Turncoat (20 page)

“A mite worried about the ruckus in Quebec, I'm told,” Stebbins said as he took the horse's reins.

“That was a factor, I believe.”

“And you're the drummer?” Stebbins said.

“Advance agent.”

“Seen plenty of drummers where I come from, though not always glad to.”

The quick grin telegraphed the joke, and Marc dredged up a weak smile.

“Anyway, I'd like to see whatever you might have to offer. The price will be good, and paid in pound notes.”

“Well, I'm relieved to hear that, I reckon—though my Yankee blood hankers after currency you can sink your teeth into.”

“Are you new to the province, then?”

Stebbins halted near the big double door to the barn. No grin mitigated his next comment. “I figure you know to the day and the hour precisely when I first set foot on His Majesty's soil, and a good deal of what I've been doin' and sayin' since. You and me'll get along just fine so long as there's no malarkey between us. You look like a sensible young fella to me.”

“Erastus Hatch has given me a few details of your stay in the district, but for my part I assure you I am here to
reconnoitre grain and pork. There's no politics to a soldier's hunger.”

“When you've been here a while you'll learn that everything's politics in this country. As it is in the United States. The difference is, back home everybody's given a chance to join in the game—and win.”

The obvious rejoinder—“Then why didn't you stay there?”—was on the tip of Marc's tongue before he reined it in, took a deep breath, and said, “Be that as it may, Mr. Stebbins, I have a simple duty to perform—”

“Now, now, don't get yer garters in a snarl,” Stebbins said, hitching Marc's horse to a post, dropping his gear, and starting to haul the doors apart with both hands. “And for Chrissake, quit hailin' me as mister. The name's Azel, though I been called worse from time to time.”

“Then you've something to show me?”

“You think we're headin' inta my barn to take a leak?”

The interior of the barn was spacious, well laid out, and scrupulously maintained. Two rows of stalls housed Ayreshire milk cows, a team of Clydes, a roan mare, and a huge bull manacled to a concrete stanchion by a ring in its nose. Fresh straw was evident everywhere. The energy Stebbins was putting into his political activities and unexplained “hunting” forays evidently had not affected his proficiency as a farmer.

“We had a drought last July that hit the wheat hard,” Stebbins said, “but I put in a fair amount of Indian corn for
pig feed, and it's paid off. The hogs are in the back. Hold yer nose!”

When they'd finished admiring the hogs—robust Yorkies waxing nicely towards slaughtering time—and tallying a potential purchase by the quartermaster's self-appointed legate, Marc said casually, “You've done exceedingly well here in a short time.”

“I have done, haven't I? And I've managed a wife and two babes inta the bargain.”

“I heard about the fuss over alien rights when I arrived last spring,” Marc said in his most empathetic tone. When Stebbins ignored the bait, Marc added, “You must have been concerned you might lose all this.”

“You're damn right I was! I built everythin' you see here, and the house, too, with the aid of my neighbours and other Christians who cared not a fig about my place of origin or the way I voted. I put in my own crops with only my woman and a lad or two from the township. Our harvestin' is done together, farm by farm. We got no landlords or fancy squires in this part of God's world.”

“And Mr. Dutton was your man for the Assembly?”

“I reckon he didn't need much help takin' this seat.”

“Hatch was telling me a neighbour of his suffered terribly from the drought.”

Stebbins paused at the bull's stall, seemed to make some sort of decision, and said, “Smallman. Aye, sufferin's an inadequate word to cover what happened to that poor bastard.”

“Jesse was a friend?”

Again a brief hesitation, then, “Not really. More like a comrade-in-arms, but when you've fought alongside somebody for the same cause you can make friends pretty fast. Jesse thought we couldn't get a fair shake for our grievances under the present set-up in Toronto, but he couldn't bring himself to cross the line.”

“Whereas others did?”

Stebbins grinned cryptically. “Now them are matters I wouldn't know nothin' about, would I?”

“I wasn't implying you did,” Marc said lamely. “But we heard rumours of seditious talk down this way and meetings of some secret society.”

“The only so-called secret society infestin' this county is the Loyal Orange Lodge, led by that lunatic Gowan.”

