Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  “What are you suggesting, John?” Maxwell said.

  “I am proposing that we become acutely vigilant, and that we do everything in our power to see that such a perverse and obscene coalition never sees the light of day.”

  Maxwell stared at the storm pummelling the windows even more fiercely than it had been doing earlier in the evening. “Then let us pray for more snow,” he said.

  ***

  By an odd coincidence another political conversation was in progress no more than a block and a half away in the library of Francis Hincks. And while there was also here a blazing hearth and snow-buffeted window-panes, the three gentlemen seated at an oak table strewn with important-looking papers had no recourse to dry sherry or Cuban cigars to soothe their dialogue along. Nor had there been a sumptuous dinner beforehand. In fact, one of their number, Marc Edwards, had just arrived, and was being brought up to speed by his host.

  “It’s all right there in LaFontaine’s letter, Marc,” Hincks was saying. “You can read it at leisure, but the gist of it is clear. LaFontaine has agreed to meet with us here in Toronto – this month.”

  Marc looked over at Robert Baldwin, his friend, mentor, and the man they all regarded as the one to lead the soon-to-be-united provinces towards responsible, cabinet government. “I must say that I’m astonished, Robert,” he said. “It all seemed hopeless just a few weeks ago.”

  “Francis deserves the credit,” Robert said. “His arguments were as irresistible as they were logical.”

  “We’ve inundated LaFontaine with letters in both tongues,” Hincks said, “though my French wouldn’t impress a schoolboy. And even though he’s agreed to come and talk with us face to face, that is only a first step. As you know, we have enormous obstacles to overcome, on both sides.”

  “Any meeting will have to be kept secret, won’t it?” Marc said, stating the obvious. “For the good of both parties.”

  “I think you’ll find the details we’ve worked out quite satisfactory,” Robert said, nodding at the most recent letter from Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine.

  Taking his cue, Hincks said, “The conference will take place out at Elmgrove, and will last for three days at a minimum. It will begin a week from next Wednesday. LaFontaine has decided to bring three associates with him, and they will begin arriving two days in advance of the conference.”

  “Begin arriving?” Marc said.

  Robert smiled, as he usually did, with his eyes only. “That’s part of our strategy to keep the conference secret. LaFontaine and one of his negotiators will travel together and incognito by private means, arriving on the outskirts of town some time early Monday evening.”

  Hincks – ever more excitable and voluble than his friend, next-door neighbour and political colleague – said in deliberately dramatic sotto voce, “They will cross the Don River at Scaddings Bridge and, quickly and unobserved – ”

  “We trust,” Robert said.

  “ – slide onto the old logger’s trail that weaves its way through the bush and passes behind the Elmgrove estate.”

  “Where our Garnet Macaulay will meet them and make them comfortable in his fine country manor,” Robert said, unable to keep his own excitement in check.

  “The same subterfuge will be played out on Tuesday evening with the other pair from Quebec,” Hincks said. “After they’ve had a night and a morning to rest and acclimatize, we’ll be ready for our first formal meeting on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Very impressive,” Marc said. “And you’re hoping that Elmgrove, out there on the edge of the city and tucked away in the middle of the bush, will suffice to keep any word of the negotiations from reaching the ears of those who do not wish us well?”

  “That’s the idea,” Hincks said. “We considered Spadina, which we used last fall for the secret talks with Governor Thomson over the Union Bill, but it’s on the other side of the city and, we’re certain, is being closely watched by the Tory faction.”

  Spadina was the Baldwin family’s country estate northwest of Toronto.

  “And you want Garnet Macaulay in on the negotiations?” Marc said, trying not to sound too surprised.

  “We do,” Robert said, reaching absently for a macaroon and remembering too late that he was not in his chambers where the sweets-dish was ever to hand. “For two reasons. First of all, unlike Francis or me, Garnet is a sitting member of the current Assembly, lame as that body now is. And just as importantly, he is a charming host with old-country manners, and thus a natural chairman for our deliberations.”

  “You’ll want the numbers kept as small as possible,” Marc said, “to facilitate discussion and consensus, and ensure secrecy.”

