

The Diary of Death

1819

A Morbid Dread of Water

By Leslie Smith Dow

For Shaughnessy Charles Conlon Dow

© Leslie Smith Dow 2015

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"Oh, no," said the duke, "the little fellow will not bite me," but as he put out his hand the fox snapped at him, and made three scratches, causing the hand to bleed. The duke drew it back, saying, "my friend, you bite very hard."

(William Kingsford in History of Canada)Author's Note

In August of 1819, Charles Lennox, 4th duke of Richmond, Captain General and Governor-in-Chief of Upper and Lower Canada, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island, began the last leg of a summer-long tour of inspection of fortifications, military settlements and naval establishments in Upper and Lower Canada. Along the way, he was stricken by a mysterious illness and died in agony. The story of the remarkable journey was chronicled by two of the duke's closest aides, Lt.-Col. Francis Cockburn and Maj. George Bowles, veteran campaigners who found themselves powerless to prevent his untimely demise. Their diaries, increasingly detailed as the illness progressed, make compelling reading.

Copies of the original documents detailing the duke's death were circulated among senior members of the British cabinet. Yet these "diaries" are misleading in one respect: they contained few personal or cultural details—possibly the most interesting part of any story. While every effort has been made to provide an accurate historical framework for the story, some subjective elements are entirely fictional. Cockburn's wife had a fling with a young officer during the War of 1812 but how he may have felt about this can only be imagined. Richmond Arms hostess Maria Hill was said to be very attractive, energetic and blessed with a good singing voice as well as a sturdy practicality, having been an assistant surgeon during the same war, a job she took in order to be near her husband, a sergeant--but Cockburn's attraction to her is invention.  Reverend William Bell's trials and tribulations as spiritual head of the Perth Anglican community were very real, as were his complaints to Cockburn; their conversation is a recreation. Cockburn and Bowles made no reference to Richmond's being a lycanthrope—a wolf man—or a vampire, his symptoms were much the same as signs reported and feared by villagers throughout Europe where strange epidemics of madness (almost certainly rabies) were routinely experienced. The "madness' of King George III, now believed to be porphyria, was also consistent with descriptions of so-called 'wolfmen.'

Prologue: Alicia

Quebec City, Lower Canada

July 29, 1818

His trowsers had been bleached, his hose stitched and every bit of brass on his uniform including his shoe buckles had been polished until he could see his reflection. Lt.-Col. Francis Cockburn had to admit that his batsman had done an excellent job, even by his own exceedingly high standards. Admittedly, his outmoded scarlet tunic should have been replaced in accordance with the army's recently-amended style guidelines, but it was too late now. The new governor's ship had been sighted and was now entering the harbour. Within the half-hour, Cockburn would see for himself whether His Majesty's latest representative would help or hinder his ambitious plans.

Cockburn could feel his sparse hair dampening under the heavy black cockade, the molten July sun making short work of the servant's heroic last-ditch efforts. Every few minutes he was forced to take out his handkerchief and mop away the beads of perspiration that trickled down his brow. Virtually the whole town had turned out in hopeful expectation of a glimpse of the new arrivals. Food vendors hawked their wares up and down the wide cobbled boulevard next to the harbour, narrowly avoiding mountebanks performing cartwheels, musicians playing traditional folksongs on penny whistles and drums, and children playing hoops. Those who had Sunday clothes put them on; those who did not came in whatever rags they had. Despite the early hour, a battery of the town's prostitutes had turned out, arrayed in all their finery. For now, Cockburn was content to ignore them, so long as they stayed in the background—especially when his Grace arrived. It was not every day that a new governor arrived, at least not one that was a duke.

There had been a bit of a run on governors lately. Three years before, Sir George Prevost had been recalled to face a court martial; his replacement, John Coape Sherbrooke, had recently suffered a stroke. Both men had been popular and conciliatory to the Catholic canadien population. It was a fine balance that Cockburn earnestly hoped would not be upset.

Loyal and hardworking, the 36-year-old exuded a single-minded scientific efficiency that brokered little time for marital intimacy. Alicia had not been the sort of woman he had hoped for in a wife.  Her problem, in Cockburn's opinion, was that she had over-educated herself. He blamed books and tea, both of which his wife devoured in harmful quantities, for her willfulness. It had caused her mind to become unbalanced and her nerves to weaken. Lately she had even attempted to engage him on the frightening subject of women's rights.  Alicia didn't even bother debating the dangerous subject of women's exercise, wandering off at will on wintertime expeditions to Montmorency Falls, attending skating parties, sleighing parties and dancing until the wee hours. She loved nothing better than to spend an entire day walking the mountainous countryside, thrilled at the idea she might be mistaken for some coarse and hardy habitant –or even a savage--instead of the wife of a respectable gentleman officer in His Majesty's army. "I am so beautifully brown," she had written to her cousin Charles Sandys in England, "that I am thinking of having my portrait painted in the garb of an Indian princess."

Though often misunderstood as being pompous, many people--officers, soldiers and civilians alike-- nonetheless turned to him to fix their problems. He never failed to make himself available to sort out misunderstandings, errors and omissions, and this felicitous talent (which his wife called an obsession) was one of the reasons he had been appointed to the staff, first as assistant quarter-master general, then raised to the deputy's post. The promotion had been a Godsend, appreciated all the more given the deep and merciless paring of the British forces world-wide. Cockburn had to admit that his priority, indeed his entire focus, was his career. As the youngest son of a disgraced baron, he had few prospects other than the army or navy. He had not been picky. Cockburn had a talent for observing and cataloguing what others failed to notice, especially tidbits of information dropped during unguarded moments of informal conversation. Though he was too irascible to be a natural diplomat, Cockburn's impeccable English manners learned from a mother renowned for her graciousness tempered this tendency.

He had even tried, in his own fashion, to please his impulsive, temperamental wife. Malcontent at her embroidery and barren to boot, she did have money and that counted for something. Lord knows he sent for her to join him whenever he could on his field assignments. They were often together for several weeks on end, and she rarely spent more than six months at a stretch alone. Virtually every winter he returned to her in either Montreal or Quebec, often devoting hours at a time to comprehending her latest theories. During their time apart, Alicia had easily made the acquaintance of several of the colony's political luminaries and lotharios, men who could easily become the new governor's chief allies—or his worst enemies. That, too, could prove useful. He often found himself keeping close company with the powerful and influential and, as his wife so often reminded him, he preferred it that way.

As the longboat neared shore, Cockburn noticed some of the mollies had begun plucking wildflowers from between the cobbles, fashioning favours to sell to prospective clients. Directly behind him, a company of soldiers had assembled, some of the younger ones glancing warily from side to side, in a not-unfounded expectation of trouble. Cockburn had already heard some anti-English sentiments muttered, though he pretended he hadn't. There was no point in looking for trouble, though trouble was probably exactly what Louis-Joseph Papineau wanted. The firebrand had made his way to the front of the crowd, quietly claiming pride of place next to Chief Justice Jonathan Sewell and Anglican bishop Jacob Mountain, two of the most prominent members of what Papineau scathingly called the Chateau Clique. It would not do to cross them; those who had foolishly done so found out to their peril who wielded the colony's true power.

Beside him, a little breeze playfully lifted the brim of Alicia's lavender cloche hat and ruffled the succession of lacy frills on the bodice of her mull day dress. With every wave of her fan, she conveyed the unmistakable impression that she would gladly exchange her present circumstances for almost any other that promised the least bit of novelty. Cockburn gave an unbecoming snort, marveling at her adroitness. He was fairly sure a duke could offer her endless amusement, especially one who had not brought his wife along. He could already envision the difficult task he would have keeping his wife away from the Chateau's new arrival. Already word had spread of the duke's passion for the ladies, and this healthy regard for affairs de coeur hadn't hurt his reputation in the slightest.

What mystified them both, Cockburn reflected, were the subtleties of matrimony. Though the notion of sensibility had swept English society years before, Richmond and Cockburn remained immune to its central tenets, which postulated the enjoyment of a meaningful, loving and above all monogamous relationship-- preferably with one's legal spouse. Though the duke and duchess had wisely remained an ocean apart, anyone could see that the Cockburn's marriage was in trouble. He might be able to build a road, or oversee the repair a crumbling fort, but Francis knew some things could never be fixed. Like Richmond, he had given up trying.

