Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  Hincks grinned. His excitement was palpable, and this in a man who was always quick of movement and rapid in speech. “You have a way of simplifying the simplest situations,” he said teasingly to his friend.

  They were speeding along King Street towards the eastern edge of the city, where the thoroughfare curved northeast and became the Kingston Road.

  “I am somewhat surprised,” Marc said, “that LaFontaine decided to bring along three of his colleagues. I would have thought that if he were trying to keep his contacts with us English secret, it would be best to travel light and alone.”

  “I agree,” Robert said, “but LaFontaine decided to explain his reasons in the last letter he sent to Francis – ”

  “One we didn’t have a chance to show you,” Hincks said to Marc, “as it just arrived yesterday.”

  “In it,” Robert continued, “he said that he had decided to bring with him three men who, while remaining committed to the Rouge party and its radical principles, would not in ordinary circumstances fraternize with the English and certainly not cohabit with them politically.”

  “These men are likely to oppose our terms for a coalition?” Marc said, puzzled and not a little alarmed.

  “That is correct,” Hincks said. “These fellows will be a lot harder to convince than LaFontaine himself.”

  “But I understood that he hoped to negotiate a reasonable entente with us first and then return to Quebec and attempt to sell it to his comrades.”

  “And he still does,” Robert said. “But the man is both a lawyer and a seasoned politician. He was, remember, Papineau’s right-hand man until the actual fighting broke out. What he’s up to, I’m sure, is to have these hard-nosed colleagues engage us and our terms with a view to seeing whether a workable coalition is even possible. And the sly fox wants also to make certain that he ends up with as many concessions from our side as he can get.”

  “I see,” Marc said. “If we can demonstrate to these sceptical associates of his that we are sincere and practical and don’t have cloven feet, then he’ll be willing to seal a pact with us and take it home for approval.”

  “Precisely,” Hincks said. “He’s a man after my own Irish heart.”

  “What do we know about these men?” Marc said. “We don’t want to go into negotiations blind, do we?”

  “Good arguments are always good arguments,” Robert said, as if that resolved the matter.

  “In theory, yes,” Hincks said. “But I’ve never underestimated the power of a little persuasion, a sort of tailoring the suit to flatter the gentleman, as it were.”

  “How much tailoring may be necessary?” Marc said.

  “Well, LaFontaine was good enough to give us a paragraph or two of background information on these fellows,” Robert said.

  Before either Hincks or Robert could elaborate, they were interrupted by Old Henry, their driver, who pointed to a pair of snow-shrouded stone plinths off to their left and shouted back down to them, “Them’s the gates to Elmgrove.”

  “Go right on, Henry, as we planned,” Robert said. To the others he said, “We could go in the front way with all this snow about, but we’ll play it safe and circle around through the bush.”

  Henry cracked his whip over the horse’s ears and the sleigh lurched forward. Somewhere a few hundred yards ahead, the Scaddings bridge lay across the frozen Don River. Just this side of it they would find the logging trail that would arc northwest and bring them out above the Macaulay estate. Henry would drop them and their luggage off and return to Baldwin House via the same serpentine route.

  “Erneste Bergeron,” Hincks said as if he were announcing a witness to the court. “A wealthy farmer and landowner. Fifty years old. Newly rich, not a seigneur. Supplied the rebels with money and food. Got his barn and crops burned for his pains. Addicted to Catholicism. Bright enough to realize his sons could not thrive in the old regime.”

  “At age fifty, his opinions will be well set,” Marc pointed out.

  “Maurice Tremblay is certainly younger, in his mid-thirties,” Robert said. “But he was an active rebel, a close friend of Nelson, fought with him at St. Denis, and was later captured and imprisoned. Only Lord Durham’s amnesty saved him from the noose.”

  “We won’t tell him that our interpreter here was formerly a lieutenant in the British army and lauded everywhere English is spoken as the Hero of St. Denis.”

  Marc winced at Hincks’s reference to his past exploits, his other life.

  “According to LaFontaine,” Robert said more soberly, “the poor fellow lost three fingers on his right hand during a skirmish. To put it bluntly, as Louis did, he hates the English with a passion.”

