Turncoat (16 page)

“There is a sheriff for the county,” Marc pointed out. “And a magistrate a stone's throw from the mill.”

“Randy-the-dandy MacLachlan, you mean!” she roared, and the shock wave made the peering faces in the loft bob. “I wouldn't let my six-year-old Susan near him. And who do you think is a charter member of that faggots' club up at the squire's?”

“I would be most pleased to forward any written complaint or petition on your behalf,” Marc said, not for a second believing Bella's charge but nevertheless feeling some
obligation to demonstrate the absolute objectivity and probity of British due process.

“What makes you think Orville and me got any surplus to sell to the English army of occupation?” Bella said, and she pinned him with a stare.

“That's what I'm here to find out, ma'am. I'm merely an emissary.”

“A papal legate, sort of,” Bella grinned. “You payin' with cash?”

“Pound notes only.”

“None of that funny money, now, that army scrip yer betters palmed off on us last time. And no notes drawn on the Bank of fuckin' Upper Canada.”

Marc flinched, noted no reaction from the two eldest at the obscenity, and forged ahead. “We're looking for pork as well as grain,” he said.

“Our pigs aren't doin' so good this winter. Some kinda fever gettin' inta them. The boar's doin' poorly too. Unfortunately, a boar is a necessity, ugly as it may be, eh? Like God and shitty weather.”

“Is your husband at home, madam?” Marc said.

“Jeezuz, I ain't been called ‘madam' since the time I stumbled inta a hooer-house in Syracuse lookin' fer that arsehole that got me up the stump and had to marry me or take a load of buckshot in the underparts!”

“I can return another time,” Marc said, starting to get up.

“Siddown, for Chrissake, nobody's tryin' to scare ya off.
Cassie, bring out the jar of hooch and pour a mugful fer me and Officer Edwards.”

“Really, ma'am, I couldn't—”

“You call me ‘ma'am' once more and I'll toss ya headfirst inta the fire. Now unhitch yer high horse and relax. I got some questions I wanta ask you.”

Cassie did as she was commanded, blushing fiercely as she served Marc and sensed his eyes upon her flimsy dress and what it inadequately concealed.

“Pretty one, ain't she?” Bella said, downing half her drink in one gulp. “Spittin' image of me, though you'd hardly think so now. 'Course I had two eyes to see with back then and still ended up in this shit-hole.”

“How may I help you?” Marc said.

“I wanta know why you're really here.”

“But I've told you that … Mrs. Hislop.”

“I hear Monsieur Papineau and Wolfred Nelson're kickin' up shit in Quebec. Colborne, and his Tory ass-lickers think the same trouble's about to start up here, don't they?”

“I am not at liberty to comment,” Marc said, swallowing his astonishment.

“Aren't ya, now. Well, that's one of the things wrong with this province, ain't it? The people in power don't feel the need to be at liberty to say anythin' by way of explanation to the wretches who've got no power of their own.”

“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.

“Stop yer whinin'! Ya want Bella out here with the snips?”

The keening increased, broken finally by a series of hiccoughing sobs.

“Get yer skinny arse outta there, the fun's over.”

A moment later a woman's head pushed its way out of the murky interior: first a tangle of red curls, then a pale face.

“Outta there, ya little hooer,” Hislop barked. He reached down to grasp the girl—for she was only that—by one thin wrist and heaved her up and out into the nearest drift. She landed on both buttocks, her equally thin legs splayed and one oversized boot ripped off. She was clothed only in a flannel nightgown and a man's sweater that she had not succeeded in getting over her head in time.

“I want my shillin',” she said with a perfunctory whine.

“You almost cost me twenty dollars—if I'd've missed that soldier, out here with the likes of you.”

“I'll holler my head off—”

But she didn't. Hislop kicked her in the stomach, knocking the wind and any resistance out of her. She let out a gasp, curled up into a ball of bent limbs, and started to whimper.

Marc was just about to spur his horse forward when the girl leapt up and turned to flee. Hislop whirled around and snatched at her nightgown, and as she wrenched herself away from him, the entire gown with the sweater came off in his hand. Hislop's chin dropped in amazement. The girl saw her chance and sprinted towards the sideroad, stark naked but for one blackened boot that thumped into the snow like a club foot.

Marc realized immediately that she would come out onto the sideroad only a few yards from where the path he had taken met it, so he headed at full gallop back through the bush. As he charged out onto the road, the girl was just
coming through the trees. Unexpectedly she turned north and, still bounding like a spooked doe, oblivious of her nakedness or the freezing air around her, she sped towards the end of the road. Marc caught up with her just as she veered back into the bush. Leaning down, holding the reins slack in one hand and guiding the horse with his knees, Marc grasped the girl under her arms at the apex of one of her leaps and swept her up in front of him onto the horse's withers. She let out a surprisingly loud shriek and tried to strike him.

“I'm not Hislop!” he cried. “I've come to help you.” The horse kept on going along a faint trail through the bush. The girl's struggles eased—in relief or exhaustion. Marc brought the horse to a halt and dismounted.

“I'm going to take you down from here and wrap you up before you freeze to death,” he said. “Please don't scream. There's no need. I'm not going to hurt you.” She said nothing. Her body went limp in his arms.