Chapter One: A Question of Loyalty

August, 1819. Kingston,  Upper Canada

17th Left York in the Steam Boat Frontenac

18th Arrived at Kingston

19th Remained at Kingston

20th The Duke of Richmond, Major Bowles, and myself left Kingston about ½past 7 o'clock a.m. on our way to Perth. The first 7 miles we went in Waggons. The Road becoming bad we quitted the Waggons and mounted our horses, on which we rode for about 18 miles We halted at a Tavern kept by a Man named Hoskiss.

...Excerpt from "Particulars of The Death of Charles 4th Duke of Richmond," Lt.-Col. Cockburn's Account.

It was often said that Lt.-Col. Francis Cockburn was acquainted with every facet of the workings of His Majesty's North American Forces, and this was perfectly true. It was also said that no man serving under the colonel dared commit any offence, even if only in thought, for he was always found out. Some said Cockburn had the Sight. This, however, was pure conjecture.

There was no doubt the commander was a master of discovery. What he wished to know, he found out, through observation, discreet enquiry, and often by pure, unnerving intuition. Like this morning. Something had nagged at him all night, and he had finally risen at dawn, employing his time checking and re-checking every item that would be needed for the upcoming journey. By the time they were ready to depart several hours later, he still could not lay his finger on what was wrong.

Two of the 70th Regiment's best teamsters backed a pair of horses into the traces of an army buckboard, and the metal-rimmed wheels squealed sharply, protesting the early hour. Cockburn winced involuntarily. There were to be only four passengers in the little expedition, and two vehicles were, strictly speaking, unnecessary. The second wagon had been added at his insistence. One never knew what uncertainties might lay ahead.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the entire garrison had turned out to see Cockburn off, or more particularly, his vice-regal charge. The governor never seemed to tire of the tedious duties that went with the office of King's representative. Cockburn was struck by how much His Grace seemed to genuinely enjoy its pomp and ceremony, even such a meagre effort as this one. Cockburn closed his eyes for a few moments, and inhaled deeply, trying to erase the worry that washed over him. His headache had returned with a vengeance, and he knew full well its cause.

The men of the 70th proudly presented themselves for one last inspection and Richmond finally took his leave of the commandant to the rousing strains of The Grand Overture of Quebec, played with more pride than polish by the regimental band. Cockburn winced at the cacophony, recognizing with regret the tune that had been penned in Richmond's honour by the regiment's former bandmaster. The governor climbed--a bit unsteadily, Cockburn noticed-- into the lead wagon and Blucher, the little spaniel who accompanied him everywhere, jumped immediately into his lap.

Cockburn stepped up into the second wagon with considerably more lightness than his commanding officer, taking his place on the left-hand side beside the driver. Baptiste, the duke's body servant, was left to fend for himself amongst the provisions in the back. The teamster tied the last of the saddle horses to the rear wagon, then swung onto the bench. Cockburn gave the signal for their departure. The driver gathered the reins, calling his 'gee-up' and slapping the horses encouragingly on their haunches. The animals put their shoulders into their collars and the wagons creaked to life.

The troops marched them out Fort Henry's gates and down the hill as far as the marshy juncture of Lake Ontario and the Cataraqui River, the band reprising (needlessly in Cockburn's view) its enthusiastic theme song. Cockburn sat uneasily in the buckboard as it jolted after its counterpart, then angled north-east onto the road for the King's Mills. Here the men of the 70th halted, saluting sharply at the governor's diminishing figure. The final leg of this long journey had begun.

That Richmond had any legs whatsoever on this morning was a wonder. It had been a riotous night. Though Cockburn had imbibed as little as possible, the duke had regaled the officers with ribald tales of his early service with the Edinburgh-based 35th Regiment. Paymaster Thomas Scott had responded with tales of his own, some of which would doubtless be committed to the page by his famous brother, Walter. Few officers had been left standing by the time the duke polished off his fifth bottle of claret, then retired alone to his chamber, smoking cigars until the wee hours. His Grace was nearly at the end of the summer-long tour of Upper and Lower Canada which, despite a punishing and sometimes danger-fraught itinerary, had gone like clockwork. In two weeks, thanks to the lieutenant-colonel's superb planning, they would be back in Quebec, the duke rejoining his sprawling family, the lieutenant-colonel back in lodgings with Alicia.

Cockburn took off his spectacles and mopped his round, balding head as the wagon swayed along. The humidity was already building, and he could feel himself dampening under his staff coat. He had become unused to such heat, the previous three summers having been disastrously unseasonable, with nothing but rain, snow, cold and misery. Crops withered and died in the fields, spelling tragedy and death for those who made their livelihoods on the lands. Many of them were discharged military men and their families, whom Cockburn had personally induced to remain in this so-called land of plenty. Never had anyone seen anything like it. Even the Indians had no parallel for it in all their generations of knowledge. The settlers had talked of leaving; the soldiers had talked endlessly of home.

Cockburn had listened impartially, as he always did, not to what was being said, but to what was meant. His finely-attuned ear picked up new undercurrents in the speech and even the mannerisms of soldiers and settlers alike; even in some of his fellow officers he noticed a slight shift in attitude. Folk were glad the war was over, tired of the ceaseless conflict between Republicanism and Imperialism which had dragged on in fits and starts since the French Revolution. It had sparked uprisings in Ireland, then all-out war in Europe. Eventually, the quarrel had spread to North America where, ironically, Republicanism had been born. Though its original idealism had long been sublimated to the Americans' keen desire for territorial expansion, many of its elements still held limited appeal to more than a few of Britain's far-flung subjects, who had learned that independence of thought and action was often critical to their survival. And that, more often than not, was the pinch of the game.

The rebel Robert Gourlay had found this out to his peril when he attempted to convene a public meeting to denounce the agonizing slow land granting procedures as well as other perceived inadequacies of Sir Peregrine Maitland's Upper Canadian government. Maitland was Richmond's son-in-law. Anything that troubled the lieutenant-governor troubled the governor-in-chief, for whom long years of war had built distrust, not unity. Public meetings were soon banned, and Gourlay banished. Anyone foolish enough to voice a contrary opinion would soon find themselves under scrutiny, or even accused of sedition. Already, the very vocal demands the Lower Canadian House of Assembly had caused Richmond considerable distress.

But there was something more. The cessation of hostilities was re-shaping British North America in a way war had not, and Cockburn was not immune to the seductive changes peace had wrought. Passenger steamships had begun to ply the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario, bringing settlers and even sight-seers on their decks. Likewise, hotels, inns and shops were springing up to cater to their needs. Roads were being built and the interior country opened up. Land was being cleared and farms put under cultivation. A better life was possible, and the populace was ready to embrace it. Prosperity was in the air, Cockburn could sense it. Or, at the very least, opportunism.

Cockburn, along with many of his fellow officers, had put down good money on land speculation schemes, though he could hardly have been called a betting man. His own land was in the Bay of Quinte, along the St. Lawrence, mild of climate, rolling of hill. The land had been snapped up. There was little, if any, un-granted land left in the area. Indeed, vast tracts of land had already been dispensed (displacing Indian bands which, he noted ruefully, had lived there since time immemorial) but thousands of acres were concentrated in the hands of absentee landlords, including suspect Loyalists who never took up permanent habitation on their piece of ground, army retirees, the Anglican Church and land speculators. All had little desire to improve the land. And why should they when the labour of the settlers improved nearby tracts, driving up the prices without the absentee owners having to lift a finger? The problem was so widespread that Maitland was enacting legislation which would impose a tax on those who made no attempt to improve their property.

But Cockburn was not that kind of a speculator. He wanted with all his heart to see the land developed, lending his expertise and his good name to the development of the military settlements at Richmond and Perth, and the new depot at Beckwith. Then there was Glengarry, Rivière St-François and soon, he hoped, Lanark. All would—or already did--derive their populations, their defense, and their ultimate success, from the scores of men in regiments about to be disbanded. Rather than go back to Britain where their futures were uncertain, many of the battle-hardened veterans and their families were choosing to settle in the harsh land they had come to love, motivated to stay by free land, two years' worth of army rations, and a generous allotment of tools. The addition of luxuries like window glass sustained the initial enthusiasm for pioneering.

The hard slogging began once the army rations ran out. It was critical the settlers be self-sufficient by then, diminishing the temptation to pack up and head home. But things had not worked out according to plan. The past three years had been hell and the availability of rations had been extended in some areas, though not soon enough for some. Starvation had a way of breaking even the toughest man's will, Cockburn knew. Though English by birth, he was a Scot in temperament and tradition. His upbringing as the fifth son of the 6th Baronet of Langton had been a privileged one, but he knew about hunger. One had only to stroll through the local village churchyard to see its damning testament to the poverty--of body, if not of spirit--omnipotent in his homeland. But the Scots were as tough and pragmatic as they were loyal. The stubborn, enduring faith of the men and women of the Glengarry Highlanders, and of the 99th and 100th Regiments, had been long established, and was unswayed by their present unexpected hardship.

