“He’s travelling home to Kingston from his sister-in-law’s funeral here this week with two other members of his family,” the major informed Marc. “The fourth fellow is a wealthy wine merchant on his way to Toronto, as English and Tory as one might wish. The fifth chap is a notary or solicitor, I’m told, en route to Cobourg, your sometime stamping ground.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Marc said. He was seated on the edge of his bed, not yet dressed.
“I do: be well, and get yourself married.”
“And what are these?” Marc asked lightly, pointing to a bundle of clothing piled on top of a large trunk that dwarfed Marc’s own modest box. “Extra layers of wool in case of blizzard?”
The major almost blushed. “I want you to forget about your uniform and put on these things I’ve laid out for you. There are several other ensembles and gentleman’s accessories inside. I bought the works from a tall but impecunious barrister yesterday morning and had Davey haul them in here last night.”
“Go in disguise, you mean?” Marc was laughing as he held up a finely tailored suitcoat and worsted trousers.
“I’m serious. You are defenceless-unless you agree to carry a loaded pistol everywhere you go. You are still very weak, and with your game leg, you couldn’t outrun a duck. I hate to be so blunt, but-”
“It’s all right, Owen. If you insist on this, I’ll go along with it. But remember that you’ve already told my fellow passengers they’re accompanying the ‘hero of St. Denis,’ so my identity won’t be secret for long. And where on earth did that ridiculous appellation come from?”
“It’s not the passengers or the innkeepers I’m worried about. But we’ve heard tales of sleighs and wagons being stopped randomly and searched for fleeing rebels and, on the other side, of exasperated rebels taking random shots at anybody in uniform, particularly officers like you, who have been made instant heroes by the English populace.”
Marc was still eyeing the haberdashery. “I’ll look like the wine merchant’s partner,” he chuckled, holding up the ruffled blouse and chequered vest. “And why this monstrous dull greatcoat? My own is perfectly fine.”
“Yes, with the gold and green trim of the 24th Regiment, recognized everywhere in the province. Besides, Davey’s already packed it with your uniform.”
“My God, where did you come by this?”
“That, sir, is all the rage in Montreal and New York.” He plunked the fur helmet on Marc’s head and pulled down the flaps.
“Did you liberate this from some Cossack?” Marc grinned like a lunatic and flapped the fur wings of the hat.
“It’ll keep your ears warm and aid your disguise.”
“I agree: no officer in the Queen’s army would be caught dead in this.”
“And I want you caught alive: by your long-suffering bride.”
Marc said good-bye to Owen Jenkin and Davey MacKay at the barracks, where a cutter had been hired to take him over to the Royal Arms hotel to rendezvous with the stagecoach.
“I’ll be joining you soon, I trust,” the major said. “In the meantime, I’ll pass this news along to Beth and forward any of her letters to you in Toronto. I may even give them to the military courier who rides daily between here and Kingston. Privileges of a quartermaster, eh?”
“Thank you for everything, Owen. I’ll write you as soon as I get home.”
Davey now stepped respectfully forward, his open, freckled face grave: “May the Lord bless you, sir.”
“He’s more likely to bless you,” Marc said in farewell.
In front of the Royal Arms on a cold but still winter’s morning, Marc spotted a splendid coach sitting on a pair of formidable runners and in the reliable grasp of four, shiny-coated dray-horses. The driver, a craggy-faced fellow of indeterminate years, was arranging several bags, portmanteaux, and small trunks on top of the carriage. Watching him with proprietorial interest from the boardwalk in front of the hotel were four well-turned-out gentlemen and a lady. All eyes swung towards the sound of Marc’s cutter pulling up behind the coach. One of the figures detached itself from the group and sprang forward to help Marc out of his seat. Marc took the gloved hand and raised himself onto the snow-packed street.
“Thank you, sir. My name is Marc Edwards.”
“Oh, we know, Lieutenant. We know all about you! I’m Captain Randolph Brookner of the Glengarry militia.” Of that there could be little doubt, for despite the subfreezing temperature the good captain had disdained either greatcoat or hat-the former draped over one arm and the latter, a fur helmet, tucked under the other-in order not to deprive the onlookers or his travelling companions of the resplendency of his tunic and trimmings: a livid green broadcloth with mustard piping and vermilion epaulettes. An officer’s sword was ostentatiously buckled on and glittering, and a pistol sat perky in its studded holster. His boots gleamed, begging to be admired.
“Thank you, sir, but I’m quite able to walk unaided.” Marc smiled as he politely removed the captain’s hand from his elbow. “But don’t ask me to sprint to the corner!”
“Then the word of your miraculous recovery has not been exaggerated. What an honour it is to meet an officer who fought at St. Denis and to be able to assist you on your way back to your glorious regiment.”
Marc limped resolutely towards the other passengers. It was at this moment that Captain Brookner noticed that Marc was not in uniform: even his boots were low-cut and quite ordinary, and the fur hat demeaning his manly brow was exactly like the one seen on a hundred pedestrian heads in town-and on two of his companions.
“But you are not in uniform, sir!” he declared to Marc’s back.
Marc paused. “It’s in my luggage. There’ll be plenty of time to put it on when I reach my regiment, as you say.”
Brookner swallowed his disappointment, and said brightly, “What does the symbolism matter, eh? It’s the grit and valour of the man. And I am proud to have been able to offer you a seat in my chartered coach. My desire is to maintain a pace to Kingston suited entirely to your fitness to travel. Please introduce yourself to the others while I sort out our driver and the mess he’s making of our bags.” He spun on his heels like a drum-major and began barking instructions to Marc’s driver and then to the one already up on the coach. As he did so, Marc noted that he was tall, athletic, and fair-haired: a picture-postcard soldier.
Marc hobble-walked to the group on the boardwalk, who had been observing the scene before them without comment. He was delighted with the strength in his legs, and the little wobble to the left grew less noticeable as he found the appropriate pace and rhythm for it. A portly, soft-fleshed gentleman with round, uninquisitive eyes stepped forward with his hand out. He was attired, Marc noted with an inward chuckle, in a smart grey overcoat and fur helmet exactly like his own.
“Good morning, sir, and welcome,” the man enthused with a loose-lipped smile that rippled all the way to his jowls. The accent was flamboyantly English. “I am Ainslie Pritchard, wine merchant of London and Montreal, presently on my way to Toronto. Let me introduce you to these fine people who shall be accompanying us to Kingston and beyond.”
As Pritchard introduced them, Marc acknowledged each with a short bow.