Horace Macy was just thinking about preparing for bed when the knock came at his front door. He tucked in his shirt, hauled up his braces and went to answer it. There on his porch stood Constance Brown, his one-time fiancée. (They had been good friends even before the death of Macy’s wife.) She was short, slightly plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a mop of frizzled, ginger hair and blue eyes, and tonight she looked somewhat dishevelled.
“Well, aren’t you gonna ask me in?” she said, staring him down.
Macy recovered his aplomb enough to reply, “Of course. You are always welcome here.
She stepped inside, and Macy moved back to accommodate her.
“It’s just that you startled me, Constance. I wasn’t expecting anybody this time of night.”
“I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour, but there are some things I just have to get off my chest.”
“I hope this isn’t about the engagement.”
“It is. And I’d like to sit down – if you don’t mind.”
“But that’s all in the past,” Macy said, following Constance meekly into the living-room and watching her remove her coat and take a seat. He sat down beside her.
“I thought you would have come to your senses by now,” she said, turning to look directly at him. He cringed.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that woman, that’s what I mean.”
“Delores?”
“Of course, Delores. Who else have you been making a fool of yourself with?”
“Now, Constance. I know we were engaged once, but I broke that off honourably – ”
“We were more than engaged, and you threw me over for a fallen woman with bags of money.”
“Delores’s money has nothing to do with it.”
“You thought I was worth pursuing till my father went bankrupt.”
“That’s not fair, Constance. I just decided that we were not meant for each other after all.”
“After a three-month engagement?”
“You know how sorry I was to have to break it off.”
“How could I explain it to my friends? You left me in a terrible state.”
“Better that than a lifetime of unhappiness.”
“I consoled myself with the knowledge that you would soon tire of a woman who is faithless and unreliable, a woman of questionable virtue who would soon throw you over.”
“Well, that hasn’t happened. I just spent a lovely afternoon with the lady.”
“Some lady. I saw her this morning out riding with Lionel Trueman. And she was cozying up to him like some shameless hussy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t stand a chance against someone like Trueman.”
“Well, he may not be around much longer to challenge me,” Macy said with some pride.
“And why is that?”
“He and I are going to duel tomorrow morning.”
Constance’s jaw dropped. “You’re crazier than I thought.”
“The lady doesn’t think so.”
“Well, then, you’re welcome to her.”
Constance got up and put her coat on. “I see I shouldn’t have come here after all.”
At the door she said, “That woman is wicked. Somebody should do something about her.”
***
The sun rose on a clear, cool morning, except for a touch of ground mist that was soon burned off. Horace Macy and Lionel Trueman arrived with their seconds at the cricket grounds on the north-west edge of town. The grounds were surrounded by mature trees, which afforded the duellists a modest amount of cover for the clandestine, and illegal, activity. Each man had brought his own pistol, and the weapons were now being examined by the seconds. Macy had brought his clerk with him, and Trueman a close friend. The seconds pretended to scrutinize the weapons with an expert eye.
“Everything seems in order,” said the clerk confidently.
“I agree,” said the friend.
“Each man will step off ten paces, then turn,” said the clerk. “When I drop the handkerchief, each man will fire.”
“And may the best man win,” Macy said.
“I trust you are prepared to die,” Trueman said. “And my honour will be satisfied.”
“You are without honour,” Macy said.
“Gentlemen,” said Trueman’s second, “do not restart the quarrel we are here to adjudicate.”
“Ten paces each,” the clerk said.
With their backs to each other and pistols cocked, the two duellists began to pace away from each other, counting the steps aloud. At ten they turned and held their pistols up. A handkerchief fluttered in the breeze.
“That’s enough, gentlemen. Put the pistols down.”
All eyes turned towards the new arrivals. It was Detective-Constable Cobb in plain clothes and a uniformed Constable Ewan Wilkie.
“This isn’t what you think,” said the clerk, dropping the handkerchief.
“How do you know what I’m thinkin’,” Cobb said, coming up to him but keeping a wary eye on Lionel Trueman’s pistol. “But I know a duel when I see one.”
