SIX
Stewart looked over his shoulder, then
forward again at Captain Menard. Their shadow had disappeared, just as he'd
disappeared every other time Stewart and Patton had met their Canadian escort.
There was nothing out-of-the-ordinary about
the shadow’s performance today, but after yesterday’s incidents this unsubtle
tailing had taken on a dark quality that made Stewart angry.
He should have been happier—today’s
negotiating session had been canceled. No doubt the Canadian authorities had
plenty to occupy themselves, assuming they were investigating the incidents.
"I hope you don't mind crossing the
river," Menard called over his shoulder, pulling Stewart back to the
present. "I've been asked to escort you gentlemen to a demonstration of a
horse-artillery training exercise. We thought you might find that a bit more
enjoyable than yet another tour of an armory."
"If it means a chance to gallop, I'm all
for it!" Patton shouted. "I can't imagine what made your superiors
think we'd be interested in looking at gun-making machinery."
Stewart thought back to Uncle James's
prescription for the well-rounded officer, and smiled to himself. George Patton
might make a fiery battlefield leader—if he lived long enough—but a
well-rounded officer he would never be. As for this morning’s tour of a
gun-making factory, Stewart had found himself interested in spite of himself.
"I apologize if we've bored you,"
Menard said with a short laugh utterly lacking in humor. The Canadian’s face
still looked drawn, his eyes haunted by what he’d seen yesterday afternoon.
"Touring factories and watching drill must pale for anyone who's seen
action."
"Oh, I haven't been that lucky,"
Patton said. "I didn't leave school and join up until after fall term had
started, so I missed the fighting at Centreville. Might have gone with General
Jackson on his raid of Washington, but my regiment ended up guarding his line
of withdrawal instead. Old Stewart here's seen a battle, of course, but you
know about that."
"Have you seen any fighting,
Captain?" Stewart asked. "If it's not too personal a question, that
is."
"I don't mind," Menard said.
"And as a matter of fact, the answer's yes. My regiment was part of the
militia force that fought the United Irish at Lac Brome in 'forty-four. Not
much of a battle, it's true—they were more a mob than an army—but it's more
fighting than most British troops have seen in the last half-century."
"That's something else I've been
wondering about," Stewart said. "I'm sure I'm being presumptuous now,
but—well, I'm curious, Captain. You seem a lot older than the rest of the
British and Canadians we met the other night. Is that because you're French
rather than English?"
They'd pulled even with Menard by this time;
the older man looked carefully at Stewart for a minute, then, with obvious
deliberation, said, "I assume here that we're speaking in confidence,
sir."
"Of course."
"It is... difficult... for anyone not of
English or Scots birth to attain high rank in His Majesty's forces. You've no
doubt heard of Pierre Beauregard?"
"The Texan Napoleon?" Patton asked.
"Who hasn't?"
"He was a lieutenant in a Canadian
militia regiment near here when he resigned his commission and went to Texas.
After his first battle against the Mexicans, Travis and Lamar made him a
general. By the time he'd been a year in Texas he was in command of the
republic's entire army." Menard shook his head. "He's just as
talented as a generalissimo in Texas as he was as a lieutenant here." I
wonder how loyal I’d be, if I were Menard, Stewart thought.
Whatever prejudices had existed against Southerners in the old union, they
hadn't prevented men like Twiggs and Worth—and, for that matter, Winfield
Scott, traitor to Virginia though he’d turned out to be—from achieving high
rank.
"And it's not as if Beauregard couldn't
afford the cost of promotion," Menard continued. "His family's
well-off. A lot of the Creole families are wealthy. They could be playing a
greater role in the defense of the country. But they're not trusted. If you're
not Anglo-Scottish, not Church of England, you're a possible danger. I've had
to—I've said enough, gentlemen. And here we are. The ferryman will see you’re
your horses are blindfolded before we board."
* * * *
The Canadian horse artillery was as
sprightly and energetic as any other such unit Stewart had seen. But there was
nothing exceptional about it, either. Ten minutes of watching the limbers and
gun-carriages bouncing through a farmer's fallow-land had bored him almost
unconscious. It was a sign of his desperation, Stewart decided, that he would
rather have visited Chalmette, site of Andrew Jackson's defeat and death nearly
a half-century earlier, than see one more example of Canadian or British drill.
He was free now for the rest of the day, but
there was little day left. He had just resigned himself to another dull evening
when someone knocked on his door.
He didn't recognize the man standing in the
doorway. "Can I help you?" he asked. Looking the stranger in the eye,
Stewart was startled. The man's eyes were the palest grey, and they held all of
the warmth of a glacier. There was something determined in that gaze, but
something unnerving as well.
Then Stewart knew what, if not necessarily
who, this man was. "Ah," he said. "You’ll be the gentleman my
uncle told me about. I've been expecting you, sir. I believe I have information
that will be of value to you."
"Your enthusiasm is very
commendable," the grey-eyed man said. "As is your discretion. Your
uncle seems to have chosen wisely." Stewart felt himself flush, and the
other man nodded slightly and gave him a brief smile, as though bestowing
permission to be embarrassed. "Now," the man said, "it's time
for you to do your duty toward the cause. Put on your jacket, captain. We're
going for a ride. You’ll leave your servant behind this evening, of course. And
if anyone should ask, you will refer to me as 'Colonel Hopkins'."
No comments:
Post a Comment