The duke's impending visit to the settlements would nicely reinforce Cockburn's belief that the tide had turned, and prosperity sure to follow. The weather patterns had been simply an aberration. In the future, Cockburn mused, scientists would likely find some improbable cause for the strange, summer-less years that he hoped were now behind them. The land's return to its former, bounteous glory would assure the growth and stability of Britain's North American colonies.

Kingston itself was proof Cockburn's theory was correct. The rapidly-growing settlement on the far bank of the Cataraqui River now numbered some 2,300 souls. Aptly-situated between Montreal and York, the town had come to enjoy its status as an important British command post during the recent war, when it had owed its existence to the Royal Naval Dockyards. Its strategic situation meant it was no stranger to the comings and goings of aristocrats and important military men, and even explorers like the Sieurs de Champlain and de la Salle. Though nearly all of its inhabitants still owed their livelihoods to the military in one way or another, trade had picked up since the end of the war and the town was beginning to take on a self-satisfied air. It had established its own newspaper, churches, schools, and a thriving farmers' market. Limestone buildings were rising from what had once been fields or dockyards, though the pace of its shipbuilding rivalled that of the Americans across the water at Sackett's Harbour. Several prominent townspeople commissioned and had built a passenger steamer, The Frontenac, launched three years before. The steamer did a brisk trade. Despite Kingston's growth, it seemed that most people who stopped—the duke and his little entourage included--were on their way somewhere else.

Only when Cockburn's cohort had finally progressed well beyond the Kingston Pale did the lieutenant-colonel give himself momentarily over to the familiar, ecstatic pounding of blood in his brain. Despite his aching head, Cockburn would have preferred to be astride a horse rather than riding a wagon like a woman. Innately suspicious, he sensed danger everywhere. A horse gave him a scout's freedom to be always on the look-out, responsive to any and all challengers. Richmond, he noticed, had no such instinct. As they rolled along, the governor chatted amiably to Bowles, his military secretary, pointing out remarkable facets of the surrounding countryside, which he had read about in Lt. Joshua Jebb's survey of the Rideau River Valley made three years previously. Richmond seemed intent on conjuring the vision the young Royal Engineer had so persuasively prophesied.

The old forest in these parts had already fallen to the axe, the massive trees used to build dozens of His Majesty's ships, for cabins, barns and fences, or simply burned to clear the land. The fall of the forests was inevitable and necessary as everyone knew. Hardwood had once been so plentiful it was considered a nuisance to be gotten rid of. The smoking piles of debris, upturned stumps and muddy sloughs were simply a precursor of what was to be. Occasionally even Cockburn had been moved by the majesty of the ages-old trees, unrivalled anywhere in the Empire, though he silently reprimanded himself for harbouring such sympathies. He was first and foremost a tactician and a planner. Wide-open spaces were best. Within them, a battle could be fought or a village erected. Forests were for Indians and outlaws, or irrational slaves to Romanticism. He would have none of it.

His headache finally lifting, Cockburn turned his attention back to the duke and his military secretary, who were still conferring. The always-chatty Bowles, he observed, was taking every opportunity to hone his conversational skills. Earlier in the morning, Cockburn had seen Bowles whispering with Baptiste; upon seeing the colonel, the pair pretended to busy themselves with some last-minute preparations. Though he trusted Bowles implicitly, Cockburn had felt his hackles rise. Bowles evidently suspected nothing. The major had none of the instincts of a man used to active combat. Cockburn feared years of scribbling had eroded the ever-watchful nature war ought to have instilled in one of His Majesty's officers. Though Cockburn had looked forward to what had long been an automatic process of advancement—his turn to be promoted Colonel should come in two more years—the dearth of conflicts meant many surplus commanders. He himself was on half-pay, thought the staff appointment put a little more in his pocket each month. He debated selling his commission and pocketing several thousand pounds for his retirement, but the market for such things was soft, and he felt little compulsion to rest on his laurels.

Baptiste had felt the lieutenant-colonel's penetrating stare, and shifted uncomfortably on the hard planking of the army buckboard before turning his gaze philosophically toward the sea of muck which lay before them. The servant was a civilian, a liability that in Cockburn's eyes rendered him nearly useless. Baptiste surely lacked any understanding of the sort of loyalty and military discipline. It was not for nothing that one of Cockburn's ancestors had been known as the 'Scourge of Scotland.'  Baptiste, moreover, was one of the Old Subjects and despite Richmond's inexplicable affection for the man, Cockburn kept his distance. He was undeniably on edge, even irritated, but there was no one among them to whom he could unburden himself, least of all the governor.

Unlike so many of his comrades, Cockburn was not the sort of man to assuage his nervous tensions with drink, taking refuge instead in his work. Immersed in some complicated military problem, he could ignore everyone and everything around him for hours, even days, at a time. He accepted or initiated assignment after assignment, resulting in him being rarely at home, and had refined living out of a few steamer trunks to a high art. He was even more rarely a husband to his impulsive and beautiful wife, and that, he knew from bitter experience, was more dangerous than any of his military assignments. Early on, his dedication to his duties—Alicia called it neglect-- had resulted in his wife's liaison with Captain Milnes. The young officer's untimely death only fuelled his wife's resentment toward him. Alicia, he could see, drew further away from him, yet he could not let her go.

For a long time afterwards, Cockburn had merely gone through the motions of married life. He attended the winter season's inevitable round of soirées, regimental dinners, amateur theatrics, quadrille parties, sleigh rides and even skating on the St. Charles River, with a kind of absent benevolence. Nothing but work gave him any real pleasure, though he thought of his wife increasingly often, ever since she had derided him in a letter to her cousin. Of course, the letter had been intercepted and copied. Round and fat on horseback was he? She would soon see....

Cockburn had been 24 and already two years married when he joined the sharp-shooting 60th—known as the Royal Americans--surviving a year in South America, only to be sent to the Peninsular Wars. After fighting in Spain and Portugal under Wellington, North America promised a haven of peace, and he signed on with the new Canadian Fencibles. The war, which had spread almost quicker than word could travel, made vacancies out of stalwart officers, and Cockburn earned himself a majority soon after his ship made port. For the next seven years, he travelled up and down the St. Lawrence and the Great Lakes, his face as familiar to troops in Quebec and Fredericton as it was to the men at Penetanguishene, Kingston and York.

He'd proved invaluable, even invincible, throughout the long years of the dirty, haphazard war with the Americans, fighting at Chrysler's Farm, Salmon Arm, Red Mill and Chateauguay. Cockburn, it seemed, was equal to any task. He had been a cavalry instructor, battalion commander, a builder of roads and naval establishments, an assistant quarter-master and diplomat, fulfilling the orders—secret and otherwise—of not only his own commanders but of the governors themselves. Some of those assignments—like his trip to Washington—he could never discuss with anyone.

He stroked the carefully-browned barrel of his old Hompesch rifle. During his command of quick-moving light infantry rifle battalions he had developed the habit of carrying his own weapon. It provided more reassurance than the curved cavalry sabre he always strapped to his belt every morning. Even after earning his lieutenant-colonelship and a promotion to deputy quarter-master general, he felt a little thrill run through him whenever he picked up the rifle.

Today, even his beloved Hompesch was cold comfort. The scrupulous colonel had again found himself awakened by headaches, night sweats, nervous pains in his stomach, and, during the course of one agonizing ride, tormented by a painful boil on his bottom. The reasons for his recurring maladies were no mystery. The symptoms were brought on, quite simply, by Cockburn's own undeclared mission to save Richmond from himself.

Cockburn had no quarrel with his new chief directly, nor would he have admitted—even under pain of death-- to anything but the most heartfelt loyalty. That was God's truth. Indeed, His Grace was the most considerate and accommodating superior officer Cockburn had ever served under; his demeanour toward Cockburn and all the staff officers could not have been more open and convivial. Richmond spent his free time arranging parties, outings, theatricals and private dinners, of which his staff was the constant beneficiary. Nor was he a snob. The duke loved to play cricket and thought nothing of including the enlisted men on the roster. No, the difficulty stemmed from what the duke did during his working hours: he worked.

