Unholy Alliance (5 page)

“Then it’s begun,” Beth said, shivering.

***

It began snowing at dawn, a light, windless, steady
downfall. It was still snowing when Marc waved goodbye to Beth,
Maggie and Charlene, and stepped up into the Baldwins’ two-seater
with his leather grip in tow. Nodding to Old Henry up on the
driver’s bench, he sat down beside Hincks, facing Robert.

“The perfect camouflage, eh?” Hincks smiled,
as he waved a mittened paw at the snow.

Robert spread a large buffalo-robe over
Marc’s knees. Robert was wearing a fur trapper’s cap, and had
wrapped two scarves around his coat-collar. He was very much an
indoor man, in an outdoor country.

“Did the other two Montrealers arrive
safely?” Marc inquired.

“If you mean, did they reach Elmgrove
undetected,” Hincks said, “the answer is yes. Their successful
landing has been confirmed.”

“Good,” Marc said. Looking at Robert, he
added, “I must admit, I am damn nervous. I feel a little bit like I
did when I went into battle for the first time.”

“I’m far too excited to be nervous,” Hincks
said. “And if Robert here is nervous, he won’t show it.”

“We are well prepared,” Robert said. “We have
compelling arguments to make. If they are compelling enough, they
will win over our French allies.”

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 arrivals, “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.