“The governor and I, you will be pleased to learn, have not been idle in the face of imminent danger. While you were being fetched from your slumbers, we have been busy developing a stratagem for delay, until we can get word through to the nearest militia in Hamilton.”
Among the mutterings consequent on this stirring revelation-not all of them patriotic-Cobb had his own particular thoughts. Had Catherine and Beth reached Hamilton? Would they find themselves in the midst of a military confrontation? Would any general alarm now raised not put them in danger of being stopped and challenged? And if so, what plausible excuses could they concoct for riding in disguise at night towards the United States, where sympathy and support for the rebels was widespread?
The governor had finally found his voice, and briefly explained that he was organizing a party of loyalists to ride north with the intention of parleying with Mackenzie. An offer of amnesty would be made if the rebels would agree to disband and return peacefully to their homes. Working out the details ought to buy the city’s defenders-all twenty of them-some valuable time. In the interim, each man in the room would be assigned an area of the grounds of Government House and its park, where they would act as sentries and, if required, lay down their lives for the Queen’s representative. Loaded pistols would be handed out to each loyal watchman.
Sir Francis then wheeled and marched smartly back into his office, unaware that he was still in his frothy, bedtime attire.
* * *
As the sun rose on the morning of Tuesday, December 5, Horatio Cobb found himself squatting on the stump of an elm tree somewhere in the park of Government House. In actuality, it was six acres of unreclaimed bush, a city block of it that stretched out behind the gardens and farm buildings of the house proper. In spots, much of the scrub had been cleared so that Sir Francis and his Tory chums could enjoy a sleigh-ride when the snows really arrived. At the moment there was just enough of it to cover the desiccated fall grasses and mantle the limbs and boughs of the trees. And there Cobb sat, pistol cocked, as the sun climbed above the horizon and shone belligerently in a blue sky, while offering little warmth to anyone trusting enough to admire it. It was a cold day, near zero, and Cobb stamped around the stump like a Mississauga shaman around his campfire, then lay down the pistol and smacked his leather mitts together.
Despite the cold and discomfort, Cobb discovered that he was sweating. He wasn’t overly worried about assassins sneaking up through the park from Market Street on the south; in fact, by noon Cobb would have gladly given them a map to the governor’s sitting-room. What made him nervous was the fact that no armed force or authority stood between him and the rebel mob on Yonge Street. Surely, they would take advantage of the defenceless city and this cold, clear day to march down the frozen road into the heart of the capital, wheel to the west along King (looting the fashionable shops as they advanced?), and storm the seat of government. Time and again he caught himself listening for sounds from the distant north-the crackling of musket-fire or the boom of a field gun-knowing how foolish this was because the insurgents would have no need to deploy their weapons. There was no-one left worth shooting at!
It was well after noon when one of the Government House servants, armed only with a half loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a partly consumed bottle of wine, came noisily up behind and hailed him.
“I’m Colson, sir. I’ve brought you some luncheon.”
Cobb thanked him, had trouble removing his mitts, but managed to bite off a bit of cheese and flush it down with a swig of bitter wine. Colson turned to go.
“Any news?” Cobb asked.
Colson, his English as buttery as any royal butler, stopped and said, “I was thinking of asking you the same question, sir.”
“Have they sent a dele-whatever up to parley with Mackenzie yet?”
“They’ve just left, sir. About six of them, I think. On fast horses.”
“Jesus, what’ve they been doin’ all mornin’? The rebels’ll be here by now.”
“A scout just returned as I was coming out here, sir. The insurgents have indeed begun to march on the city, but have stopped at Gallow’s Hill for some reason not known to us.”
“Who’ve they sent to parley with them?”
“That was the problem, sir. It took several hours of debate among the governor’s privy councillors to sort that out. The two men finally chosen to do the bargaining were Mr. Robert Baldwin and Dr. John Rolph.”
“Reformers!” Cobb dropped his bread.
“My sentiments entirely, sir.”
And with that editorial remark, Colson departed.
Cobb decided he would simply stop thinking and do his duty as a policeman and as a citizen. There was no fathoming the ways and means of politicians, so it was fruitless to try. But once having practised the business of pondering, he discovered that it was no easy task to keep the mind free of such incursions. Fortunately, the snap of twigs off to his right provided a helpful diversion.
With all of his senses alert for the first time today, Cobb hopped off the stump and trotted soundlessly towards the noise. Someone was running hastily through the park-but away from the house, not towards it. Could it be an assassin who had already carried out his contemptible deed? Cobb’s heart began to pound. Suddenly, he burst out into a clearing and stopped in puzzlement. Where was the bugger? He looked towards the house and saw that he had come out just behind the modest farm-grounds in back of the residence, where there were several small barns, pens, and coops. A loud crashing noise at the south end of the clearing brought him upright and sent him scampering in that direction. The culprit had fallen. And from the high-pitched cursing, it appeared he had injured himself. Cobb closed in for the capture, charging out of a clump of spruce to surprise the felon.
What he saw was a wiry-looking fellow stumbling back into cover about fifteen yards away. Under his right arm, in screeching protest, wriggled a suckling pig.
“Stop!” Cobb hollered. “You’re under arrest!”
Which command, though ringing with authority and threat, had contrary effects on the hog-thief and his prize. The man seemed to take wing, and the piglet, terrified, shut up. Cobb glanced down at what he took to be his trusty truncheon in his right hand, was surprised to note that it was a loaded pistol, and, squeezing his eyes closed, fired it into the air.
The felon stopped, about twenty yards away. He turned slowly to face his assailant. His eagle eye spotted the smoking pistol. A huge grin spread across his visage. He wheeled nimbly and sped off. But in doing so, he relaxed his grip on the piglet, and it scurried away, zigzagging and bewildered.
Cobb had glimpsed the face for no more than a second or two, but he recognized it. He plunged ahead into the trees in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the fellow was gaining ground on him, Cobb halted and shouted loud enough to be heard on Gallow’s Hill.
“You won’t get far! I know your face and your name, Silas McGinty!”
But, of course, Cobb realized the moment he said it that McGinty would indeed get as far away from the city as possible, since he was now aware that his latest alias was known to the police and his mug would be popping up on posters all over town.
Cobb was just about to return to his post, empty-handed, when he spotted something dark against the snow, next to one of the thief’s footprints, something that had fallen unnoticed during his frantic escape. Cobb picked it up. It was a billfold. Inside he found a wrinkled American dollar, tucked forlornly into a much-thumbed envelope. But it was the inscription on the envelope that arrested his attention:
SERGEANT CALVIN RUMSEY
FORT NIAGARA, NEW YORK
xoxoxoxo
Silas McGinty, my fanny! Cobb thought. Could this fellow be related to the man who had been involved in a crime that he and Marc Edwards had investigated the previous year, one Philo Rumsey? What was he doing skulking about Toronto? Spying? Or looking for some sort of payback on behalf of his “wronged” brother? If so, then Marc might be in danger-were he not lying wounded in a hospital somewhere in Quebec.