“Why can’t you mind your own business and leave us be?” Trueman said.
“Illegal duellin’ is my business,” Cobb said. “And if you don’t want me to haul you off to jail, you’ll put that pistol away right now.”
By this time Wilkie had reached Trueman, and he took the man’s pistol and fired it into the air.
“Do the same with yours,” Cobb ordered Macy. “And don’t go killin’ no birds.”
Macy, looking scared, shot his pistol off harmlessly.
“Now get over here all of you. I got somethin’ to say,” Cobb barked.
Macy and Trueman joined the seconds in the middle of the grounds.
“I’m gonna pretend I caught you two havin’ target practice,” Cobb said, “if you’ll swear off this foolishness fer good. If I’d’ve been a minute later, I’d be chargin’ one of you with murder. One dead and one to be hanged. Is that what you thought you were up to?”
“How did you find out about it?” Macy asked.
“Your clerk got to boastin’ about it in the pub last night, too close to one of my snitches. And lucky fer you he did.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Trueman said. “You’re not a gentleman.”
“And damn glad I ain’t,” Cobb said, ushering the gentlemen off the cricket grounds.
***
When they reached Queen Street, Trueman and Macy found themselves walking side by side.
“That was a close call,” Macy said.
“Cobb was probably right. One of us would have been dead and the other a candidate for the gallows,” Trueman said.
“Leaving the lady with neither of us,” Macy said.
“And she is seeing both of us, isn’t she?”
“I thought her intentions were all on my side.”
“I thought the same. She led me to believe so.” Trueman stopped walking.
“She is leading both of us on, isn’t she?” Macy said.
“I believe so.”
“And who’s to say there are not others we know nothing of?”
“You could be right. Have we both been fools?”
“We’ve both been fools,” Macy said bitterly.
“She almost got us killed,” Trueman said.
“Is it just a game with her?”
“Are we nothing but her pawns?”
“The woman has no conscience.”
“She’s using her money and standing in the community to make fools of men.”
“Somebody ought to put a stop to her little games.”
“Yes, and quickly.”
“Well, I’m through with her,” Macy said emphatically. “Money or no money.”
Trueman nodded his agreement, and the two men continued walking together, who just moments before had been prepared to shoot one another.
***
The hustings, as usual, had been erected in front of Danby’s Inn, the area as a whole known as Danby’s Crossing. It was a mile north of the city and a quarter mile east of Yonge Street. The inn was an elaborate two-storey affair with a wide verandah in front. Completing the square were a general store and livery stables opposite Danby’s, and on the eastern side a smithy and a harness-maker. The inn boasted an elegant foyer and a bustling tavern.
While Louis Fontaine, Gilles Gagnon, Francis Hincks and Robert Baldwin rode up to the crossing in a brougham, Marc came along behind on a sturdy mount he had hired from Frank’s Livery in Toronto. Just in case there was any trouble, he wanted to be mobile. Not that they were expecting any, since they had received assurances from Humphrey Cardiff that all would be peaceful. Besides, the nomination meeting included the candidates from both the Reform and Conservative parties, and the crowd therefore would contain supporters from both sides. It was in everybody’s interest to have an orderly set of nominations. The meeting was to start at two o’clock.
It was just after one when the brougham drew up to the hitching-post in front of Danby’s Inn. Already the space before the hustings was beginning to fill up. People, farmers and their wives mostly, had driven, ridden or walked many miles through the bush to be here. Not all of them would be voters – certainly not the women – but all were interested in what the various speakers would have to say. These were tumultuous times in the history of the province. An armed revolt had taken place not four years before – over deeply set grievances that could not be addressed under a system of government where all the power lay with the governor and his appointed minions. The Rebellion, here and in Quebec as well, had settled little definitively, except to prompt the British government to experiment with some fundamental changes to its fractious colony. These included uniting the two provinces into one (or two halves) with a single Parliament. The grievances had not yet been dealt with, and responsible, cabinet government had only been partly achieved. Moreover, it remained to be seen whether these grievances – the Clergy Reserves question, the flawed banking system, the blatant patronage and de facto rule of the Family Compact elite, and the stagnated economy – would be helped or hindered by tossing French and English into the same stew-pot. Certainly, the alliance of LaFontaine’s rouge and Baldwin’s Reform was a positive start. But of course it could only succeed if they could get Louis elected to the Legislative Assembly. Robert Baldwin had taken the fourth riding of York by two hundred votes last April. He had high hopes that Louis’ campaign in the same riding would be a cakewalk.