  “Why bring him along, then?” Marc asked, just as the sleigh swung left and entered the deep evergreen woods to the north. Here, the rarely used trail was much rougher, despite the cushion of snow over it, and the spruce boughs brushed rudely against the sides of the vehicle.

  “He’s intensely loyal to LaFontaine,” Robert said.

  “Even though LaFontaine did not join the fighting?”

  “Yes. As you know, Louis never stopped putting forth the French case – before the parliamentary crisis began, and during the fractious debate in the Legislature when supply was withheld and the ruinous stalemate ensued. Louis was jailed by Governor Colborne as an instigator and supporter of the revolt. And he worked tirelessly to achieve clemency for the captured rebels, particularly during Lord Durham’s brief tenure. And in the past few months he has spoken publicly again and again about the inequities of the Union Bill.”

  “You think he realizes that revolutions are won in the political back rooms as well as on the battlefield?” Marc said.

  “We must hope that is so,” Robert said. “For many of his Rouge party and their supporters are Tremblays: outcasts and pariahs in their own country. He will have to persuade them that there is a future for them in the new order.”

  “And the third associate?” Marc asked, as they struck a stray log somewhere under the snow and bounced sideways.

  “An interesting and quite different case,” Hincks said. “One Daniel Bérubé. A middle-aged Montreal merchant. In dry goods, if I recall correctly. Not your classic radical. Stayed neutral during the revolt. But realizes that the Bleu party will be even more reactionary in the new joint parliament – which is not good for business.”

  “It sounds like LaFontaine wants to add a practical voice to the mix,” Marc said.

  “As long as the fellow isn’t so practical he loses sight of the larger principles animating our common cause,” Robert said. “Despite what our opponents think, we’ve never sought an American-style republic – with all its unchecked excesses and obsession with material progress.”

  Marc, who had observed some of these excesses firsthand in a recent trip to New York City, nodded his agreement.

  “We’re here, gentlemen!” Old Henry called out.

  The sleigh had turned south and abruptly left the forest behind. Before them lay the cleared acres of Elmgrove, and as if to welcome them there, the snow suddenly ceased. In the crisp, clear air they could see nearby several small sheds and barns nestled in deep drifts. Farther on loomed the impressive silhouette of Elmgrove’s manor-house with its soaring, snow-capped chimney-pots, its steep gables, and several tall-windowed wings. A faint runner-track wound its way among the sheds and eased around the capacious stables, partially hidden by a grove of cedars – evidence that their French counterparts had, some time before, arrived here via the same strategic route.

  “Go right on up to the circular drive in front of the manor,” Robert said to Old Henry, having to loosen one of his scarves in order to swing his head far enough around to catch his coachman’s attention. “Macaulay will be expecting us there.”

  When they pulled up to the porticoed entrance to Elmgrove, Garnet Macaulay was indeed waiting for them. Elegantly turned out, as always, he stood on the swept stones of the porch, hatless and smiling, and called out to the ar
rivals, “Come right in, gentlemen. Leave your luggage for the servants.”

  Marc and Robert followed Hincks up the steps, stamping their feet to get some feeling back in them.

  “It’s a damn sight warmer inside,” Macaulay said cheerfully. “And I daresay it’ll get even warmer before Saturday.”

  After a brief exchange of greetings they went into a spacious foyer, where the butler stood anxiously – staring with disapproval, it seemed, at his master’s unorthodox and needlessly effusive manner of greeting his guests. “May I take the gentlemen’s coats and hats?” he said in tones so orotund and so English that they might have been meant as caricature. “I’ll have Bragg take the luggage to the north wing, if that’s all right with you, sir?”

  “Of course, Chilton. Whatever you feel is necessary,” Macaulay said, apparently flustered a bit by Chilton’s direct question. Then he added, “But Struthers usually does the heavy lifting.”

  “Mr. Struthers is the ostler and general handyman, sir. I’ve had him lay in sufficient wood for the extra fires we’ll need in the north wing, but I’ve instructed him not to enter the main section of the house with his muddy boots and odorous clothing.”

  “Very good, Chilton. As you see fit.”

  Chilton placed the hats and coats on the hall-tree with a pair of precise, long-fingered hands. “I’ll let the snow drop off them, sir, before taking them down the hall to the closet.”