Having circumvented the lieutenant-colonel's usually infallible intelligence-gathering system, Richmond had so far proved to be anything but the drunken, philandering lackaday Cockburn had been expecting. Within days of his arrival the previous July, it had become clear that Richmond intended to fully discharge all of his duties, not the least of which was the onerous command of the Master General of the Ordnance to prepare an audit of all the military establishments in Upper and Lower Canada. Richmond had surprised them all by impulsively undertaking to visit all the establishments personally. It was an admirable but misguided mission for a man who yet had no concept of the length and breadth of his adopted land, not to mention the vicissitudes of the land and its peoples.

Almost immediately, Richmond's newfound sense of ambition had overreached his abilities. It had not been Cockburn's place to interfere in Richmond's ill-advised clash with the Lower Canadian House of Assembly over the Civil List. It was, after all, his primary means of financing the sometimes-outrageous expenses a governor incurred through entertainment, bribery and support of his political allies. The Assembly did not take kindly to Richmond's request for additional funds, which had come hard on the heels of a budget tabling a huge government deficit. In the resulting furore, Richmond unwisely prorogued parliament, then sought to drastically limit its powers. The thoughtless act would fatally injure the tenuous relationship between les anglais and les canadiens.

Though the Assembly had been set to reconvene in May, it never did. By then, Richmond had washed his hands of the issue, embarking in late June on an extended tour of Upper and Lower Canada. Colonel John Ready, his civil secretary at St. Louis Castle, was left behind as his proxy. Uneasily, Cockburn wondered how Ready was managing. The secretary had been dropped into a veritable battlefield, with incensed politicians on either side ready to wage war on each other over language, religion and responsible government. Cockburn hoped the duke's prolonged and admittedly insouciant absence from Quebec would not fan the smouldering embers of discontent into flames of open rebellion.

After seven miles of battering their way along roads plagued by fallen trees, immovable rocks and wet clay so insidious it threatened to suck the very hooves off the horses, Richmond had had enough. Calling for his mare, he jumped from the wagon, unexpectedly plunging up to his ankles in water. Baptiste sprang to assist his master, who stood curiously rooted to the spot, his eyes widening in surprise. The servant whispered something quietly in French, holding out the reins to Richmond. The duke licked his lips nervously, then tucked his hunting whip under his arm and bent his knee. Baptiste heaved the governor up and into the saddle, mud spattering his livery. The mare pranced nervously as Richmond fumbled with his stirrup irons.

Cockburn flung his legs over the side of the wagon, scanning the dark forest as he dropped gently to the ground. The duke was a superior horseman and it was unlike him to have even the slightest trouble with a mount. Perhaps something in the woods had startled the mare—a cougar or a bear. He slung the Hompesch over the front of his saddle, then mounted his horse and set off after Richmond. Bowles was already a-horse, while Baptiste struggled along on foot, carrying the duke's long-barrelled musket and brace of pistols. Excited by the prospect of the fine hunting said to exist in the Rideau River watershed, Richmond had brought along a bevy of firearms. The duke, Cockburn knew, was determined to bag as many of the abundant snipe as possible, or even one of the shy red-coated deer they had glimpsed among the early-turning leaves.

Beech, maple, oak and white pine towered over them as they wound along the road. As the ancient forest closed in around them, Cockburn glanced over his shoulder at the teamsters who were once again struggling to free the wagons from the interminable muck. There was no point in waiting for them, or in turning back. The wagons would just have to catch up.

Soon the cathedral-like canopies made by their branches screened out almost all traces of the hot August sun and the riders found themselves increasingly unable to speak above a reverent whisper. There were long stretches of silence as the road dwindled to little more than a track, with barely enough room for a single wagon to pass. Stumps, yet to decay or be pulled up by their roots, littered the way. Ahead of them, a gigantic oak which had fallen into the road. It had been too large to shift and already a little footpath wound its way around the obstruction. The wagons would be delayed again, Cockburn thought. The teamsters would be forced to unhitch the horses and pull aside the fallen giant. Several yoke of oxen would have been a useful addition to the expedition, but it was too late now. Hopefully, they would not have to take out their axes and chop their way through, a process that could take hours. He rode on, making a mental note to upbraid the local path master for not calling out his men to work off their road service. Clergy reserve or not, the way had to remain open.

It was past two in the afternoon when they halted at Levi Hoskiss's Tavern. The inn was nearly deserted, dinnertime being long over. Hoskiss was, however, in attendance. Wisely deducing that grog would not be welcomed, he dug out a small cask of wine to go with the bread and cheese Richmond had requested. There was, of course, no cheese, nor had the coarse dark bread been freshly baked. All the same, Cockburn was relieved the innkeeper could at least provide some refreshment. These roadside ordinaries sometimes had no food at all to offer after the main meal had been served, leaving late-arriving customers to make do with poisonous homemade moonshine that sometimes caused blindness or worse. Cockburn counted himself lucky to have chosen Hoskiss's as a stopping place. The two-storey plank building was of somewhat better quality than he had come to expect in the bush. More often, a rude log cabin covered with bark roof tiles and nary a sign to advertise its desultory services was the best that could be hoped for. Nor could a well-born man like himself anticipate being served separately, as a gentleman ought, at an inn or mixed social gathering. He would be seated with the rest of the rabble, like some ordinary labourer—further evidence of the growing affliction known as "American manners." He'd seen it all before, but never so blatantly. Farmers, once they had a bit of land, no longer felt the need to doff their caps to their betters, and even men who held titles in His Majesty's realm were expected to bend their backs at a local barn-raising, on road-building gangs, or at other manual work. Hoskiss at least tried to ingratiate himself—though clumsily--to his guests. He passed muster.

Chapter Two: Misgivings

...we dined and the Waggons having come up we again got into them and started for the Stone Mills a distance of 12 miles and where we were to sleep—at the end of even or eight miles the Road being rough and the night very dark we got out and walked the remained of the distance.--Lt.-Col. Cockburn.

The weather being very hot we were all rather fatigued, but the Duke did not appear more so than Col. Cockburn & myself. He was in good spirits, made a good dinner & went to bed perfectly well.—Maj. George Bowles.

Richmond, Bowles and Cockburn passed a merry two hours reclining in the field chairs Cockburn had provided, their modest repast laid out on several large stump and a camp table set up in the shade of the tavern's ornament tree. The large, hollow beech played host to a nest of racoons in its spreading crown, and the duke, an unabashed lover of all animals, found their antics endlessly entertaining. Baptiste busied himself brushing the mud off of his master's boots and dress coat before slinking off in the direction of the summer kitchen where, Cockburn presumed, he had previously sighted the scullery maid. Presently, the duke brought out a set of monogrammed playing cards, expertly shuffling the deck on the uneven table top. Major Bowles was quickly enticed into a game of Faro, though Cockburn, still slightly preoccupied, declined their invitation. The duke always played for money and he could ill-afford any debt greater than his sworn life-long loyalty to King and country. Excusing himself, Cockburn went inside, sitting down at a grimy bench in the smoke-stained saloon. He drew a pencil and a small doeskin notebook from his inside pocket, intending to use the unexpected interval to jot down details of the morning's journey. He would have to recopy his work into a letterbook as soon as he had access to his trunk—and anything that might pass for a decent desk.

Hoskiss promptly fell asleep in a chair strategically positioned at his front door, his ample and snoring frame effectively barring entry to any unauthorized persons. It was near four o'clock before the innkeeper was awoken from his raptures by the sounds of horses' approaching hooves. He had scarcely opened an eye before he began bellowing for his wife, the ostler, and the servant girl, in no particular order. Bowles immediately got up from the interminable card game, explaining to the protesting duke that he ought to verify the contents of the wagons to ensure nothing had been lost, though this, technically was Cockburn's responsibility. The major glanced at Cockburn as he passed, a look of pained relief on his face. Evidently, Bowles had lost a great deal of money. Card debts were rarely discussed publicly by the officers and certainly the duke would never mention the sum, though Cockburn knew full well debts incurred in games of chance were never forgotten—or forgiven.

Hoskiss, meanwhile, had swept into action like the armchair military commander he pretended to be. The tired horses were taken away to the stable by the ostler for a well-deserved bran mash and a deep bed of straw. Gratefully, the parched teamsters accepted glasses of grog from Mrs. Hoskiss, and heels of bread from the servant girl. They had been forced to chop through the oak after all, they explained sheepishly, then had to find water for the thirsty horses. A few moments later, four fresh horses were led out by Hoskiss's sons. At the sound of the new arrivals, Baptiste slid out from behind one of the outbuildings. He looked suspiciously refreshed, and Cockburn observed with a slight smile that the servant had somehow managed to get mud caked around his knees. As the sun slid toward five, they set off again. But it would be a vexatious and long night for everyone. The road was even worse than before, and the night lit by neither moon nor stars. After seven or eight miles the tired travellers were once again obliged to get out of the wagons, whose weak and wavering lamps did little to pierce the darkness.