Danby himself was on the verandah to greet them.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “Do come into the lounge and take a glass of Champagne.”
“You go ahead,” Marc said to Robert. “I’m going into the tavern to test the lay of the land.”
“All right, Marc. A good idea.”
“Your counterparts have already arrived,” Danby said.
“Well, then, “ Hincks said. “Let’s go in and say hello.”
Marc hitched up his horse and walked down the verandah to the tavern entrance. Taking a deep breath, he went in. The place was jammed. It was all smoke and loud voices, punctuated by the clink of glasses and thump of flagons on the bar and tables. The clientele was mostly farmers, and they were getting primed for the nominations. Marc went up to the bar and ordered an ale. When it came, he hunched over it, anonymous, and listened hard. Snatches of conversation floated by.
“I’m no Tory, but I’ll be damned if I’ll vote for a Frenchman. I don’t give a damn that he’s a pal of Robert Baldwin.”
“Frenchmen are all the same. You can’t trust ‘em.”
“I heard what they did to their English neighbours in Quebec.”
“Yeah. They burned barns and hay-stacks.”
“I even heard they cut the tails off horses and cows.”
“And the poor buggers couldn’t swat the flies off of them and went crazy and drowned themselves.”
“They couldn’t beat the English army so they took it out on their English friends.”
“But the soldiers torched their churches, remember.”
“Because they hid out the rebels in them and used them to store arms and ammunition.”
“The priests were on their side all the way.”
“Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.”
“And I’ll bet the Pope was in on it, too.”
“But the French had the same grievances we did.”
“They never had it so good. Looked after by the Church from cradle to grave.”
“What about this LaFontaine? I heard he was too much of a coward to fight.”
“That’s right. He never lifted a finger.”
“But he was on their side, eh? He used his lawyer’s savvy to get the rebels out of jail after the Rebellion was over.”
“And he went around making speeches against the union bill.”
“Does he know what side he’s on?”
“Why should we trust him?”
“But I’ve always voted Reform. And Baldwin says we got to get the man elected – for our own good.”
“Well, I may decide not to vote at all.”
“I still say we got to draw the line at Frenchies. Let LaFontaine find a riding in Quebec to elect him. What are we to think of a guy who gets defeated in his own county?”
“But I heard there were goons and dirty tricks in Terrebonne.”
“There’s always goons and dirty tricks. It goes with the territory.”
“I say we give a good listen to the speeches today. Baldwin and Hincks are gonna nominate LaFontaine. Let’s see if they can make a Frenchman into somebody we can vote for.”
“Yeah. We been Reformers all our lives.”
Marc moved to the other end of the bar where another group sat around to tables pulled together. He sipped on his ale.
“Surely they could’ve found somebody better than Dingman.”
“Well, his wife is well-connected, eh?”
“With Baldwin backin’ the Frenchie, we’re facin’ an uphill fight.”
“The man’s a Papist. That’s all we need to know about him.”
“Dingman needs to remind people of that every chance he can.”
“And wait’ll they hear the French are askin’ for reparations because of the Rebellion.”
“Imagine the nerve of rebels, of traitors, asking for money because they got their barns burned during the fighting.”
“And I hear that Baldwin is backin’ a plan to have the capital moved from Kingston to Montreal. To Quebec!”
“Baldwin’s sold his soul to the Devil, that’s for sure.”
“And they want to blab away in French in the Assembly. They’ll ruin the English language.”
“Yeah, we’ve got to back ol’ Dingman, come what may.”
Marc finished his ale. He walked back out into the September sunshine. It was going to be a spirited nomination.
