he was planning a revolt against the government?’ MacLea asked.
Street’s hands, resting in his lap, twisted suddenly. ‘No, I didn’t. I confess I still find it hard to credit. The man must have taken leave of his senses. No one could have hoped to organise such a revolt and succeed.’
What a curious way of putting it, MacLea thought. ‘Suppose Wilson had decided to raise the standard of rebellion. Would others in the Niagara peninsula have followed him?’
‘A few malcontents, perhaps,’ said Street. His manner was smoother now, more controlled. ‘Not many. I doubt if he could have raised fifty men, or even half that number. There is nothing for General Sheaffe or Sir George Prévost to lose sleep over.’
The mention of Sheaffe’s name reminded MacLea of something. ‘I understand you are on friendly terms with the general,’ he said. ‘You refused to sign the petition asking for his recall.’
‘I do not share my fellow countrymen’s views on General Sheaffe,’ Street said. ‘I find him good company. He is an intelligent man, doing a very difficult job to the best of his ability. For all the laurels that have been awarded to the late General Brock, let us not forget that it was General Sheaffe who led us to victory at Queenston.’
He regarded MacLea with just a trace of a smirk. ‘Although he did have a little help, of course.’
‘Many men fought bravely that day,’ said MacLea noncommittally.
‘But some more than others,’ said Street. ‘I do hope you and General Sheaffe can repair the breach between you…’ He paused, as if in thought. ‘Perhaps I could be of service to you? I could have a word with the general. He would listen to me, I know.’
‘That is kind of you, sir,’ said MacLea.
Street raised one forefinger. ‘Please, Captain. My offer is genuine. I would be only too happy to mediate between you. General Sheaffe owes me a favour or two, and as for yourself… well, it would be an honour to serve one of our most courageous and dedicated soldiers.’
Hell, thought MacLea, he is laying it on thick. Perhaps Boydell was right after all. ‘Thank you, sir. I know your offer is kindly meant. Perhaps I will take you up on it one day.’
‘You may call on me at any time,’ said Street.
MacLea nodded. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mr Street.’
* * *
‘You didn’t exactly pin him to the wall,’ said Murray when they reached the street.
‘I didn’t need to,’ said MacLea. ‘Didn’t you see him? He knew perfectly well what Wilson was up to. It makes me wonder how many more people did.’
‘But is he a fellow sympathiser?’
‘That’s more difficult to say. He was dismissive of the idea of rebellion, wasn’t he? When I asked whether Wilson could have succeeded, his manner changed completely.’
‘But he might have some other scheme up his sleeve,’ said Murray. ‘Why do you suppose he is so cosy with Sheaffe? He said Sheaffe owes him a favour or two.’
‘Sheaffe is chronically short of money, and Street, as we saw, is minted. I should imagine he has been making loans to the genera
l.’
‘Hmm,’ said Murray. ‘In exchange for what, I wonder? And what was all that rubbish about interceding with Sheaffe on your behalf?’
‘A rather clumsy attempt to flatter me and get me on his side,’ said MacLea. ‘Again, though, that begs the question why. You’re right, Alec. He is up to something. We’ll need to keep a very close eye on him.’
He pulled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. ‘Right, I’m off to meet Abel Thomas. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘Watch your back,’ said Murray.
* * *
Snow was falling again by the time MacLea reached the empty white fields west of the fort. He had taken a roundabout route, constantly looking behind him, but no one had followed him.
Abel Thomas was waiting, watching a pair of whiskey jacks flit like grey ghosts through the nearby trees. He saluted as MacLea walked up. ‘Anything to report?’ the captain asked.
‘Moses has met with Marie, sir. Madame Lafitte’s servant, that is. She has agreed to help, but she says she will pass verbal messages only. She will meet Moses again tomorrow, and he will pass on whatever message Madame Lafitte sends.’
MacLea nodded. He had already anticipated that Josephine would not send a letter; apart from the risk to herself, it could also put Marie in danger. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been watching them four fellows like you asked, sir. Mr Burwell hardly ever leaves his house and has few callers. Folks say he’s not well. Mr Stinson doesn’t go out much either, save for this morning when he met you.’
MacLea nodded.
‘Mr Street, on the other hand, goes everywhere and sees everyone,’ said Thomas. He reached into his pocket and produced a small piece of paper. ‘He had coffee yesterday at Chief Justice Scott’s house, and then dined with Mr Beikie, the sheriff of York, and this morning he called on Reverend Strachan, the rector, and was with him for over an hour.’
The Hunt for the North Star Page 14