“An’ we’re makin’ about two miles an hour, luggin’ that blasted cannon over this peat-bog of a road. We can’t possibly spend another five hours out in this stuff an’ then be expected to make a surprise attack on an enemy, who’re warm, an’ well fed, an’ just waitin’ fer us to show our mugs.”
“I agree, but that seems to be the master plan at the moment.” Marc swung down from his mount and dropped beside Ogletree. “I’m going to walk with you and the men. Hilliard can look out for himself. If anyone gets a sniper’s bullet, it’s likely to be one of those fool militiamen hopping about like hares on a griddle.”
Marc immediately felt his right boot being sucked into the mud. The continuous wet snow and rain had begun to turn the stiffened ruts into oozing slime, more liquid than solid. Walking was reduced to slithering, with repeated pulling at one boot or another to prevent it from being sucked away in the stubborn undertow.
“Welcome to our world, sir!” Private Higgins called out behind his superior officer. But there was no malice in the remark. The men increased their pace a little. Twenty minutes later Hilliard and several others of the mounted vanguard drew to a halt.
“What’s the problem, Ensign?” Marc said. “Rebels ahead?”
“No, sir. There seems to be two roads instead of one.” He looked perplexed, as if a fork in the road were an alien thing, inscrutable as the habitant’s lingo he did not comprehend beyond a curse word or two.
“I don’t recall our map showing the river road dividing anywhere near here, sir,” Marc said to Captain Riddell, the company commander, when he rode up to see what had caused the stoppage.
“Neither do I, Lieutenant. But then we have not been provided with proper military maps. My instinct is to stick to the river. The frogs usually do.”
Marc was about to agree when Colonel Gore arrived, looking like a waterlogged peacock. The issue at hand was explained to him. No advice was sought. The deputy quartermaster-general simply waved them towards the narrower road to their left-away from the river and through a dense bush. Officers and men obeyed, as they must.
As he wheeled to ride back to his rear position, the colonel snapped at Marc: “Lieutenant, please get on your horse at once. Your uniform is a disgrace, and you are in danger of demoralizing your men!”
Marc obeyed, as he must.
Along the road to the right that the colonel had disdained to take, an incident was to occur less than half an hour later, one that would be significant in determining the course and nature of the rebellion. Neither the deputy quartermaster-general nor any of his officers or men would be witness to it, but it was recounted to them, again and again and in such horrific detail by those claiming to have been present, that they felt themselves to be not merely witnesses but guilty, even prurient, bystanders. It gave them just cause for revenge and reprisal.
An hour after Gore’s brigade departed Sorel, Lieutenant Jock Weir of the 32nd Regiment arrived there with urgent dispatches from General Colborne: Colonel Gore was to delay his advance on St. Denis until Wetherall arrived from Chambly in two or three days, and even then, should he meet with any resistance, he was to retreat. But Gore was already gone, and with him Jock Weir’s uniform and weapons. Undaunted, Weir commandeered a calèche and its driver and, disguised as a Quebec City merchant, set out in pursuit along the river road. But the weather, the near-impassable roadway, and his periodic interception by curious habitants en route made his passage only marginally faster than Gore’s column. In the stormy darkness he did not notice the fork in the road beyond St. Ours and so continued on the route that hugged the river.
Two miles outside of St. Denis, and puzzled that he had not yet overtaken Gore’s column, he was arrested and soon found himself face-to-face with Dr. Nelson in the rebel leader’s living room. The ruse was immediately admitted. Still uncertain about the possibility of an armed clash, Nelson was courteous and conciliatory. He ordered Weir to give his parole, after which he would be taken to St. Charles and kept under house arrest. Old Captain Jalbert, white-haired veteran of the War of 1812 and now a different kind of patriot, was put in charge of the transfer.
Weir was placed in the back of a wagon and bound with a leather belt. Captain Jalbert rode a few paces ahead, resplendent in scarlet sash and upraised sword. The driver was a reluctant conscript, Migneault the postmaster. Beside the prisoner and clutching the belt sat Maillet, a local firebrand. In his right hand he brandished a rusty two-foot bayonet. They set off. It was almost dawn. The road was alive with shadowy male figures making for St. Denis and Nelson’s fortification. Others-crouched, wary, female-hurried the other way. The wet snow had softened to a cold mist. Suddenly, several gunshots rang out somewhere behind them. Had it started at last?
Weir flinches, notices that Maillet is dozing, and leaps off the wagon in an attempt to free himself and join the battle he has been waiting for all his life. But Maillet’s grip on the belt about his prisoner’s waist is unbreakable. Weir gasps as if he has been kicked in the stomach and tumbles against the rim of a rear wheel, face up. Citizen Maillet, fired by the pain of a thousand slights at the hands of the maudit Anglais, drives the bayonet through the conqueror’s neck. Weir collapses onto the road, blood spouting from his wound. Then he scrambles on hands and knees under the rear wheels. Crazed by the deed he has begun, Maillet reaches down and stabs at Weir through the spokes of the wheel. Weir screams like a gutted cat. The cowled figures on the roadside pause, stare, glower, and close in, like a Greek chorus coming awake in the third act. Postmaster Migneault, horrified, tries to rein in the spooked horses, but they lunge forward, dragging Weir with them under the wagon, tumbling and spraying blood like a grotesque Catherine wheel.
“Officer! Officer!” The chant is taken up, and turned malevolent: among these witnesses there are old wounds and fresh hurts aplenty. As Maillet continues to hack at the helpless Weir, they cheer each blow, dazzled by hate, astonished at its unstoppable irruption.
Three severed fingers lie on the road, the mutilated hand clutches at air, while the bayonet, avid as any guillotine, continues to hack and slash. Weir’s moans are liquid, unhuman. Captain Jalbert is trying to bull his way through the maddened throng back to the carnage, but no-one will give way. A young schoolteacher leaps from the mob towards the victim, huddled and groaning under the stalled vehicle, and begins to stab at him with a carving knife.
“For Christ’s sake, kill him!” Jalbert screams.
A volunteer, on his way to Nelson, steps up, puts a pistol to Weir’s blood-smeared forehead, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He tries again. There is no sound but the ventilation of Weir’s agony. A sword whips at the air and reaches Weir’s neck. The body pitches forward. But there is breath in it yet. Enraged, the mob drags it across the grass to an alley between two houses. Then in sudden, awed silence they keep vigil until there is not a twitch of pomp or imperialism left to defile the morning breeze.
Days later, Weir’s corpse will be recovered from a frozen creek where it had been dumped. There will be no truce now, no negotiated settlement. Rubicons were made for crossing.
TWO
Light was seeping through the mist when Marc’s skirmishing party emerged from the rutted morass of the winding pathway Colonel Gore had chosen for his troops. Known locally as the Pot-au-Beurre, it lived up to its name. The grey of exhaustion on the faces of the men matched the mud that coated their tunics and sullied the bright image of the British regiment of foot. No-one had eaten since noon the previous day. The threat of snow and a wintry day lay ominously on the morning air.
“They’ve seen us!” Hilliard shouted, but there was no alarm in his voice. “Over there, just past that little bridge.”