The door was opened by a man in full morning dress, the coat and trousers each a size and a half too large. His hair was greased and parted down the middle, and an ill-trimmed moustache did little to distract attention from a broken and indifferently set nose. His brown eyes watered perpetually, causing him to blink like a hound who’s been skunked. Marc almost laughed, for he seemed a parody of the English stage butler.
“Good mornin’, sir. Who shall I say has come to call?”
Marc caught the Yankee twang under the British phraseology. “Would you inform Mr. Stanhope that Mr. Edwards has come to keep his appointment with the prisoner.”
“Major Coltrane?”
“The same.”
“You bin approved, then?”
Marc smiled. “I believe I have.”
“I’ll inform the colonel. He insists on screenin’ all the major’s callers.”
And Marc felt himself being thoroughly screened by the colonel’s man, before the latter turned and slow-trotted down a hallway. Marc stepped inside and knocked the snow off his boots. He was glad that Gideon Stanhope was here to greet and preapprove him. He was as curious about Coltrane’s solicitous jailer as he was about his prisoner.
They met in Stanhope’s study, a pleasant if overfurnished room.
“You’ll have to pardon my butler,” Stanhope began the moment the fellow had left them. “He tries hard to please, but he hasn’t quite got on to our ways.”
“He’s American?”
“He is. My wife brought Absalom here several years ago upon the recommendation of her sister in Port Huron.”
“As you know, sir, I have come to see the notorious Mr. Coltrane.”
Colonel Stanhope’s regimental moustache twitched. The fellow was in full regalia, including his sabre in its ornamented scabbard. His shako cap and greatcoat lay on a nearby chair-at the ready for what, Marc could not imagine. The overall impression was of a rigid self-discipline. His soldier’s back was as straight and taut as a yeoman’s bow. It was difficult to believe that less than a year ago Stanhope had been a prosperous importer of English goods whose main claim to public attention had been his manor house and his bank account. But Marc knew from personal experience never to underestimate the allure of a uniform and its capacity to alter a man’s priorities.
“We refer to him here as Major Coltrane, whatever Sir George may think or wish.”
“So I’ve heard,” Marc said evenly. “But you are aware, are you not, that many of the same citizens who cheered you heartily on Yonge Street in December are not pleased with the way you have been hosting your prisoner?”
Stanhope essayed a smile but succeeded only in making his moustache quiver and his chin flinch. “I have only to look out my front window every morning to see that, sir. But you of all people ought to understand the absolute necessity of adhering to military protocol.”
It was Marc’s turn to smile. “As an officer, I don’t recall billeting captured rebels in my home and giving them the unfettered pleasure of a steady stream of visitors.”
“Well, you must judge these conditions for yourself, sir, when you visit the major. My point, however, is that Coltrane is a fellow officer, and I fully intend to keep treating him as such until his trial has begun and he is taken out of my jurisdiction. And when you’ve had a chance to meet him, I believe you’ll agree that he is not only a true soldier but a remarkable man.”
“I’m told you and he were face-to-face at Pelee last March?”
“We were, though we did not know it at the time.”
“At which battle you won your spurs, so to speak?”
“You’re referring to this nonsense about my being dubbed the Pelee Island Patriot?”
“I’ve suffered the embarrassment of similar appellations.”
“I know. And so you’ll realize that it is one’s actions-in battle and after-that really matter, not the trappings of fame.”
Like parades down Yonge Street or places of honour at the Twelfth Night Charity Ball, Marc thought. “So you don’t mind that Coltrane has claimed the same appellation for himself?”
Stanhope’s gaze narrowed and his moustache did a nervous jig. “Major Coltrane is a Yankee, sir. Braggadocio is part of his charm.”
“But he is still a soldier worthy of special treatment?”
“Most certainly. He distinguished himself at Windsor, and as second-in-command was compelled to lead the assault force when his own general, Lucius Bierce, remained a mile or more behind his troops. While gravely wounded, the major kept his head and organized an orderly withdrawal of his men, even as Bierce scrambled aboard his ship and took off for Detroit. The major engineered an ambush against our pursuers-devastating for us, but perfectly understandable from a tactical viewpoint. Then, convinced that he was dying, he gave orders that his troop were to abandon him and escape to the river, which they did, all of them returning safely home.”
“Which is when Sergeant McNair found him and brought him and his papers to you?”
Stanhope’s gaze tightened. “Yes. I recognized instantly that we had captured their de facto commander, and in his kit Sergeant McNair had found a set of strategic plans covering the next three months along the western border. They have since proved invaluable in dampening down the raids and even the threat of raids.”
Marc hesitated a moment, as if absorbing this irrefutable truth, then said, “So you can’t have been too pleased when the same heroic sergeant was found in your garden with a smoking pistol in his hand and your prisoner a mere twenty paces away.”
Stanhope’s response was unexpectedly mild. “I was not. Billy McNair was a fine NCO, a source of great pride to me as his mentor and commanding officer. I thought he understood the awful necessities of being a soldier. Indeed, throughout the entire month we spent in the western district and during the action at Windsor, he behaved in exemplary fashion. Even after the fiasco and slaughter at the fort, he was disciplined enough to bind up Major Coltrane’s wound, search his person, secure those critical papers, and then bring him straight to me-all the while grieving the loss of his best friend.”
“Those who know Billy McNair will not be surprised to hear that.”
“I understand you too lost a friend down at St. Denis.”
Marc nodded. “Like Billy, I could do nothing to save him.”
“We all lose friends and acquaintances in battle, don’t we? But we can’t let that turn us into savages, wreaking vengeance on helpless prisoners or innocent civilians.”
Marc had witnessed the horrific consequences of retaliation in Quebec the year before. “No, we can’t,” he agreed.
“And that is why I am treating Major Coltrane with all the respect and courtesy due a captured enemy commander, and why I am doing it publicly. If the governor wants to try the major as a common cutthroat, then let that be on his conscience, not mine.”
“Nonetheless, sir, you are taking a great risk that Coltrane will be sprung loose by his compatriots, whose sympathizers are everywhere amongst us, or that he will be assassinated by one of the many visitors you allow him to entertain.”
“There you are wrong, sir. As you will see, the chamber downstairs is barred and reinforced, I have my own militiamen at the back gates day and night, the regular army patrols the street at intervals and guards the front door, and Lieutenant Bostwick has been assigned as the major’s full-time jailer. He sleeps in the anteroom next to the prison chamber.”
“The same gentleman found umpiring the illegal duel?”
Stanhope sucked in several breaths in an effort to swallow his anger. “That sad business has been taken care of.”