  “Especially secrecy,” Hincks said. “LaFontaine is under great pressure at home to have no truck with the maudits anglais, and while he has shown an admirable and courageous willingness to discuss a possible coalition with us, he feels he must be certain – after meeting with us – that a viable collaboration is achievable before returning to Quebec and attempting to sell it to his sceptical compatriots.”

  “Any intimation of these negotiations in advance will give LaFontaine’s political enemies time to prepare a counterattack,” Robert said.

  “They’d poison the well,” Hincks added, “and discredit our man for good.”

  “But surely the Tories here, even the moderate conservatives who’ve thrown their in lot with the union proposal, will suspect the possibility of our attempting to co-opt the radicals in Quebec?” Marc said. “They may be stubborn and obtuse, but they’re not naïve.”

  “I know for a fact that they do suspect,” Robert said. “Our exchange of letters with LaFontaine has not gone unremarked by their sympathizers in the post office. But Francis and I are routinely seen heading out to Elmgrove. And we plan to put out a story about our taking a business trip to Kingston – in case our absence is noticed.”

  “Good, good,” Marc said. “And the servants out there can be trusted?”

  “Garnet assures us that they are long-time employees and intensely loyal to him and Elizabeth,” Robert said.

  “As you may have heard,” Hincks added, “his butler and valet of many years died in November. But he has replaced him with a chap from England, who’s due to arrive in a few days. Whatever his politics, the fellow will be far too busy learning the ropes and trying to impress his master to worry about our French guests.”

  “With any luck, or God’s blessing,” Robert said with a small smile, “this blizzard will continue apace and render Elmgrove snowbound for the duration.”

  “So it will be the four visitors from Quebec and three of us,” Marc said. “With the fate of our united provinces in the balance.”

  “Four of us actually,” Robert said, waving at the absent sweets-dish.

  “We’d like you to join us,” Hincks said quietly.

  “Me?”

  “We know we’re asking a lot of you, Marc,” Robert said, “with Beth so close to her term, but we really do need you.”

  For over a year Marc had been assisting Robert and the Reform party by writing pamphlets and broadsides in the cause of responsible government. Then in September when he had passed his bar exams, he had further assisted Robert by helping his law firm with several cases while Robert devoted all his energies to politics, even though Marc had not yet decided to accept a formal invitation to become part of the Baldwin and Sullivan firm.

  “But I don’t see that I could contribute anything you two could not do better,” Marc protested. “I’m more likely to clutter up the discussion.”

  “In addition to your substantive contributions,” Robert said, “we’d like you to act as our translator.”

  To Marc’s puzzled response, Hincks said, “Robert and I both read French and I’ve become marginally adept at writing it during my corresponding with Louis, but neither Robert nor I can speak it beyond everyday polite conversation.”

  “And LaFontaine himself reads English, but claims to speak it only haltingly.”<
br />
  “And his associates?” Marc inquired.

  “Two of them are apparently much the same, but the third is unilingual,” Robert said.

  “With your assistance we hope to conduct the hard bargaining in French,” Hincks said. “And we’ll require your extensive knowledge of that tongue if and when it comes to putting our entente cordiale into writing.”

  “How is Beth by the way?” Robert asked.

  “As you know, she’s been laid low with the grippe for a week, but claims she’s on the mend. I was late tonight because I wanted to make sure she was telling the truth before I left her.”

  “When is the baby due?” Hincks said.

  “Early in April. So, unless Beth has a relapse or the babe comes prematurely, I’m sure I’ll be able to get away for the three days you’ll need me.”

  Hincks and Robert could not hide their relief. “Thank you, Marc,” Robert said. “I’m not sure what we would have done if you had been unable to say yes.”

  Marc hesitated before saying, “You do understand that I must ask Beth about this, don’t you?”

  Robert smiled broadly. “Naturally. Nothing is as important as the son of yours Beth is carrying – not even responsible government.”