The forest was not as impenetrable as it appeared. Black, yes, but peopled here and there by unseen pioneers, snug in their lean-tos against the evening. The settlers left their banked fires to simmer through the night, eating away at the gigantic heaps of logs and underbrush. It was the only way to rid themselves of the residue of their ceaseless, backbreaking efforts to clear their land. Every few miles they glimpsed—or smelled—smoldering fires set atop huge piles of wood. The entire bush had become a vast crematorium of sorts, with countless ill-equipped settlers pinning all their hopes for prosperity on the mounting piles of ashes by which they measured their labours. Stumbling unaided through the night, Cockburn felt a surge of air as the sturdy wings of a whip-poor-will beat by him, the bird then settling in a nearby tree to render its mournful warning. Though he counted himself among the least superstitious of men, even Cockburn had to admit the bird's appearance was the worst of omens, though what it might signify, he could not tell.

Bowles walked alongside Richmond, now and again offering his arm to steady the visibly tiring governor, Baptiste holding out his hurricane lamp in a vain effort to light the way. Finally, the servant gave a whoop as the lights of the William Jones's Stone Mill came into view. The Jones's had been waiting anxiously for their arrival, fearing with each passing hour that their dream of entertaining vice-royalty may have died prematurely. They quickly made their guests comfortable, offering food, drink and, most importantly, comfortable beds. It had been an overly ambitious day, for which Cockburn castigated himself. Had he been more accurately informed of the gruesome state of the roads--and had he known how unusually tired the duke would be after some 16 hours of riding, walking and driving, the lieutenant-colonel would have insisted the party stop at Hoskiss's for the night. Had he heeded the disquiet which had intruded hour by hour upon his usual cool self-possession, he would have ensured they never left Kingston at all.

Chapter Three: Coin of the Realm

The Stone Mills, Upper Canada, 1819

August 21th We got up about ½ past 6. The Duke, I observed, took very little breakfast, however, he did not complain of being unwell. About 7 we started for Perth: the duke in Mr. Jones' caleche, Major Bowles and myself in Waggons, the Saddle Horses still following us. At the end of about 7 miles the Road becoming bad the Duke quitted the Caleche and we all mounted our horses on which we proceeded for about 13 or 14 miles to a Tavern kept by a Man named Oliver. On our Arrival, the Duke asked anxiously for refreshment, and some bread and cheese being produced he partook of it very heartily.--Lt. Col. Cockburn

Despite the enthralling comfort of Mrs. Jones's feather tick, Cockburn had to admit he had awoken peevish. His unfavourable mood stemmed not from over-imbibing in the mistress's excellent cider--which he most assuredly had not--but from his inability to persuade the duke of the wrongness of their present course.

Lifting his head from the pillow, he turned his eyes toward the unearthly glow rising in the east, then sank back with an exasperated sigh. He had hoped today would be an improvement over yesterday, but the crimson sky heralded an oncoming storm that would only make the roads worse-- as if such a thing were possible.

Had they followed the new road branching northwest from Hoskiss's they would have cut a day or more off of their journey, and been grasping at the skirts of Perth settlement by now. He was just a wee bit discommoded—and was he not right to feel so? His guidance had not been sought despite his stated responsibility to care for the quartering and the conveying of the expedition. Cockburn had unwisely remonstrated with his misguided superior, but the duke would have none of it, having set his mind on travelling the infernal Road to The Furnaces which, in Cockburn's disregarded view, led straight to Hell. That there were no furnaces operating in the vicinity was evidently immaterial to the duke, who had read with naïve delight the young surveyor Jebb's fanciful propositions for the place.

Cockburn longed to linger abed but this was contrary to his habit. Doubtless he was needed to attend to particulars in the stable yard if the little convoy was to move out smartly at the appointed hour. He felt for the chamber pot under the bed, rose, and stood filling it by the window. He always preferred to look upon a pleasing aspect whenever possible; Mesmer himself had advised it, to keep the humours in order. He stripped off his shirt, then poured some cold water from the ewer into the basin. He could hear some thumping below stairs, evidently someone stirring the fire to life. He was about to call for hot water, then thought the better of it. By the time the yobs employed as house servants splashed their way upstairs, it would be lunchtime.

He found his flannel and washed himself all over, emptying the dirty water into the chamber pot. Pouring water afresh from the ewer, he took the gold-handled straight razor from its case. It balanced perfectly in his hand, a gift from his father. Bad luck to give a gift of something sharp, his mother had said, and she was right. The baronet's downfall not long afterwards had produced an uneasy tension between father and his relentlessly scrupulous son. He could not comprehend conniving, misappropriation or fraud, much less so in his own flesh and blood. Why bother when it was so much easier to achieve his aims by keeping justice—and dignity--on his side? Yet Cockburn guarded the razor and its unpleasant memories as carefully as his pocket mirror and his silver hair brush, each item a daily reminder of the constant need for personal vigilance, and the transitory nature of mankind in general. He'd seen men on campaign reduced to shaving with their clasp-knives, looking at their wavering reflection in the water, and their slap-dash experiments often produced gruesome results. Others gave up their toilette entirely, reduced to haggard refugees within their own legions.

It signalled the beginning of the end when a man gave up his sense of self, Cockburn reflected. His own batsman, inexperienced and unprepared for the travails of their Lake Huron crossing en route to Drummond Island, had proved just such a one. Cockburn had been obliged to ship the man back to Quebec with the rest of the duke's family and servants, leaving himself unattended.

Cockburn brushed what remained of his hair with the boar-bristle brush, then tied it back. He hated the fussiness of a periwig, but his thinning chevelure was quickly dictating the necessity of obtaining one. Sitting precariously on the side of the uncertainly-strung rope bed, he put on his stockings and breeches, wincing at the pain from the boil on his left buttock. He stood up, tucking the tail of his shirt carefully around the tender area. He would need all the extra padding he could muster. He reached for his spectacles, polished them with a dry bit of flannel, and pushed them onto his nose, ready for the task at hand. He felt the loss of his manservant. An extra ten fingers was always useful at buttoning-up time, preferably female, though, regrettably, not always available. There was a deal to ensuring an officer was suitably attired, though as a member of the general staff officer, he could present himself in decent undress of waistcoat, stock tie and his favourite green frock coat. He could easily switch to his regimentals before for the evening tributes that so inevitably followed the duke's arrival in every backwater hamlet. He sighed, and began the long process of wedging himself into his high Cordovan boots, which, given the mud, were indispensable though irritatingly hot and impossible to remove without significant help.

Packing the remainder of his things, Cockburn left the iron-bound travelling trunk by the door for the two younkers to retrieve, then went downstairs. The scullery maid spotted him directly, and edged shyly over to ask if he wanted a tray brought up. It was rather too late for that, though Cockburn didn't give voice to his usual quick sarcasm. The little maid, a Scottish girl by the lilt of her tongue, though not her cringing deportment, was sufficiently overawed, he thought. He told her, in what he hoped would pass for tender tones, that he would eat in the dining room. Catch more flies with honey, he thought, though he did not know to what particular purpose the maid's goodwill might presently be put. He devoted only a moment or so to the realization that his natural shrewdness had degenerated to a callousness he might as well admit had become habitual.

Five minutes later, the young sawney bustled in with a tray almost larger than herself, her mistress following hard on her heels with the tea. It was only chamomile, plucked from the clearing next to the mill, but the Mrs. Jones might have been serving old Queen Charlotte herself (God rest her soul) judging from the airs she put on. He gazed at her in amusement, though his face remained impassive. He was not good at smiling. Mrs. Jones was not a bad-looking woman, and certainly well-ordered about her person. She was intuitive, too, and told him as much by the way she returned his piercing gaze, turning up the corners of her mouth just a little short of a smile. Feeling his spirits lift slightly, Cockburn made to linger a little longer over his mush and milk, augmented by fluffy slapjacks. He noted with appreciation the fresh apples and maple syrup the maid had added. His attentions had paid off after all.