***
Humphrey Cardiff found his daughter in her sewing-room. Delores gave a start when he came in because he rarely entered her private space.
“What is it, father? Is everything all right?”
“I just had a most unusual conversation with Perkins,” Cardiff said.
“Oh, I see.”
“He arrived on the doorstep, cap in hand. He claims you sacked him yesterday.”
She looked him in the eye and said, “Yes. That’s right.”
“But why? He’s a perfectly good footman and general dogsbody.”
“I have recently found him untrustworthy.”
“Untrustworthy? How, pray tell?”
“The man has been spying on me and telling tales out of school. It’s that simple and I won’t have it.”
“But the fellow is married and his wife is expecting a child.”
“That’s not my concern, I’m afraid. I have to run this household as I see fit.”
“But really, my dear – ”
“When I came back to Rosewood, you promised I would be mistress of the household, did you not?”
“That’s true, but – ”
“No buts. Either I am in charge of the servants or I am not.”
“You are in charge,” Cardiff said with a huge sigh. “But you’ll have to replace Perkins right away as I have a very busy schedule coming up. I’m on my way to Dingman’s nomination meeting and I’m running his campaign for election.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see to it.”
“I still think you’re being a bit harsh.”
“Is that all you wanted?”
Defeated, Cardiff left the room.
***
The square in front of the hustings was almost full. The crowd was in a festive mood, anticipating the events to follow. They were farmers, mostly from York County, but there was a contingent of people from Toronto who had come out to observe the proceedings even though they were not directly affected by the outcome. Politics in the province was a blood sport, and the clash of the two rival parties was never less than entertaining. On the periphery of the crowd, women and children gathered around wagons and took their picnic lunch. In the distance could be heard the wheezy music of a squeezebox.
The proceedings began shortly after two o’clock. All of the principals had arrived and were now seated on the platform. Marc was seated beside Robert, with Hincks, Louis and Gagnon on the other side. Humphrey Cardiff called the meeting to order. Then he immediately launched into his nomination speech for Tory candidate Arthur Dingman, who sat smiling behind him. He was a small, undistinguished man with a neat moustache. Cardiff described for the quieted onlookers a fellow who was nearly a paragon. He was a staunch Tory, loyal to his Queen and country. He had served in the militia that had helped bring the revolt to its heels. He was a family man and long-time resident of York County. Being modest, he had only agreed to run for office after being importuned by his many friends. He wished fervently to join his fellow Tories in the new Legislative Assembly to bolster the English presence there and help provide a counterweight to the radical French contingent. Cardiff did not have to say so directly, but it was apparent to everyone listening that Arthur Dingman was everything Louis LaFontaine was not. Furthermore, while Dingman was a Conservative, he would strive to represent all of the people of the fourth riding of York County.
Cardiff sat down to polite applause from the minority section of the audience. The majority were farmers who, if they had not actively supported the Rebellion, were nonetheless sympathetic to its aims: they were stalwart adherents of the Reform party. It was now the turn of Francis Hincks. He was recognized instantly by the crowd, and applauded. As editor of the Constitution, his voice was well-known throughout the area.
“Ladies and gentlemen, five years ago this province, then Upper Canada, was in a state of turmoil. The Seventh Report on Grievances had just been issued by the Legislative Assembly and ignored by the governor and his executive council. The parliamentary system was deadlocked. Governor Head dissolved the Assembly, and he himself, against all tradition and direct advice to the contrary from London, participated in the subsequent election. The Tory victory did nothing but drive the grievances further underground, until, at last, frustration boiled over into outright armed revolt. The British government, having put down the Rebellion, finally decided to act decisively. Lord Durham was sent out here to recommend practical political solutions. The result has been the creation of a new dominion, comprised of English and French provinces. Our first Assembly has already met. And with the aid of Lord Sydenham, who now lies close to death, the outlines of a system of responsible government were established. To the astonishment of all, French and English Reformers formed a working coalition that resulted in a productive session of the Legislature. All that remains is for you to elect Louis LaFontaine to that body so that he can lead the Quebec wing of the coalition, and continue to right the many wrongs of the past. I know you will do your duty.”