  ***

  Constable Horatio Cobb was not exactly in conference, nor was he, as he might have been, settled into the cozy confines of his Parliament Street cottage and thawing his toes on a warm fender. He was, rather, seated at his “desk” near the rear portion of The Cock and Bull, thumbing a flagon of tepid ale and occasionally poking at the crumbs of his game pie with a bent fork. His day-patrol had ended more than an hour ago, but instead of heading straight home through the blizzard, he had stopped at his favourite tavern for supper and refreshment. Missus Cobb had gone up Yonge Street to Danby’s Crossing to attend a young woman about to give birth to her first child. The lad who had fetched her just after dawn had indicated that his aunt was in some distress, and Dora, bless her, had packed her carpetbag and informed her family that she would not be home until tomorrow, at best. While Cobb was proud of Dora and her dedication to midwifery (even boasting of her skills when she was well out of earshot), her trade was often inconvenient and sometimes irritating.

  His children, of course, had grown accustomed to her sudden absences, and fended well for themselves. Delia was almost fourteen, a passable cook, and a prize student at Miss Tyson’s Academy. Fabian, two years younger, was in his final year at the common school, and showing signs of a scholarly bent. How their father could manage to keep both of them in school much longer was a question that Cobb tried not to ask himself too often. But he had seen enough of the slavery of live-in maids and the brutality of day-labour to wish much more for his own precious ones. With Dora’s uncertain income (payment in kind was the norm) and his policeman’s stipend, they lived much better than most ordinary citizens of the town, but a private ladies academy and a grammar school still seemed beyond their reach. Marc Edwards – the Major, as Cobb had nicknamed his long-time friend and investigative colleague – was covering Delia’s fees for this term, but that was an arrangement Cobb was determined to end this spring.

  These were some of the constable’s musings as he sipped at his ale and watched the snow froth and seethe against the tavern windows. So preoccupied was he that Amos Coyle, the big barkeep, had to shake the table to get the policeman’s attention.

  Cobb looked up, startled, and said, “Trouble, Amos?” He hadn’t noticed anything more raucous than the usual shouts and guffaws of the drinking crowd around him.

  “Trouble brewing, Cobb. Over there at the far end of the bar.”

  Cobb peered through the smoke-haze and shifting bodies. “That fella bangin’ his cup on the counter?”

  “That’s the one. He’s so pissed he’d fall down if the bar wasn’t holdin’ him up.”

  “Why not toss him inta a chair an’ let him sleep it off?”

  “He’s gettin’ real belligerent. He threatened me.”

  Cobb stared up at the two-hundred-pound barkeep. “I find that hard to believe, Amos.”

  “He’s got a knife in his belt. An’ fire in his belly. I figured you an’ me could each take an arm an’ usher him inta the bracin’ air outside – before he can blink.”

  “But if he can’t walk, he’ll freeze out there.”

  Coyle said coldly, “That’s his worry, ain’t it?”

  “You know who he is?” The thought of dragging some drunk all the way to his doorstep was not appealing. Cobb was weary after a day of tramping through the winter streets, and his toes were just now beginning to thaw out.

  “I do. He’s been in here stirrin’ things up two nights runnin’. His name’s Giles Harkness.”

  “Never laid eyes on him till now, but I’ve heard of him. He’s a stable hand out at Elmgrove, ain’t he?”

  “Coachman, to hear him tell it. And accordin’ to him, he shoulda been the butler, if ya can believe it.” Coyle chuckled at the thought. “He’s been tellin’ everybody in town fer two nights that his brother was the Macaulay butler till he died three months ago, an’ that he himself was passed over fer the job. As if muckin’ out manure was good trainin’ fer bein’ a butler!”

  “Takin’ it hard, I’d say,” Cobb said as he watched Giles Harkness lurch sideways and bang his whiskey-cup on the bar so hard the chap slouched next to him jumped to attention.

  “We better move now,” Coyle said.

  Cobb and Coyle moved in tandem across the room, clearing a path through the tipplers as they went. Before Giles Harkness could make one more lurch or bang his cup one more time upon the counter, Cobb had him by the left elbow and Coyle by the right. In a wink he was ferried thus to the door, which an adroit customer had conveniently opened. Cobb reached over and pulled the hunting-knife out of harm’s way, and then swung Harkness and his dead weight up and out into a snowdrift.