  Macaulay waved the arrivals towards a door at the end of the wide hallway that bisected the main section of the manor. “We’ll have a quick drink in the billiard-room before Chilton settles you into your quarters.”

  “Mr. Chilton seems to have settled himself in rather quickly,” Hincks remarked. “He can’t have been here long.”

  “Not quite a week,” Macaulay said. “He arrived here last Thursday and took over immediately.” Then, as if he had said something untoward, he added, “He’s come highly recommended from London, and is extremely efficient.”

  “But he’s not Alfred Harkness,” Robert said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

  “Alfred was one of a kind,” Macaulay said.

  Alfred Harkness, who had served the family for over twenty years, had been diagnosed with stomach cancer early in October. He had insisted on carrying out his duties despite the pain and his impending death. Sadly, Macaulay had begun seeking a replacement, writing to friends and acquaintances here and in England. His efforts had brought him Graves Chilton, but no-one could replace Alfred.

  “Where are the Frenchmen?” Hincks said to Macaulay as they stepped into the billiard-room, unoccupied except for a smartly dressed, handsome servant tending to the drinks-tray at the sideboard.

  “They’re in their rooms, resting and reading. They’ll join us for luncheon at twelve o’clock, after which we’ll repair to the library to begin our deliberations.”

  “I’ll have a small sherry,” Hincks said.

  “Don’t bother with that, Bragg,” Macaulay said to the man who was about to set up a tray of drinks. “We’ll help ourselves. Chilton wants you to deal with the luggage outside.”

  Very slowly, Bragg put down the decanter he was holding. “But, sir – ” he said in a way that managed to be both pleading and aggrieved.

  “I know, I know, Bragg. But we all have to adjust to the ways of the new man, eh, and to the fact of our still being short-handed.”

  Bragg glowered and sighed, but did as he was bid.

  Macaulay heaved a sigh of his own. “Perhaps when Elizabeth gets back from Kingston next week, things will start running smoothly again.”

  “Have you heard how she’s faring?” Robert said, always concerned about the health of spouses, especially since his own Elizabeth had died suddenly four years before, leaving him with two sons and two daughters to raise on his own.

  “Got a letter three days ago. The cure seems to be working.”

  The four men sipped their sherry and chatted inconsequentially for the next ten minutes, mostly about the arrangements and schedule for the coming three days. Garnet Macaulay was quite happy to leave the substantive talk to his colleagues while he played gracious host. Marc, who had not been to Elmgrove before, took the opportunity to admire the billiard-room. At the far end sat a regulation-size billiard-table and a cue-rack, with plush leather chairs , trimmed in Kendall green, nearby, where the players could rest between turns at the table. On the outside wall, a splendid fireplace with side-panels and a mantel of Italian marble graced the middle portion of the room, naturally illuminated by sunlight through a pair of tall windows. At the near end, where they now lounged in comfortable easy-chairs, a baize-topped card-table sat in one corner, waiting for clients.

  “Your rooms are ready now,” Chilton announced from the doorway. “If you like, I’ll take you there immediately.”

  This latter remark had more of an imperative ring to it than Macaulay might have wished, but he said mildly, “That would suit, Chilton. We’re finished here.”

  Chilton bowed stiffly and stood back deferentially, waiting for the gentlemen to make their move. Behind him in the hallway, there came a loud clatter and a stifled oath, followed by the sound of glass breaking. Chilton wheeled as if he’d been ambushed and cried sharply, “You clumsy fool! Look what you’ve done! That breakage will come out of your wages.”

  Marc was the first one out into the hall, arriving in time to see Austin Bragg struggling to his feet, with chunks of a crystal goblet in each hand. What had begun as a look of dismay on his face was already turning into one of seething, ill-concealed rage.

  “It wasn’t me that left these boots here!” he snapped at Chilton.

  Chilton glared back at him, but there seemed little anger in him as he said with quiet menace, “Fetch Priscilla to help clear up this mess. We’ll discuss the matter later, after the gentlemen have been tended to.” With that he wheeled around to face Marc and the others, and beamed them a rueful smile. “My apologies for this mishap. It shan’t happen again. Now, if you’ll be good enough to follow me.”

