“The people here, I’m told, elected an Assembly in which the majority of seats are held by members of the Reform party.”
“Well, you are up on yer politics, ain’t ya?” She polished off her “whisky” and waited until he had at least sipped his. (Jamaican rum, he was only mildly surprised to discover.) “What I am at liberty to say to you and yer limp-pricked major-domos back in Toronto is that my Orville worked as hard as any man to get Mr. Perry elected to the Assembly. He even escorted Mr. Mackenzie on his tour through this district in thirty-four-him and a dozen others, like Wicks and Stebbins and poor young Jesse Smallman that hung himself for grief over the state of affairs. That don’t make my Orville a revolutionary. His grandpapa, now there was a true revolutionary. Fought side by side with George Washington at Valley Forge and got his left leg blown to kingdom come. Folks up here don’t know chapter one about real revolution.”
“I assure you, madam-”
“We got more assurances from your bigwigs than we could use to paper a privy.” Her mammoth breasts heaved above the stretched waistline of her dress, but it was the flare of her eyes that held Marc spellbound. “If it was up to me, I’d’ve organized a posse of Minutemen, marched on Toronto, and done what my countrymen did to it in the War of 1812: jam a stick of dynamite under it and blow it inta Lucifer’s parlour.” She sighed extravagantly, like a basso profundo at the end of an aria.
“That’s treasonable talk, madam.”
“Lucky fer you I didn’t, eh? You’d have no toy soldiers to play with. But I’m only a woman, and Orville ain’t what he useta be.” She chuckled softly. “Poor Orville wasn’t ever what he useta be.”
“Your husband is ill?”
Bella guffawed, sending a spray of spittle past Marc’s knees. “Not as ill as he oughta be! He can still get it up, if that’s what you’re inferrin’.”
“Madam, there are children present.”
“Don’t I know it. I got eight livin’, all of ’em in this stinkin’ room. But I’ve had twelve all told. It’d’ve been a goddamn good trick if I could’ve organized a revolution between the ploughin’ and the begettin’, wouldn’t it?”
Marc got up and pulled his coat on quickly before Cassie could arrive to assist him. Buster meantime had sidled up to him and was stroking the brushed wool as if it were ermine or beaver, or a pet that would purr in gratitude.
“I hear tell the new governor ain’t a military man,” Bella said, still wedged so firmly in the big chair that if she were, on a whim, to have stood up it would have come with her like a monstrous bustle. “That should be an improvement right there.”
“Mr. Hislop is not here?” Marc tried again.
“Mr. Hislop is out in the barn somewheres or else skunk-drunk in a snowdrift. Mr. Hislop don’t spend much time in his house these days, or nights.”
Cassie looked ready to interrupt her mother; her lower lip trembled and tears sprang into her eyes.
“Don’t you shush me, girl,” Bella hissed at Cassie. “I’m all you got in this world, and don’t forget it.” She turned back to Marc, who now stood rooted to the doorjamb. “I’ve had all the babies I’m ever goin’ to. I’ve made that perfectly plain to his nibs.” She reached under the horsehair cushion and produced a menacing pair of tin-snips. She snapped the pincers together with an ominous click. “If he so much as breathes on my bed with his hoe-handle at half-mast, it’s snip, snip-good-bye and good riddance. And he’ll get some of the same if I see him within spittin’ distance of my Cassie.”
Just before he shut the door behind him, Marc slipped a shilling into his young admirer’s grimy palm.
As he walked to the corner of the house where his horse was tethered, Marc noticed a male figure scuttling in his direction. It seemed to have emerged from between the barn and the lean-to beyond it. The figure stopped, appeared to take its bearings, then hailed him. Marc dropped the reins and strode out, not without curiosity, to meet, he presumed, the treacherously sweet Orville Hislop.
“Who the hell’re you!” Hislop shouted querulously. He started forward.
Marc continued on towards him. Hislop stalled, uncertain of his ground. His glazed eye had caught the tufted shako and flash of scarlet at the open throat of the military greatcoat. Hislop himself was clad only in overalls, boots, and a bulky sweater, which struggled to envelop a low-slung belly that seemed at odds with his otherwise muscular and work-hardened body. He wore no cap, and the brindled mop of his hair was littered with straw, and worse.
Marc shot out his hand. “I am Ensign Edwards,” he said, “on assignment from the quartermaster at York. We’re looking to buy surplus grain or pork for the army, as soon as possible.”
“Are ya, now? You don’t look like no quartermaster to me,” Hislop growled. “And what’ve ya been foragin’ at in my house, eh?”
“Your good wife directed me out here to you,” Marc lied, with an ease he was growing accustomed to.
“Good wife, my arse,” Hislop said, and Marc could see now that he had been drinking-a lot-and that he had become suddenly aware that this uniformed stranger had noticed it. He grinned broadly, exposing three yellowed stumps of teeth, and winked. “You’ll know all about it when you’re married.”
“I understand from Mrs. Hislop that you’ve had a bad year and that I’m not likely to find what I’m looking for.”
“She told ya that, did she, now? Weren’t that just splendid of her! Well, Mr. Ensign Edwards, you just come along with me and I’ll show you half a dozen of the finest hogs in the county.”
Marc followed Hislop into a rickety, shed-like appendage to the barn, trying to keep upwind of him. Inside, the stench was overpowering: the result of a pigsty unmucked for weeks, mixed with a similar stink from the adjacent cattle stalls.
“Takes a little gettin’ used to.” Hislop chuckled, peering sideways at Marc as the latter thrust a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils. “Just plug yer nose and take a gander at them barrows. They’ll be as fat as my wife’s tits by Easter.” Marc could just discern the scrawny outlines of several young, castrated hogs, so begrimed it was only their occasional twitch or shudder that distinguished them from the mud and excrement they inhabited.
“Good thing we don’t eat the outside of ’em,” Hislop said encouragingly.
“Yes,” Marc said, and he stumbled back outside. A few yards away was the peculiar lean-to affair. “That where you keep your sick boar?” he said between gasps.
Hislop squinted, coughed, gargled a mouthful of phlegm, and said, “That’s right. I been tendin’ to the poor bugger all afternoon.”
“I was raised on a farm, believe it or not,” Marc said. “My uncle worked wonders with sick animals. I’d be glad to have a look at him for you.”
Hislop’s eyes widened as far as his alcoholic haze would permit. “That’s mighty considerate of you, sir, but it’s just a touch of colic.” He had Marc by the elbow and was ushering him towards his horse. “You be sure to let me know about them barrows of mine. I’ll take any price that’s fair, especially if you’re payin’ cash this round. We don’t see much minted money in these parts. I can give ya the names of some other fellas in the township-”
“Quartermaster Jenkin will be in touch with you next month, provided those hogs are healthy … and clean as a babe in its bath,” Marc said, mounting his horse. Then, without a nod or farewell, he rode straight out to the sideroad.
At first he headed south towards the highway, but when he came to a path that wandered west through the bush below the Hislop place, he urged his horse onto it. He followed it slowly in a wide arc until he was at the rear of the farm, where he had a sheltered view of the lean-to and the barn behind it. He was just in time.
Glancing around every few seconds, Hislop was skulking his way towards the lean-to. He staggered around to the near side of it, where a rickety door or hatch had been propped up to block the low entranceway. He stood still, as if listening intently. From inside the lean-to came a mewling sound, most unpig-like in its keening persistence. Seemingly satisfied, Hislop jerked the hatch away and flung it aside.