  “I’ll have to take him to jail, I guess,” Cobb sighed.

  The toothless fellow who had opened the door piped up and said, “He’s not stayin’ out at Elmgrove, Cobb. He’s bunked in up at the inn.”

  “Mrs. Sturdy’s?”

  “You got it.”

  Cobb was relieved. Mrs. Sturdy operated a sort of hostel for vagabonds and rough trade half a block north on York Street. He slipped the knife into the pocket of his greatcoat, buttoned it, pulled up the collar, took his helmet from the grateful barkeep, wrestled on his mittens, and then turned his attention to the drunk. So fierce was the blizzard that a coat of fresh snow had almost covered Harkness as he lay motionless in the drift, except for the chattering of his teeth. As Cobb picked him up, the fellow went limp in his arms and, thankfully, seemed content to let himself be half-dragged and half-carried up York Street.

  There was a light in the lone window of the ramshackle “inn.” Cobb hauled Harkness up onto the porch, felt a board give way somewhere under the muffling snow, and pounded on the door. He could hear someone stirring behind it.

  At this point, Harkness opened his eyes and began tugging at Cobb’s ankle. Seeing the fellow’s lips moving in a desperate effort at speech, Cobb leaned down and tried to make out the words.

  They came in a sudden, slurred rush. “They think they seen the last of me, eh, but I ain’t that easy to get rid of. Not after the way I been treated. Who does he think he is?”

  “Calm yerself, sir. There’s a warm bed waitin’ fer ya inside.”

  Someone was fidgeting with a chain behind the door.

  “I’m gonna get even with the bugger. And I don’t give a damn who knows it!”

  “I’m sure you are. But it’ll haveta wait till mornin’, won’t it?”

  A door-latch began to squeal out of its socket.

  “I know a lotta things. Lot more’n they think I do. And I know who to tell, don’t I?”

  Mrs. Sturdy, all two hundred and some pounds of her stuffed into a crimson kimono, stood in the open doorway.

  “I brought ya one of yer inn-mates,” Cobb sai
d.

  “And I’m supposed to thank ya, am I?” she barked, making her curlers shiver.

  Just as Cobb reached down to pull Harkness upright, the fellow vomited – copiously – all over Cobb’s boots.

  ***

  “There’s nothin’ to discuss, luv,” Beth said. “You must go. An’ that’s all there is to it.”

  “What if your grippe comes back before the conference starts the week after next?” Marc said reasonably. They were seated beside the damped-down fire in the living-room of Briar Cottage. Maggie, almost a year old, slept peacefully in her cradle nearby. Charlene Huggan, their servant, was still next door visiting her fiancé, Jasper Hogg. The wind howled harmlessly outside.

  “If it does, and I’m not sayin’ it will, what’re you proposin’ to do about it – come up with a cure?”

  “What if Charlene has to run to fetch the doctor or Dora? Who’ll watch Maggie if you’re laid low?”

  Beth sighed. “First of all, I’m a month an’ more before my time. Second, I’ll ask Jasper to sleep over here the three or four nights you’ll be away. He’s here most of the daylight hours as it is. I’ll make up a bed fer him in the utility room.”

  “The neighbours will talk, surely.”

  Beth laughed out loud. “Are you lookin’ fer an excuse not to go?”

  Marc had been out of town on an investigation and had been absent for the birth of Maggie the previous March. He was determined not to repeat the folly. “Of course not. But if I’m to be of any real use to Robert and Francis out there, I’ll need to be free of anxiety about what’s happening back here.”

  “Well, then, you can relax. Jasper will play man about the house. Charlene or Etta can fetch Dora if she’s needed.” Etta was Jasper’s teenaged sister. “Dora will come every day anyway if we ask her. And if there’s a real emergency, Jasper can drive our cutter out to Elmgrove. It’s only a mile or so.”

  “Unless there’s a blizzard – ”

  Beth reached over and took Marc’s hand. “I was fightin’ fer this cause long before you, luv. I been involved in it all my adult life. I’m not about to let a case of the grippe or a baby who’s perfectly content in my belly stop you from goin’ out to Elmgrove an’ movin’ the cause forward on my behalf.”