Normally, Cockburn would have listened raptly as the miller's wife extolled all the Jones family virtues, from cooking to milling, squirrelling away every nuance of information and her every gesture in his vast cranial cabinet. But it seemed there was little to occupy the couple in their remote location save cooking and barn-building bees, and once, earlier in the summer, a trip to Perth. At this, Cockburn leaned forward, anxious to hear their opinion of the settlement he had all but built. Her tale held little of the town though much of the Rideau ferryman, a peculiar character named Oliver.

Cockburn put down his knife and fork, wiping his mouth diplomatically on his napkin. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, a familiar warning that he no longer repudiated. Cockburn could plainly read Mrs. Jones agitation in her clear grey eyes. She was not a nervous woman; in fact, she seemed eminently practical. Yet something had disturbed her beyond measure. He was tempted to put out his hand to her, but reconsidered this as unseemly. His party were destined to arrive at Oliver's that forenoon and it was essential he gather all details—objective or subjective--from Mrs. Jones's account. Patience, he thought, patience. Pushing back his chair, he dropped his hands to his lap and waited quietly, a tactic that almost always worked.

Mrs. Jones swallowed hard, looked around the room, then proceeded. A strange thing had happened that had clearly terrified her. She and her husband had arrived in good time at Oliver's landing in the calèche; there had been a dry spell and the roads were dry, though heavily rutted. Though the sun was long from setting, Oliver pressed them to bide overnight, saying they had arrived too late for him to boat them across the river. As if to give credence to his words, the evening suddenly blew up blustery, and the couple reluctantly consented to stay.

They had been treated to every hospitality, Oliver giving them a place by the fire upon which to lay their cloaks, even breaking open a hogshead of wine to share with them. They retired to their places and slept unusually soundly until the wee hours of the morning, when they were awoken by piercing screams hard by. Paralyzed with fear, the Jones's remained abed, and heard no further sounds. Eventually, they drifted back to sleep. In the morning, when they inquired of their host what had happened, he explained away the disturbance as merely the sounds of a screech owl, hunting for prey in the night.  Oliver's eyes had dipped from Mrs. Jones's gaze as he said this and at that moment, she'd had a horrible presentiment of what had happened. She nodded meaningfully at Cockburn, who held her gaze steadily in his, like a dove in his hand. He had only to squeeze a little, and she would tell him anything.

At that moment, Mr. Jones joined them, interrupting their low-spoken tête-à-tête. His wife refused to speak any more on the matter, turning the conversation to next week's corn boil. The moment had passed; she would never say more. The little vein began to throb again in the lieutenant-colonel's forehead, and he declined with all possible politesse their invitation to attend what was evidently the social event of season. Nor, he regretted, could he stay on for an extra week or two, despite his new-found feeling of kinship with the prescient Mrs. Jones.

By half past six, his considerable appetite for table and tattle had been long sated, though his stomach had begun to feel slightly queasy. The hour of their departure approached, and still the duke was nowhere to be seen. Bowles, too, was missing, and there had been nary a sign of Baptiste, though he usually slipped and lurked like a shadow any road. Making his excuses to Mrs. Jones, Cockburn retired outside, ostensibly to inspect the wagons for the upcoming journey. The teamsters, at least, had stirred. Though both of them looked rather more dishevelled than usual, he caught no inflection of complaint in their voices. It they had not slept well, they had at least frolicked hard. Having seen the chests loaded and the beasts properly hitched, Cockburn betook himself to the front stoop, sitting down carefully so as not to soil his breeches. Absently, he fingered a copper coin in his pocket.

His distemper and uncertain stomach notwithstanding, Cockburn had to admit that the duke's delay had given him time to ponder the beauties of what was proving to be another fine morning. He had been waiting a good ten minutes for the duke to appear, though this was not unusual. His Grace had never been known as an early riser, and the fatiguing journey of the day before, coupled with Mrs. Jones' powerful bedtime toddy had certainly not helped any of them to embrace the new day. The dew was still heavy on the grasses and a light mist rose from behind the slowly revolving mill wheel, throwing an arc of colour into the air. He watched as a pair of red-winged blackbirds flitted in and out of their nests in the cattails alongside the mill race. A kingfisher plummeted into the mill pond just above where Cockburn stood, popping up moments later with a juicy minnow in her thick beak. Somewhere on the higher ground behind him he could hear the noise of the rushing falls that powered Jones's mill, and toyed with the idea of a quick exploratory tramp through the bush. A flip of the coin would tell.

He drew the copper out of his pocket with his long, delicate fingers, flipping it high in the air. It glittered as it turned over and over, finally coming to rest in his palm. Cockburn peered at the face of George III. The likeness was cartoonish, the monarch's large heavy nose, sloping forehead, pursed, childlike lips, and receding chin all executed in exaggerated fashion. No Scot whelped by woman had ever borne such a profile, Cockburn reflected, or their mothers surely would have drowned them quick as kittens. He smirked secretly at this treasonous contemplation before lifting his spectacles up onto his head in order to peer more closely at the worn lettering around the use-blackened penny's edges: "George Sus-Sex" was stamped impudently around the image. Turning the coin over in his broad palm, he saw another image featured on the obverse, this time a depiction of a bosomy young woman meant to be Britannia. "Bonny-Lass," he read, realizing with a start that the piece was an evasion token, made by counterfeiters who skirted the coinage laws by making similar—but not exact—copies of His Majesty's coinage. The obsequious Hoskiss must have passed it to him when he settled the accounts. Cockburn was tempted to throw the coin away in disgust, but thought the better of it. Hasty actions were always repented, his mother had been fond of saying, though it was simply her way of getting in another dig at her husband. Cockburn snorted conspiratorially to himself and decided to remain standing sentry for the duke a while longer. Money was money, after all.

It was only a little past seven when Richmond strode purposefully out of the Jones's residence, newly-linened and freshly-shaven under Baptiste's careful blade. He observed with relief that though the dilatory duke had taken little breakfast he had somehow procured a new recruit of strength and spirits.

Clapping his hand on Cockburn's shoulder, Richmond surveyed the pink hues of the rising sun appreciatively. "I learn from the inhabitants,' he boomed melodramatically, flourishing both hands at the scene in front of them, "that (the road) passes through the finest tract of land in the province." Cockburn recognized the words from Jebb's report, committed to memory by the captivated Richmond. Reluctantly, he nodded his assent; cavilling was useless.

The duke had been sent into raptures by Jebb's affirmation of the 'limitless possibilities" of the area, particularly The Furnaces, which had been a flourishing iron works for more than a decade. They had burned to the ground in 1811 and though production had moved some miles distant to Marmora, Jebb had been confident that if only the furnaces were re-opened, his fabulous dream—the building of a five-mile long railway--could be realized: "I have had frequent opportunities of seeing this contrivance applied with wonderful effect," he had enthused with the boundless naiveté of youth. "The finest ore is in abundance at the spot and I need not advert to the advantages in an economical point of view that would result from such an establishment in every article of Iron work. Many things might be made here for less than the Transport comes to from Quebec to Kingston."

The lieutenant was another example of what could go wrong when a man spent little time in the field, let alone under fire. His Quakerish idealism, in Cockburn's opinion, should have been reined in long ago. But the Royal Engineers were well out of his purview, as were the men of the Royal Artillery, much as he wanted to get his hands on them. Their insistence on promoting officers on merit alone contradicted the efforts to ensure British army officers came from only the best families, with good old fashioned coin of the realm standing as surety behind them. An officer's ability to buy his commission was surely the minimum consideration for promotion within the officers' ranks. How on earth could merit ensure a man had the breeding, manners, loyalty and valour that men of the aristocracy possessed as their birthright?

Chapter Four: Murderous Intent

On our ride through the Woods in the morning we fell in with several coveys of Partridges, on which occasion his Grace dismounted, seemed to enjoy the sport of hunting the birds as much as any body and appeared in every way in as good health as I had ever seen him....Lt.-Col. Cockburn.

The road to from the Stone Mills to Kitley's proved every bit the plague Cockburn had expected, though the recognition inclined him to little satisfaction. It did cause him an even more wretched posterior, a crooked neck and considerable agitation as he descended once again from the wagons to help free the wheels from the sucking clay. He gritted his teeth and forced his impatience back down into his gullet, swallowing audibly as he massaged the pulsing vein in his head with a gauntleted finger. Mrs. Jones had not come to bid him farewell, though her husband fawned over the duke to the point of embarrassment, delaying their departure even further. It was essential to Cockburn's long-range plans for more settlements that the duke spend as much time in the settlement as possible, yet they whiled away hours clambering in and out of wagons as the teamsters extracted the horses and wagons from another bottomless bog. A fine land indeed.