“At any rate, the alien question's been resolved, hasn't it? Your land is safe and you can hold any office you can get yourself elected or appointed to.”

Stebbins said, “You'll also be happy to know I've just applied for my naturalization papers. I been here longer than the seven years they're requirin' for citizenship.”

Marc was glad they had turned to leave the barn because it gave him a moment to recover from the shock of hearing this news and the deliberate manner in which it was revealed.

“Yessirree, in a month or so, Azel Stebbins, his wife, and his bairns are gonna be bona fidee subjects of King Willy the Fourth.”

Marc was not ready to give up, however, and when Stebbins insisted they seal their verbal contract with a drink, Marc was quick to accept.

“I never trust a man who turns down a free drink,” Stebbins said, and winked. He led Marc past the horse stall to a manger below the hayloft, reached down, and drew a clay jug into the weak light of the waning day. He tipped it up, took a self-congratulatory swig, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and passed the jug to Marc. “That'll tan yer insides.”

Marc made a valiant show of duplicating his host's gestures, appending only an explosive wheeze to the set. Stebbins's grin wobbled through Marc's tears. “My God, that's raw stuff,” he managed to say.

“Mad Annie's boys ain't too particular, I reckon.”

“You wouldn't have something a little less—intimidating?” Marc said.

“Annie's potion's about all folks around here can afford.”

“That's probably why I haven't had a decent drink since I left the fort.” Marc smiled.

“Well now, I surely wouldn't want a man who's lookin' to buy my crops to go back to his commandant and bad-mouth the local hospitality. Nosirree.” Stebbins winked lasciviously, offered a quicksilver grin, and began to brush away at the hay in the manger. “Ahh,” he said, and he drew forth a dusty bottle whose smudged label bore no word of English or American. “Bordeaux, older'n my granny's cat. In Buffalo they call this stuff ‘French leg-spreader.'”

Marc flinched when he saw Stebbins attack the cork with his jackknife. “There,” he said, “all ready for the back of the throat. Be my guest.”

Marc had no choice but to hoist the vintage red and let it slide its way, bits of cork still abob, over his tongue and down his astonished throat.

Stebbins then did the same, but continued gulping until the dregs arrived, prompting him to spit furiously. “Jesus, but that's good stuff. A man could do worse'n get pissed on that.”

“I haven't tasted anything that good, even in the officers' mess,” Marc said, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, a move that set Stebbins grinning again.

“It ain't available to members of the Family Compact.”

“Could an ordinary soldier lay his hands on any of it?”

“You can get almost anythin' fer a price,” Stebbins said.

“What else have I got to waste my money on?”

“Well now, if I did know where to find such ambrosia, I'd be sure and tell an ordinary officer like yerself.”

“You didn't buy this, then?” Marc forced himself to look suitably crestfallen.

“'Twas a gift, from a friend of a friend. For services rendered.”

“Ahh … that's unfortunate.”

“And we don't tell tales on our friends, do we?” With this caveat Stebbins turned and ambled placidly out of the barn. Perhaps he did not realize how much he had just given away to
his interrogator: the confirmation of a direct link to smugglers and a more oblique one to Jesse Smallman and his father.

Buoyed by this thought, Marc was caught off guard when he reached for his horse's reins and Stebbins said heartily, “Where'n hell do ya think you're goin'? Don't ya wanta stay fer supper and meet the missus?”

Marc was most pleased to say yes.

M
ARC PUT HIS HORSE IN AN
empty stall beside Stebbins's mare, removed its saddle, gave it a perfunctory rubdown, and threw a blanket over it. “Sorry, old chum, but that's the best I can do.” He chipped the ice off the water bucket in the stall, noted the hay in the corner, and went off to meet the notorious child bride from Buffalo.

Lydia Stebbins was attired in a woollen housedress that hung loosely on her, laceless boots, and a maid's bonnet askew on her brow. She stood before several steaming kettles and pots over a balky fire—ladling what appeared to be stew, intermittently stabbing at the fire logs with a twisted poker, and wiping the sooty sweat from her face like the beleaguered heroine in a melodrama. None of this blurred or diminished her beauty. A two-year-old clung shyly to her dress and stared up at Marc; a crib by the fire held her youngest child.

