Huntingdon, Quebec
March 1865
John Lane was sitting in the parlor of the small house he had rented in Huntingdon, Quebec. He was reading aloud from the Montreal Gazette.
Assisted by his wife and Vice President Seymour, General McClellan was able to stand before the Chief Justice to take the oath of office. With his right hand on a bible held by Mrs. McClellan, the general repeated the words in a soft voice, audible only to those nearest the podium.
“Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” was the response from the kitchen. “General McClellan is the president. It’s a shame. Mr. Lincoln was much more devoted to abolition.”
“The article says that Lincoln attended the inauguration. But not Mrs. Lincoln. She was feeling poorly. And it’s the same in the end. The defeat of the Confederacy will mean the end of slavery.”
Lane continued reading. In spite of his injuries, incurred in the historic victory at Ashland Mill, the newly inaugurated President is expected to take the field to pursue General Longstreet’s army, currently in camp near Birmingham, the temporary capital of the Confederacy. It is rumored that President Davis intends to flee with his cabinet to Texas and then possibly to Mexico.
“What time are your students coming? Don’t you need to prepare a lesson?”
Lane pulled his watch from its pocket. “I’ve half an hour. There isn’t much to prepare. They’ve little interest in learning Gaelic, and frankly I’m losing interest in teaching it to them.”
There was a long silence as Lane read, now quietly to himself. His eyes left the paper. He put it down and walked into the kitchen.
Viola wiped her hands on a dish towel and looked at him. “John, there’s something I need to say. I need to go back. Home. To my house and my calling. Even if the end of the war means the end of slavery, as you say, it won’t change people’s hearts. I have unfinished business.”
Lane stared at Viola for a long minute, then said, “Why don’t we work together?”
“Because if you cross back into the United States, you run the risk of hanging. Are you prepared for that?”
Lane thought of his narrow escape from the Pinkerton men. The most unlikely abolitionists he could imagine. It hadn’t taken them long to figure out what Viola was doing with a Black family in the back of her wagon, heading north. They’d let Lane go with the promise that he wouldn’t stop until he reached Canada. Well, he’d kept the promise. But he hadn’t promised not to come back.
“Yes. I’m prepared. I’ll be ready to leave in the morning.”