At Koyle's Bridge, they turned northwest onto the road from Brockville, headed for the Rideau Lakes. There Richmond saw what he had tramped so far into the wilderness to see: the head of Irish Lake and the source of Irish Creek. This was where Jebb' rail link would begin, part of a second water route linking Montreal, via the northerly Ottawa River, to the St. Lawrence. It had been bandied about for years, but never begun due to conflicts over the route, the financing and an actual war. Increasingly though, it looked like the Rideau River route, which would encompass several miles of canals, dams, locks and, if Jebb had his way, railroad, might just become a reality, local citizenry and the British government both finally seeing its necessity--so long as every economy was observed.

Jebb's Irish Creek route, while less than ideal, seemed a good compromise. Though the creek contained little water in summer, he was confident that another of his 'speculative ideas'—wing dams—could be created to deepen channels and provide access for barges and boats. It would save miles and miles of travel and avoid altogether the rapids at Smith's Falls. Two major difficulties were implicit in Jebb's half-baked plan. Firstly, there was the duke's unwavering support for what Cockburn knew to be a hopelessly flawed document. Secondly, there was the unalterable fact that the Irish Creek route would leave the burgeoning settlement at Perth without a water transportation link and virtually off the economic map. The clumsy and slow Durham and York boats, needing rowers as well as a single lateen sail, would soon become a thing of the past, giving way to steam-driven boats, coal-fired railways and perhaps even some sort of yet-undreamt road-engine. The age of sail, he was firmly convinced, would soon be finished.

Cockburn's fondness was all for roads, and for horses to ride upon them. Both were solid and unwavering, useful summer and winter. What was needed was someone to build and maintain the highways and byways properly, so that they did not degenerate into the plashy cow paths they now surmounted. This, by God, was no way to build a country. Local path masters did their jobs up to a point, but in some cases, men of experience were clearly needed to design and plan the opening of the Canadian interior.

Cockburn fumed to himself as they rode along. That prig Maitland had managed to ascend to the post of Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada, despite running away with the duke's daughter (or, as it turned out, because of it). No one doubted the man's bravery; he had commanded a whole division at Waterloo after every other commander had fallen. It was just that he had very little to actually say, though his manners were impeccable. So impeccable that he had quickly ingratiated himself with the Family Compact, which held a great deal of land in the province, and controlled how it was doled out. Maitland, impoverished but tall, silver haired- and good-looking (all things Cockburn was not) was in danger of finding himself firmly in their pockets. He made some attempt, Cockburn had noticed, to appear independent and had determined to visit every nook and cranny of his new kingdom, an action that merely made him seem even more like his father-in-law. He had insisted on accompanying them throughout their Upper Canadian tour though not, thank God, on this leg. Putting up with Maitland as far as Drummond Island and back had cost Cockburn a whole month's worth of biting his tongue. Surely Cockburn ought to have earned himself another step up the ladder toward colonelship, even governorship of something. His own brother, younger by a year, was a Rear Admiral. Not only had this Cockburn fired Washington, sending President Madison and his wife running for their lives in their nightclothes, but he had escorted Napoleon to exile on St. Helen's, where he remained as governor for year. Francis, by contrast, had worked and battled every bit as hard—if not harder—yet still found himself mired in relative obscurity. All was not well, and it was nowhere near ended.

Cockburn, along with everyone else, had long since fallen silent at the sheer tedium of the track they followed, each man's individual reverie interrupted only by the constant swishing and twitching of the horses, plagued by horseflies, deer flies and mosquitoes. Once, the thunderous wing-beat wings of startled partridges, which sent the horses into a panic. Cockburn was too agile a horseman to be unseated. Even Bowles (though Cockburn typically admired little he did), kept his composure, forgetting nothing of his time as a dispatch rider. The duke merely laughed as the horses shied, anxious for anything to break the tiresomeness of the journey. There was little challenge for Richmond in the sorry horseflesh supplied by the 70th, though like everyone, he had admired the feisty little black mare Cockburn had conjured up from God-knew-where. Strong as iron, she was indefatigable, almost a copy of the mare Cockburn had purchased—for a handsome price--from an ancient habitant in the Richelieu River Valley. P'tit cheval de fer, he had called her, worth her weight in any currency.

Cockburn stroked the black mare's thick, unruly mane, soothing her—and his own rattled nerves. The unconscious action caused the throbbing in his head to subside, though it did not cease. He admired for the umpteenth time her glossy black coat, so like that of his own mare, which could live off the poorest grass yet look as sleek and fat as though she were kept by the King himself. She had backed off the trail in her fright, nearly barging into a massive red cedar whose branches swooped dangerously close to Cockburn's head. He ducked, then glanced down to ensure no yawning chasm awaited the mare's hind feet. Instead, he saw instead a ring of black grizzled mushrooms, which looked for all the world to be deadly poison. Cockburn knew them to be Old Man of the Forest, among the best-tasting of the many edible fungi which littered the forest floor. Chicken of the woods, chanterelles, shaggy manes, boletas, morels: there were dozens of varieties to choose from, if one knew their unique identifying features. There were just as many varieties, if not more, that could bring death—quickly or slowly-and still others that could bring on hallucinations similar to laudanum. He was about to summon Baptiste to harvest his find when the mare's sharp little hind hooves ground them into oblivion. His irritation rising anew, Cockburn gave the sensitive mare a prick of his spurs. The ruined treat would have made a delicious diversion from the usual bland and overcooked farmer's fare the group had so far received. He wasn't sure he could force down another arid piece of Johnnycake to save his life. The mare surged abruptly forward, and Cockburn had to steady her back onto the track. The pungent freshness of cedar oil clung to them both, conjuring the memory of his wife's cedar-lined hope chest, filled with lace and other dainties. He had not been the only man to peer into its warm, scented darkness. Vainly he tried to brush away the scent he so passionately and so painfully associated with her.

Cockburn had allowed his thoughts to wander into dangerous territory, quicksand for a married man far from home. He was, at that moment, concluding that his life's biggest mistake had been to marry for money, though everyone did it. Would he have married her had she not possessed a fortune? Probably not--at least not then. Would he have married her if he had known her for the adventurous, free-spirit she had shown herself to be in Canada? If he had known she would fall in love with the land, refusing to go back to the security of dreary England? Most certainly. But it was too late for that now. Too much had come between them, especially Milne's death. He knew she must still grieve for him, though they never spoke of it. How could they? Yet the unspoken weight of that third person clung like a millstone around their necks, dragging them, and what was left of their marriage, down under waters so dark he saw no way of freeing either of them. Alicia might go back to her family, but she would not. Nor did he want her to. Cockburn, strange to say, admitted that without Alicia, he would be lost, irretrievably alone. She was the only person, save his superiors, who ever challenged him, though only she could make him feel insecure about his next course of action. Most people found him overbearing or controlling, and hastened to do his bidding. Alicia, impudent woman that she was, seemed to find him amusing. He was cursed—cursed!—with having such a woman for his wife. He could not break her, nor could he forsake her. Perhaps it he loved her after all. He couldn't be sure.

Richmond had excitedly insisted they pursue yet another covey of fleeing partridges and in short order they bagged several brace, which Baptiste carefully stowed under a tarp in one of the wagons. They would make a fine meal that evening, or the next. Cockburn tried to disguise his irritation at the delay, which had put them well behind schedule. By his estimation they were averaging only a miserable three miles every hour--about equal to the plodding of a yoke of balky oxen. At this rate, they would not reach Perth until late that night, well after darkness had fallen. If the roads did not improve, it would be a dreadful passage . More ominously, they had all noticed that Richmond's energies, which up until now had been considerable, were quickly and inexplicably flagging.

It was not until one o'clock that they straggled in to the little habitation known as Oliver's Ferry, strategically located at the confluence of Big Rideau and Lower Rideau Lakes. For a small fee, Oliver obligingly transported travellers to Perth over the narrow waterway. Often, though, the ferryman claimed the hour was too late to take his passengers across the small stretch of open water, offering instead to put them up at his tavern for the night--for only a slightly higher fee. The trouble was, as Cockburn had discovered thanks to Mrs. Jones' intelligence, that many of those travellers were never seen or heard from again.

Eyeing the fatigue evident on the face of the perspiring duke, Oliver sidled up to Cockburn and in low undertones, extolled the virtues of his feather beds, intimating that the party would not regret halting there for the night. Cockburn sharply refused, pointing out that not only was there a full eight hours of daylight left, there was no substantial wind blowing down the lake to impede their crossing. Though the governor badly needed rest this was no place to linger. Oliver, Cockburn had every reason to believe, was literally making a killing, murdering his unsuspecting guests in their beds and stowing their dismembered corpses in the stinking walls of his tavern. There was little to link the ferryman to his victims who, more often than not, were assumed to have met with foul play on the roads—be it from animals, highwaymen, bad weather or some other accident. Some of his unfortunate victims were never missed at all.