  Marc, Robert and Hincks turned to do so, but Macaulay stayed behind, bending over Bragg and murmuring something in his ear. Meanwhile Marc took a moment to scrutinize the strange new butler leading them down the hall towards a rotunda at the far end. Graves Chilton was a trim and neatly efficient specimen in every respect but one. He moved like a cat – part prowl, part prance; his morning coat and striped trousers seemed to have been cut specifically for the form and articulation of their occupant; a neat red moustache accented his thin, serviceable lips with military precision; the eyes were a deep blue and ready to dart in any emotional direction that might be demanded of them. But there was nothing he could do about his hair, an intemperate burst of orange stalks that the poor devil had pomaded and brushed and curry-combed to no avail: it sprouted wherever it pleased. Marc smiled to himself. Chilton might well prove to be officious and insufferable, but he would run a tight ship.

  And for the next three momentous days that would suit them all just fine.

  THREE

  When Chilton ushered the French guests into the dining-room for luncheon, Marc got his first look at Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine. And it was difficult not to keep on looking. As Marc had been forewarned, LaFontaine did bear a striking resemblance to pictures he had seen of the Emperor Napoleon. His dark hair was parted in the Napoleonic style, his bearing was regal, and as he stood watching Macaulay introduce the others, the fingers of his right hand slipped automatically under the lapel of his jacket. But he was much taller than the Emperor, above average even, and he showed no signs of that great man’s restless energy. Given the fellow’s reputation as a radical mover and shaker in the turbulent politics of Quebec, Marc had expected someone fiery of temperament, a man of passionate gestures. But this Louis LaFontaine was a calm presence in the room: his black eyes were full of stilled but watchful intensity. His voice, in heavily accented English, was deep but otherwise unremarkable.

  So taken with the leader of th
e French Rouge was Marc that he was well into the main course of the meal before he even thought about studying the other three Frenchman. Garnet Macaulay, as their host, had sat at the head of the table and insisted that LaFontaine sit opposite him at the other end. Marc, Robert and Hincks were placed on his left, with Bergeron, Tremblay and Bérubé on his right. In a sometimes confusing but always earnest manner, the two groups managed, in both limited English and French, to carry on a polite patter, as if this were merely a social occasion in which new neighbours strove to get to know one another. As stilted as it was, and downright awkward during those moments when Marc had to be called upon for a quick translation, the effort being put forth by each side had to be gratifying. Certainly it boded well for the serious deliberations to follow.

  The only exception to this calculated bonhomie, as Marc began to notice, was Maurice Tremblay. He sat opposite Marc, but never once looked directly at him. Instead, his gaze, dark and disturbed, was fixed upon LaFontaine, except when it swung down the table to fix itself upon Macaulay. And when it did, the man’s face was twisted into what Marc could only construe as contempt. Tremblay himself was a small man, sallow-skinned and hollow-eyed with a mop of unbrushed hair on his head, like a bad wig. He was slim, but wiry and well-muscled. He carried his fork uncertainly in his left hand, and only when he raised his napkin to his lips with both hands did he reveal the two-fingered remains of the right one. During the entire meal he spoke not a single word in either tongue.

  As Robert had suggested, Garnet Macaulay proved to be a wise choice as host. He kept the conversation going by making innocuous remarks on the weather, the parlous state of the roads, the financial foibles of their neighbours to the south, and the pleasures of racing horses (his passion). LaFontaine did not initiate any topics of his own and made no attempt to extend a topic, but he was studiously polite in responding to questions or calls for his opinion. Daniel Bérubé, on the other hand, was voluble (more so in French than English) and more than eager to hold up his end of the conversation. He was also a physical presence at the table, a large, plump, pink-cheeked fellow somewhere in his mid-forties with a gleaming bald head interrupted only by two stooks of black hair over his ears. He had tiny brown eyes set in huge, fleshy sockets and a nose that looked as if it had been borrowed from a moose. His voice was a confident bray that made Tremblay, seated beside him, wince. Several times Bérubé attempted to direct the talk towards dry goods and urban merchandising, with limited success (though Marc did recall that LaFontaine himself owned a block of stores in downtown Montreal in addition to his being a lawyer and politician). Bérubé seemed an odd choice for the French delegation, Marc thought, and Tremblay’s puzzled glances at LaFontaine indicated he felt much the same way.