“I was a regular Horatio at the bridge,” Cobb said with a twinkle. More seriously, he added, “But you know, Major, I pointed my musket at the man in the moon and fired. I’d be damned if I’d shoot some poor dumb bugger just to save the skinny neck of Francis Bone Head.”
“And one of them dumb buggers was my nephew, Jimmy Madden,” Dora said. “What was Mister Cobb supposed to do, shoot his own kin?”
“Luckily fer everybody, both sides skedaddlled like jackrabbits,” Cobb said.
“Don’t scourge-ilize yerself, Mister Cobb.”
“Well, it weren’t no Watered-loo, Missus Cobb.”
“But the militia arrived and completed the job properly two days later?” Marc asked.
“Yup. But that turned out even worse.” Cobb looked to his wife. “Can I tell him?”
“Marc’s a friend, ain’t he?”
With much relish Cobb proceeded to recite a tale that would in time become a family legend, to be told and retold down the Cobbian generations. It seems that foolish young Jimmy Madden had run away and joined Mackenzie’s rebels. He was present during that first unhappy encounter below Bloor Street, and had scampered away with his frightened cohorts. Scared to death but determined to remain steadfast in the cause, he stuck with Mackenzie and Lount at Montgomery’s tavern until the militia arrived on December 7 to scatter the rebel force and send its remnants into flight. Jimmy had been spotted and identified. And pursued. Cobb returned from work that evening to find Jimmy cowering beside the fireplace and Dora wringing her hands.
What could be done? If Cobb were found to be harbouring a rebel fugitive, he could lose his job and his sole livelihood. He had taken an oath to uphold the law and already was feeling guilty for taking a pot-shot at the moon. But blood was blood. This was Dora’s sister’s boy, foolish or not. No decision had yet been taken, however, when Fabian rushed in to say that a squad of militiamen was a block away and headed towards the house.
It was Dora, apparently, who devised the plan. She took Jimmy, a skinny and beardless youth, into her bedroom. The children were sent off to the neighbours out the back door, while Cobb waited alone for the troop to arrive. To his astonishment and dismay, it was led by the infamous Colonel MacNab himself. The colonel was polite but determined. The fugitive was known to be his wife’s relative and had been seen earlier in the afternoon in the eastern part of town. He asked if the lad was present and, if not, whether Cobb had seen him. Cobb gave a curt no to each question. Was Mrs. Cobb at home? Yes, but she was seriously ill and could not be disturbed. A young female cousin, her nurse, was sleeping with her.
This reply seemed to deepen MacNab’s suspicion, and he demanded to be allowed to examine every room in the house, including the mistress’s bedchamber. Each room was duly searched while Cobb continued to plead with the colonel that his wife was far too ill to be disturbed. MacNab announced that he himself would enter the sick-room and check it out: Cobb’s pleas had only fuelled his resolve. While his nervous underlings looked on, MacNab jerked open the door of the forbidden bower and strode manfully in.
“Well, sir, he come scuttlin’ outta there backwards, faster than a crawfish with the heebie jeebies. All his medals was a-janglin’, and his eyes were bulgin’ like a throttled cock’s. And he’s tossin’ out a string of the foulest curses you ever heard, all the while steerin’ his bum towards the front door with his troop all a-goggle and a-gawk. He finally stops retreatin’ when his arse hits the door-latch, then he turns to me and-wonder of wonders-makes a humble apology. He ain’t been seen east of Parliament Street since!”
Both Cobbs roared with laughter and were soon joined by a filial echo from behind one of the bedroom doors. What Colonel MacNab-commander of the Yonge Street counterattack and instigator of the burning of the Caroline off Navy Island-saw when he violated the privy chamber of Dora Cobb was this: two women lying comatose and only partly covered by an eiderdown-one of them Rubenesque and bare-bosomed, the other skinny-framed but discreetly gowned and bonneted. The sight of Dora’s promethean breasts, all but the nipples in vigorous view under the moonlight streaming through the window, would of itself have been shock enough for even the most battle-bitten officer, but the red splotches thereupon and those on her neck and cheeks were as terrifying as the plague itself. Dora kept her “pox” in place for the five days, until the city settled somewhat and Jimmy Madden could slip away undetected into the anonymity of the countryside.
“And we ain’t seen hide nor hare of the lad since,” Cobb said.
“Mister Cobb kept sayin’ it was the best use of my face-paint he’d yet seen!” Dora chuckled. “I looked like a hip-an’-pot-moose with the measles!”
“The whole thing give us quite a fright,” Cobb said, suddenly serious. “But what else could we do, Major?”
That was a question Marc had been compelled to ask himself on more than one occasion in the past few months.
Marc slept in once again. He took a late breakfast with the widow and Maisie. They both mentioned that today was the day the gibbets would be completed in the Court House square, in time for the hangings scheduled for the next morning. It was clear from their faces that neither approved of hanging in general or the hanging of Matthews and Lount in particular. Marc decided to walk along King Street to Beth’s shop, for that was where she had indicated she would go as soon as she arrived by coach from Niagara. He turned south at Bay and entered the service lane that ran behind the shops on the south side of King. The entrance to Beth’s apartment was off the lane, and he was certain he would see wood-smoke coming from the rear chimney if she were home. But the back windows were all dark, and the chimney-pot cold and ugly.
Marc felt he could no longer delay his return to the regiment and the difficult interview he must have with Colonel Margison. He walked somewhat aimlessly along the lane towards Yonge Street at the far end. He thought he could hear the pounding of hammers from the direction of the Court House a block farther east. Before reaching Yonge he turned into an alley between two of the King Street shops, a regular shortcut. He heard footsteps behind him but paid them little heed. It was not until the hand struck his shoulder and tried to hurl him against the nearest brick wall that he realized he was in danger. In a purely reflex action, he lurched away from the pressuring hand and, luckily, avoided the blow that would have knocked his shako silly and him unconscious.
Marc heard the “ooof” of the assailant’s breath and the crack of the weapon against the brick as it grazed his forehead and spun him partly around. His cap went flying. Marc threw one arm up to ward off the next blow, but it did not come immediately. Instead, a powerful set of fingers gripped him by the neck and began to lift him off the ground. He gagged and lashed out with his boots, hitting nothing but air. He still could not see the attacker, who must somehow be twisted to one side of him. Hot, angered breath was striking him behind the left ear.
“I been waitin’ a long time fer this! You’re a bitch of a man to corner, but I got you now, ain’t I?”
Marc tried to respond, but the fingers on his throat refused to ease their murderous grip.
“Got nothin’ to say, eh? After what you done to my brother!”
Marc could not breathe. The bare, callused fingers were pressing deeply into his throat, and a thumb was squeezing his larynx with enough force to shatter it. One more ounce of pressure and it would burst, killing him instantly. But he had no strength to wriggle free or fight back, even with the adrenaline-rush surging through him. He was not the man he had once been.
“I can throttle you like a pullet, or I can beat yer brains out with this club. You got any preference?”
For a moment Marc found his throat free from those deadly fingers, but he was unable to utter a word, even as he heard the homicidal whisper of the assailant’s sleeve being raised for the final, fatal strike.