“Good gracious, Azel, you didn't tell me we was expectin' company,” she cried, and she swept the back of a hand across her forehead.

“You got enough stew there fer a herd of longhorns,” Stebbins said, shucking his clothes in sundry directions. “Put on a couple of extry dumplin's and set a plate fer Ensign Edwards. Then hie yer pretty little rump over here and shake his hand, like a proper lady.”

A proper lady she might have made in other circumstances. Her hair was as black and shiny as ebony and fell in generous, wayward curls over her neck and shoulders and partway down her back. Her face was perfectly heart-shaped, her skin the milk-white hue of the Irish along the windy coasts of Kerry or Donegal. Her eyes were deep pools many a homesick sailor would happily have drowned in. The figure complementing them could only be guessed at, but as she gave her husband a warning glance and moved across the room towards Marc, a dancer's grace and innate control intimated a slim waist and lissome limbs.

“Pleased ta meet ya.” When she smiled, her teeth were even, flawless. “You just call me Lydia like everybody else 'round here.”

“And I'm Marc,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it up towards his lips.

“Jesus!” she yelped. “He's gonna kiss it!”

“That's what they do to ladies over in England,” Stebbins said scornfully.

Marc pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Lydia giggled but did not pull away. “You all done?”

“That's all there is to it, girl.” Her husband laughed. He was over at the fire now and sniffing at the stew.

“Christ, I been kissed better by a pet calf,” she said, her eyes dancing.

T
HE STEW WAS SURPRISINGLY
T
ASTY AND
the dumplings even better. Mr. and Mrs. Stebbins were on their best behaviour, though Marc expected that the elaborate politeness of their “Mrs. Stebbins, would you kindly pass the bread?” and “Certainly, Mr. Stebbins, but not before our guest's been served” was a parody for his amusement or discomfiture—he was not certain which. In light of their performance, and the indignities of yesterday's encounters, Marc began to doubt the possibility of creating in Upper Canada an alternative society to the rabid and reckless democracy south of it—a New World country where decorum, reverence for the law, and respect for one's betters would be the accepted norms. It certainly seemed to be a moot question at best.

While Lydia washed the plates and spoons in a kettle at the fire, Stebbins and Marc sat at the deal table and drank several mugs of coffee tempered with dollops of Jamaican rum. Lydia began to sing, occasionally swivelling around to face them and catching Marc's eye. Her cheeks were scarlet from the heat; tiny pendants of sweat beaded her forehead and trickled down into the hollow of her throat.

“I gotta stay sober tonight,” Stebbins said to Marc. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, and added, “Gotta big meetin' to attend.” He laughed out loud, apparently disturbing the baby in the crib. The two-year-old had fallen asleep
halfway through his meal and had been tucked into bed in the loft above. Lydia went to the crying infant, clucked over it for a few seconds, then began to rock the cradle with one delicate, booted foot.

“Time for me to vamoose,” Stebbins said, and he seemed to shush himself by holding two fingers to his lips.

Marc rose and said quietly, “I'll ride as far as the highway with you.”

Stebbins hesitated. “Okay by me. You've been damn good company so far.”

Marc bowed to Lydia (he thought he detected an amused exchange of glances between man and wife), and then the two men tiptoed out.

“Not so hard, ya little nipper,” he heard Lydia say as the door closed behind them.

Side by side they saddled their horses in the glow of a single lantern. The sky was clear, but the moon had not yet risen. It was a dark winter's evening they would be riding into, along the tree-shrouded lanes they dignified here with the name of “road.”

“My God,” Marc said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“The horse has thrown a shoe.”

“It couldn't have. You rode it in here okay.”

“Of course I did. The shoe has to be somewhere around here.”

The two men made what both knew would be a fruitless
search through the straw inside and the drifts outside. No shoe was found.

“Well, you can walk him back to the mill without doin' any harm,” Stebbins said cheerfully. “Shouldn't take you an hour.”