Later, January 2, 1800
From hours of sloth and torpor, White now finds himself thrust into a frenzy of activity in preparation for the morrow. His first thought is who to ask to be his second, and the answer comes fast. Baron de Hoen, of course. Has the man not bragged about his fine duelling pistols and lamented his thwarted wish for a duel with the Yankee Reesor who cheated him of a bridle for his horse? He must get a message to the Baron at once.
But first, remember the adage: two birds with one stone. It’s one of his Canadian expressions. The farmers use it when they bring down two passenger pigeons with one missile.
So he puts his blue velvet frock coat and lace-trimmed cravat into a portmanteau and sets forth.
As he goes out onto the path in front of his house, he hears pistol shots from Small’s lot. Should I walk over to the man and tell him it is considered ungentlemanly to practise beforehand? Remind him of those words of Brutus that he had the effrontery to write on that note? But I don’t care, really.
He walks first to the tavern on Queen Street where he hopes to find one of Berczy’s German immigrant friends on his usual stool quaffing back a cup of whisky punch. The man knows the Baron—they live in the settlement called Markham—and he will carry a message in return for a shilling or two. But when White arrives at the tavern, the man is not there.
But Abner Miles’s shop is close by, and he takes his portmanteau there and dumps its contents onto the counter.
“What’s this all about?” Miles asks him, a sneer on his face as he looks over the frock coat and cravat.
“What will you give me for it?”
Miles runs this thick, grimy fingers over the material. “You owe me plenty, you know. So I’ll give you four pounds for the lot here, take half of it back for that bill, and give you two pounds for your binge at the garrison.”
And how does the bugger know about my nights at the garrison? Not that I’m exactly surprised.
“Highway robbery, man. I’ve worn this frock coat and lace cravat twice. Is that the best you can do?”
“You nobs think the working classes must bow down before you? Take it or leave it. It’s of no matter to me.”
White ponders a moment, thinking of what a fine figure he cut in that velvet coat with the lace cravat. He remembers how he stood in front of his pier glass admiring himself and how Susannah came in, unannounced, how they had laughed together, how they had danced . . . It had been the first moment of a new romance.
But into his mind now come unbidden some lines that make him smile:
The grave’s a fine and private place
But none, I think, do there wear lace.
So he takes the money and leaves the store. On the path outside, he meets Dr. Baldwin. The young man is wearing leather breeches like a common labourer, and his knee-length woollen topcoat is shabby.
“A two-pound payment down on the money I owe you, sir,” White says, pushing the coins towards Baldwin. “I apologize for the delay. I will ever be grateful to you for saving my boy’s life.” And it is possible that I may never be able to give you the full amount that you so richly deserve.
“Thank you, White.” Baldwin tucks the coins into one of his worn leather gloves as if he must hold them close and feel the comfort of the metal against his skin.
What to do next? There’s a chance that the Baron may be at the garrison. It’s his favourite place. But this early in the day?
He goes back home then to put on the stock that dear Ellen knitted for him and the fur hat with ear flaps that the explorer Mackenzie gave him. Fortified against the chill of the west wind, he sets off then along the margin of the lake to the garrison.
He takes the familiar route to the Officers’ Mess, and lo, there is the Baron sitting at his favourite table. Fortunately, he is alone, his only adjuncts being the bowl of rum punch in front of him and the ceremonial sword laid across the oak boards of the table. In a minute, White has made his request, and the Baron has accepted.
“I shall arrive in plenty of time so that we may have a little target practice before Small and his man arrive. Not that target practice exactly complies with the rules.”
“No practice, thank you. I do not fear death. What will be will be.”
“Have you fired a pistol before?”
“No, but I think it does not require a great deal of intellect to pull a trigger. Just keep the matter to yourself, please, and I thank you for your service.”
They part then. White makes his way back home. The wind is at his back now, and he makes good time. He has one more errand to carry out.