Hincks sat down to sustained applause.
“Up with Reform!” someone shouted.
“No truck with the French!” came a response from near the back of the crowd.
The second nominator for Arthur Dingman now stood up and undid most of the effectiveness of Cardiff’s speech by droning on incoherently for fifteen minutes. Dingman himself was squirming by the time the address staggered to its conclusion.
It was now Robert Baldwin’s turn. The applause was so overwhelming that he had to start several times before he could actually get himself launched. He began with the candidate himself, extolling Louis LaFontaine’s many virtues in simple and direct terms. LaFontaine was above all a leader, a man who stuck to his principles, and one of these was a desire to establish a form of responsible government. Moreover, he was a true reformer with a progressive economic and social policy. He wished to cooperate with his English-speaking counterparts to help build a new society on the northern half of the continent – neither wholly British nor wholly American. He was a man for the future.
The applause was thunderous. And Louis stood up amidst it, smiling.
“No truck with the French!” came a lone voice from the rear.
Louis spoke for twenty minutes in plain, straightforward English. He reviewed the steps by which the coalition had been formed. He downplayed his own role in the affair, giving Robert Baldwin much of the credit. He said how profoundly moved he was – so soon after an armed revolt – that he, a Quebecer, could stand for election in a riding won by said Robert Baldwin, a riding which was one hundred per cent English. He promised to work with his English-speaking counterparts to develop a just and prosperous Canada.
There were cheers and one or two catcalls.
Arthur Dingman then got up to respond to his nominators. He was partway through a plodding address when there was a sudden commotion over to the side of the hustings near the verandah in front of Danby’s tavern.
“You tell ‘em, Arthur!” someone shouted.
“We don’t need the French tellin’ us what to do!”
“Down with the rebel bastards!”
“Let the man finish!”
Dingman had stopped in mid-sentence and was staring at the source of the interruption. Marc moved uneasily in his chair and craned to see who was doing the shouting.
“We don’t want no Frenchman representin’ us in Kingston!”
“Shut up and let the man speak! He’s your candidate!”
A pistol shot punctuated this exchange.
“Murder!” somebody screamed, a woman’s voice from one of the wagons.
A scuffle now broke out near the tavern. Several clubs were abruptly produced.
“They’re armed!”
The scuffle was spreading. Fists were flying, clubs wielded. It was soon a full-scale donnybrook. Several of the candidates’ supporters jumped up onto the platform and formed a cordon around them. Marc leapt off and tried to bull his way through the milling throng to the site of the disturbance. He was pushed rudely aside. It was then that he noticed a man fleeing around the far side of Danby’s Inn. Marc made it over to where his horse was hitched, and mounted it. Behind him the riot continued apace.
When Marc got to the other side of the inn, he saw the fleeing man clamber onto a horse and trot away down the road towards Yonge Street. Marc gave pursuit. The fellow never once turned to see if he were being followed, so Marc was able to get almost upon him before his horse’s hoof-beats were heard. The fellow swung around just in time to see Marc come up beside him and grab his horse by the bridle. They both slowed to a stop.
“What do you think you’re doin’?” the fellow said. He had a shock of brown hair and a scraggly beard. His eyes were bead-like and furtive.
“I’m interested in that pistol you’ve got tucked into your belt. I trust it’s been recently fired.”
“That ain’t none of your business. Now let me go or you’ll be sorry.”
“What’s your name?” Marc said, pulling the fellow closer.
“I don’t have to tell you nothin’. Now let go!”
“I’ll let go when you tell me your name and admit to firing off a pistol in order to start a riot.”
“Go to Hell!”
Marc reached over and grasped the fellow by the collar, choking him. “Who are you?”
The beady eyes darted here and there. Gasping, the fellow said, “I’m D’Arcy Rutherford. What’s it to you?”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Marc said, and released his grip.
So, Humphrey Cardiff had not kept his word. It was going to be a dirty tricks election.