While being suitably modest in describing his own contributions to the abortive efforts at St. Denis on the twenty-third, he depicted the courage and heroism of his comrades with stirring accuracy, especially those final moments in the little barn and just outside of it. He confessed the fears and doubts he had experienced, not only about his fluctuating courage but also about the nature of the opposing force. These were not Bonaparte’s fusiliers or the hard-bitten professionals whom the major and Uncle Frederick had fought hand to hand and mile by mile across Spain and France to the gates of Paris, soldiers to be respected as much as feared. The Quebec rebels were farmers and townspeople, volunteers and amateurs-without training, tactics, or military leadership.
Whatever the shortcomings of Colonel Gore and however tenacious the citizen army of Quebec might prove, Marc insisted that the outcome was not in doubt. The ragamuffin rebels would be routed or driven relentlessly into the last redoubt of their hinterland. They would perish by the score. Yes, the brave men of the 24th would do their duty, but what glory, Marc wondered to Major Jenkin, could accrue to such a victory? What satisfaction in shooting a man armed with a hoe or rusty arquebus? Even as he wrote this, the image of the young habitant wriggling through that bolt-hole in a vain attempt to escape the fury of the redcoats hovered over his writing hand. The boy’s horrific death at Rick’s hands had haunted Marc’s dreams and disturbed his waking hours for the past seven days.
What he said finally to his elder friend was that, even if they should strike a deathblow to the rebellion tomorrow at St. Denis, the troubles would not end, as his men and many officers seemed to believe. For the “army” they were being asked to vanquish appeared to Marc to be an entire populace whose anger, despair, and unassuaged resentments would only deepen at defeat, grow sullen and secretive, and smoulder like fire under a forest. “Pray we do not have such a rebellion in Upper Canada. Once started, it may be unstoppable. And there will be no winners.”
When he had calmed down, he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began writing to his beloved Beth. With great tact he outlined the excursion to St. Denis, deleting much of the sad, sordid detail. He broke the news of Rick’s death, as he must, but took care not to put the least romantic gloss on his friend’s heroic gesture. Beth knew better. He suggested that the fighting here looked as if it would soon be over, then stressed how vital it was that she and Aunt Catherine keep well away from politics. The millinery shop that the two women-both Americans-operated on King Street in Toronto had twice been vandalized by gangs of ultra-royalists, looking for scapegoats as tensions mounted in Upper Canada amidst fears there of a farmer’s revolt. In her last letter Beth had tried to reassure him by saying that their good friend, Constable Horatio Cobb, had been keeping a close watch on the premises. Beth could not hide her concern for her former neighbours in the hamlet of Crawford’s Corners, who were equally in danger, though surely after a brief and near-disastrous entanglement with the rebel cause in October, Thomas and Winnifred Goodall would be lying low. Besides, there was now their baby, Mary, to consider.
“The cause of the French here is real, the injustices deep and universal,” Marc wrote. “Ours in Upper Canada pale by comparison. People are literally starving in the townships, on the seigneuries, and in the back alleys of the towns. The flood of immigrants from Britain since 1832 has dumped thousands of penniless unemployed onto the docks and streets of Montreal and Quebec City, bringing cholera and other pestilences, which have recurred yearly since then. Not only that, but over one hundred thousand pounds sits undistributed in the vaults of St. Louis Castle, so that salaries and pensions have not been paid in months. Many once-prosperous people have lost their homes and enterprises as creditors close in.
“But armed revolt is not the answer. I foresee only needless death and loss and even more profound humiliation. Take care and be well, my darling. I shall be home by New Year’s: that’s a promise.”
Marc fell asleep on his writing desk.
With sunlight just beginning to squeeze through the trees along the eastern horizon, Marc and his fellow officers finished their breakfast in the improvised mess. Many ate enough for several meals, as it could be long hours before they saw food again. As they got up from the table to go and organize their squads for their march to the steamer, Colonel Gore’s adjutant came in carrying a packet of letters that had arrived the night before from overseas. One of them was for Marc.
Edwards Estate
Kent, England
October 2, 1837
Dear Marc:
It is my sad duty to inform you that Jabez passed from this world at two o’clock this morning. I was by his side during the final hours, and it pleases me to tell you that his thoughts were principally upon you, upon your faithfulness as his adopted son, upon your splendid and worthy life so far, and, more importantly, upon the prospects for your future. His only regret regarding you was that he could not circumvent the entailments of our father’s will and leave you some part of the family estate. But as you know, the property and the funds to perpetuate it are indivisible and come to me and, eventually, to my eldest son, your cousin. However, Jabez did amass a sizeable sum of his own as a solicitor in London all those years ago, and as soon as the will is probated, I shall write to you with details of your legacy, which could be considerable. For the next while, though, we shall devote our energies to mourning the death of one whom we loved and who loved us, and life, dearly. We talked often of your heroic exploits in North America, and I want to assure you that he was as proud of you as a soldier as I was. Please take care: the life of an officer in the British army is dangerous and unpredictable.
Delores and the boys are coming from France for the funeral, and I must go to Dover to meet them. I’ll write to you more fully as soon as I can: there is much to discuss between us.
Your loving uncle,
Frederick.
Marc stood with the letter dangling from two fingers. He felt empty inside, incapable for the moment of feeling anything: sadness, grief, or anger at the gods. Too much was happening to him all at once. Rick was dead, and yet his voice and image, the joie de vivre of his being, were everywhere around him. He himself had been within a week of his wedding with Beth before being wrenched away to a battle he had once longed for more than life itself. Now Jabez, his adoptive father, was gone, without a chance to say good-bye. And despite his faults and the secrets he had inexcusably kept from Marc, Jabez Edwards had raised him as his own, given him his name, and, against his own better judgement, had set him free to seek his own fortune.
A bugle on the parade-square sounded a peremptory blast. He had to go. There were immediate and overriding exigencies. He would find time to grieve his losses later. And for a while at least, he was not unhappy to buckle on his sabre and scabbard.
The John Bull, weighed down with eight infantry companies, four guns, and assorted baggage, tried to ram its way through the ever-thickening ice of the Richelieu River. Three hours and one mile later, Colonel Gore admitted defeat. So, shortly after noon on this first day of December, Gore’s brigade was once again on the river road. Whereas a week ago it had been wet snow, rain, and a muddy morass that had made the twenty-mile trek to St. Denis a living hell, it was now the frozen ruts (their own, alas) that made their passage no better than travelling over a rock-strewn wasteland. A corduroy road in April would have been heaven.