“I don’t hear anything,” Marc said.
“Neither do I.”
Fortunately their would-be assassins had beennoisy, talking and shouting to one another as they tracked theirprey. Now there was no sign of them. They had come to the icycentre of the creek and not known which direction their prey hadtaken. Also where the creek bent — often — the icy patch extendedto the banks, so that even if the pursuers split up, they wouldhave to slow down and inspect every bend for the possibility ofescape there. And although the ice was slippery, it was easiergoing than the two- and three-foot drifts in the woods.
However, Pettigrew’s leg was now reallybothering him. Marc decided he had to help. He took Pettigrew’sright arm and laid it over his shoulder. They hobbled forward,three-legged.
“How long can we stay on this creek?”Pettigrew asked between gasps. “Aren’t we lost? If we do go backinto the bush, we’ll just wander around till we freeze.”
“We’ve got no compass and no sun. But Irecall crossing a creek about a mile before we were attacked. Ifthis is the same creek, then eventually we’ll end up back on theKingston Road.”
“If.”
“That’s the operative word. But it’s our onlychance.”
They continued on. Pettigrew’s breathing wasbecoming more laboured.
“Who do you think they were?” he asked whenthey had stopped to rest.
“Someone who knew our plans or suspectedthem.”
“But how could they know?”
“Perhaps Thériault let something slip at hisend. Whatever happened, there are people willing to kill to keep usfrom bringing Thériault over to our camp.”
“I hope Thériault’s all right.”
“They wouldn’t touch him. He’s a hero, likeLaFontaine. No, it’s us they’re after.”
“Maybe they’ll assume we froze to death outhere.”
“Or at least turned back for home,” Marcsaid, getting up.
Fifteen minutes later the creek led them tothe Kingston Road.
“What now?” Pettigrew asked. “I’m feelingfaint.”
“Well, we can’t go back to the cutter. Theycould have left someone there. We’ll just wait here under coveruntil we hear someone coming along the road.”
It was growing dark when they heard a sleighcoming towards them from Kingston. “We’ve got to take a chance onthis,” Marc said. “You need a doctor — soon. And I’m freezing todeath.”
Pettigrew, who had been drifting in and outof consciousness, replied, “Yes, soon.”
Marc stepped out onto the road, and held hisbreath. The sleigh, a big one with two horses, drew up in front ofhim.
“Need a ride, stranger?” a portly man calledfrom the driver’s seat. A woman, bundled up, sat beside him.
“Yes, we do,” Marc said. “I’ve got an injuredman who needs medical attention. How far are you going?”
“Brockville. But there’s a doctor there. I’lltake you to him.”
Marc thanked the man and got Pettigrew intothe back seat of the sleigh. Marc introduced himself, but said onlythat he and his friend were on their way to Cornwall on businesswhen their team bolted and his friend had injured his leg. Whenthey came to the place where the attack had occurred, Marc saw thecutter by the side of the road, without its horses. The assassinshad cut them loose.
“There’s your sleigh all right,” theirrescuer said. “But no sign of your horses. I suppose they’ll headhome eventually.”
Marc agreed, but what he was thinking wasthat they were fortunate themselves to be able to head home — eventually.
***
It was noon the next day before Marc and apatched-up Pettigrew reached Cornwall and the Roadside inn. Thehorses had been picked up by a traveller and brought to Brockville.Marc found them when he checked the livery stable there. Hearranged for someone to go and fetch the cutter, and said he wouldtake cutter and horses back to Kingston on his return trip.Meantime he hired another sleigh and team to take them toCornwall.
At the Roadside Inn they were welcomed, butnot by Henri Thériault. They spent the evening in their rooms,reading and trying not to appear anxious. But time moved slowly.The next day Christopher Pettigrew went for a walk and managed toopen up his wound again.
“I’ll send for the doctor, Christopher,” Marcsaid. “We want you to be in top form if your friend shows up.”
“It’s looking less and less likely,”Pettigrew said. “He’s only half a day from here.”
They were sitting in the lounge when thefront door of hotel opened.
“Ah, it’s the doctor,” Marc said.
“No,” Pettigrew said, “it’s Henri.”
***
“You don’t know how my heart sank that night whenthe door opened and I looked up to find an English fellow staringdown at me,” Henri Thériault was saying. He and Pettigrew were inthe lounge, after a good supper, sipping brandy and reminiscing.Marc was seated a little ways away, discreetly listening to theconversation in French. “I thought to myself, ‘I’ve landed in theDevil’s parlour.’”
“And I wondered who on earth had landed on mydoorstep,” Pettigrew laughed.
Henri Thériault was an intense little man,dark complexioned, and with eyes so fiercely intelligent they werepainful to look at. At the moment, though, they were as relaxed andamiable as they were ever likely to get.
“But you didn’t hesitate. You asked mein.”
“You were injured. Stranger or not, Icouldn’t turn you away, could I?”
“But you must have had your doubts, eh, whenI told you who I was and how I got wounded.”
“I admit I did. And I’ve never told you this,but when the soldiers came knocking on my door, I had a moment ofpanic and indecision. I was a Reformer and a sympathizer, but I wasalso a law-abiding citizen articling for the law, who believed inright and wrong. I didn’t know then what you told me later aboutthe barn-razing and church-burning. But it was more instinct thanreason that made me tell the soldiers you’d been there but had goneon to downtown Montreal.”
“And I’ve never told you this,” Thériaultsaid gravely, “but I had my pistol loaded and pointed at you,though I was probably too groggy to pull the trigger. But then Iheard the soldiers leaving, and I thought: this is a strangeEnglishman. I didn’t know then the difference between an Englishmanand a native-born Upper Canadian.”
“But you do now.”
“Yes. And your letters have moved medeeply.”
Pettigrew signalled for Marc to jointhem.
“And Marc here is not native-born, but he hasbecome a true Upper Canadian. He’s a close friend and confidante ofRobert Baldwin.”
“And this Robert Baldwin has a plan tobenefit both our peoples?” Thériault said to Marc.
“He does,” Marc said. “I gave you the outlinein one of the letters that Christopher sent to you, but I’m here toflesh it out and answer any questions you might have.”
So, for the next hour Marc expounded Robert’stheory of responsible government, the governing passion of hislife. He emphasized that the Governor’s cabinet must have theconfidence of the majority party in the Assembly, and that it mustact cohesively to promote the policies of the majority party. And,of course, the majority party was elected, not appointed. If thiswere accomplished — and there was every reason to believe it wouldbe under Governor Poulett Thomson — then no longer could theappointed Legislative Council or the Governor himself veto orindefinitely delay laws favoured by the Assembly. Moreover, if thatAssembly were in control of a united party of the left, comprisingboth moderate French rouge and moderate English Reformers,then the agenda of both races could be advanced simultaneously.
“But French is not an official language ofthe Assembly,” Thériault pointed out.
“True, but a majority party in the Assemblycan make it so.”
“The capital is in Upper Canada, a veryEnglish city,” Thériault said.
“But that too can be altered. Both Baldwinand LaFontaine favour moving it to Montreal as soon aspossible.”
“I see. But how do we know the English willnot use us until it is convenient to drop us?”