It had been a mistake to stop here at all and had the duke not been so fatigued, Cockburn would have insisted on crossing instantly. Yet he was unwilling to divulge his misgivings to his companions, at least not until he had more proof. He would confer with the civilian officials at Perth, and ask them to have a word with Oliver—and a look under his floorboards. Since the miscreant was not a military man, there was little Cockburn could do directly. He hurried his charges through their repast of coarse bread and soft cheese, washed down with some of the duke's supply of wine. He had ordered the teamsters to take their refreshment in their wagons, without unharnessing the horses, so they would be ready to load them on board the ferry at a moment's notice. Oliver looked at Cockburn warily, but made no further attempts to get them to stay.

It took several trips but the party made it across the narrow isthmus without incident. "Hot as Hell today," Cockburn remarked casually when they reached the far bank for the last time. A slight breeze stirred on the lake, shaking the pines and rustling the silver-backed poplar leaves into a flurry of excitement. It was a welcome relief from the full August sun that had been in their faces all day. He dropped the evasion token into Oliver's outstretched as payment. Something told him that Oliver, though guilty, might never be caught. Cockburn stared directly into Oliver's eyes for a long minute, until the man looked uncomfortably away. Cockburn smiled. Now he knew for certain.

Chapter Five: A Pair of Plagues

The Red House

Perth, Upper Canada

August 21 Having rested about ½ an hour at Oliver's, we crossed the Ferry and proceeded on to Perth a distance of about 7 or 8 miles and at which place we arrived about ½ past 6 o'clock in the evening. The Duke seemed to enjoy his Dinner, talked a good deal with Major Powell the Secretary about the Settlements, smoked his Cigar in the evening, and went to bed apparently very well. --Lt.-Col. Cockburn's account

The blazing afternoon sun had rendered the air close and moist, though the light breeze that licked under their coat flaps at the ferry landing had dried some of the sweat that festered inside their linen shirts. Cockburn's eyes narrowed as he watched Richmond struggle to mount his horse even with Baptiste's unobtrusive assistance. The duke was growing more feeble with every mile and Cockburn feared it was due to something more than mere fatigue.

Bowles had confided that Richmond had taken to sitting up late at night smoking and drinking—unable, or unwilling to sleep. When he did slumber, it was fitful and frightened; he often awoke dazed, not knowing where he was, unaware of Baptiste's quiet intervention. Something did not add up. Cockburn would warrant Richmond to be not above fifty-four years old and despite leading a life that some might call dissipated he remained a graceful, athletic man with no guile or airs about him. Something did not add up. Cockburn rubbed his brow with his free hand, smoothing away the residue of his earlier head ache before it flared up again.

The Brockville road leading to Perth was much improved on this side of the lake though no less full of stinging, irritating pests. Cockburn flexed his hands, stiffened from gripping the reins against his mare's constant champing at the bit as she tried to dislodge one bloodsucking fly after another from burrowing into her hide. The extreme heat of the day had long ago forced him to remove his deer hide gloves and his hands stung from a succession of tiny cuts in the skin, along second joints of his fingers, where the reins had cut in. When they arrived at Perth he would rinse his hands in some diluted vinegar, or Spirits of Turpentine to ensure infection did not set in. As the horses plodded mechanically up and over the crest of a hill, Cockburn could see the thunderheads building in the far distance. They were heavy with an angry greyness that could indicate a momentous downpour or even a disastrous hailstorm and Cockburn knew they needed to make Perth before the deluge.

Perhaps sensing the weather gauge was no longer in their favour, Cockburn's mare began tossing her head so fretfully he feared she was lame. He called to Bowles and Richmond to halt as he got down for a moment to inspect her feet. Just as he thought, a large stone had wedged itself between her frog and the edge of her shoe, leaving a dark purple discolouration on the sole. She would develop an abscess like as not. The mare's hoof would need to be soaked and the hoof packed with linen soaked in linseed oil, and she would need a few days' rest in the Red House's stable before they pressed on. Otherwise, he would have to leave her behind and arrange for her to be sent back to Kingston at the earliest opportunity. There was nothing for it but to remount and continue the last six miles. The mare would have to last until Perth.

Only a few years before, white pine had been king, their trunks dotting the landscape like a victorious army, providing a steady stream of sturdy masts a hundred feet long and upwards of three feet in diameter for shipment to the Royal dockyards. Now, the settlers kept only the timber needed to construct dwellings and fences, and what would be needed as fuel for the coming year. The excess was considered useless. Now that the war was over, the demand for ship's timbers had dwindled to almost nothing. The giant timbers were almost impossible to cut down, so settlers simply girdled them – cutting off the bark and burning portions of the trees near to the ground until they died. Trees like these would have been worshipped in Scotland, whose great mythical forests had long since fallen. Such wastefulness went against the grain for Cockburn who gazed, horrified, at the magnificent desolation before him. Dozens of immense trees, along with their fellows--bird's eye maple, butternut, walnut, oak, buttonwood, white pine—stood girdled and dying, like helpless men on a battlefield. Alicia, he had to admit, may have been right. A tree feels the first cut of the axe, she had insisted to him years before, her eyes had blazed with unspoken accusations--as though he and he alone were responsible for this newly discovered crime. She certainly had been right.

The road upon which they now travelled was an infinite improvement over their previous approach, proof that the veterans were not only hardworking but admirably hungry for the riches this new land promised. The gaunt timber spectres gave way to mostly-cleared and carefully-tended land as they approached the settlement, whose tendrils were already reaching down the Tay River toward the Rideau Lake which, everyone prayed, would soon bring the longed-for water communication route, pledging prosperity. Upturned stumps used as fences zig-zagged across the landscape, haphazardly denoting ownership. Cockburn could never quite get used to the look of these untidy delineators, having been raised in a land of sturdy stone walls and neat hedgerows--though he knew neither were practical under the circumstances. Once in a while, farming families stopped their labours, waving and cheering as they passed. The duke took their accolades in stride, doffing his cockade with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. But it was Cockburn, the architect of the Perth--not Richmond-- to whom their gestures of welcome were directed. The stocky, unprepossessing lieutenant-colonel was arguably the most revered man in settlement, with the possible exception of the King himself.

Perth at last. The moment they sighted the little town, Cockburn had the overpowering feeling that he had come home. Many of the nearly 2,000 inhabitants of the area were Scots, dischargees from the Glengarry Light Infantry, mixed with a few Swiss and other veterans of de Meuron's and de Watteville's regiments. Their officers and men were mostly known to him, having fought beside him in the Peninsula and the Canadas. Some had not seen home in twenty years, and would likely never visit the countries of their birth again. Cockburn, for his part, felt only ambiguity about going home, nor was he sure which country—England or Scotland--he would choose. If he had his druthers, he would stay in Canada. There was challenge in organizing and improving the vast , un-tended, un-owned spaces—unlike Britain where every hedgerow and blade of grass was spoken for, and claimed by someone. He had virtually created this town, and how many men could say that? He snorted at his own folly. He had best keep such thoughts to himself; otherwise, he had no wish to be branded a Republican.

They arrived at John Adamson's inn punctually at 6:30 in the evening, the Brockville Road running conveniently into the High Street. Cockburn noted with satisfaction that at least one limestone buildings was under construction, and about forty log structures had already been finished, some of them decorated in an almost-elegant manner on ample town lots of one acre. Word spread quickly of their arrival, and several dozen inhabitants turned out to welcome them. The soldiers and officers saluted, their homage smartly returned by Richmond. Others merely gaped, slack-jawed, as the procession passed. Richmond waved or nodded amiably nonetheless, by now expected no response from the dimmer elements, all of whom appeared to have been turned to stone.

Already half an hour past their usual supper hour, the invited guests waited restlessly in the reception room of the inn. Known as the Red House, it served as an unofficial officer's mess, the local Masonic meeting house, and, until very recently, the gathering place of the Church of Scotland under the erstwhile Rev. William Bell. Major Powell, secretary of the fledgling settlement had spared no expense for the meal to come, and the celebrants were ravenous. Every gentleman who could still boast even a shred of his old kit was present, along with many who could not. Those officers who had wives brought them, bundled into Empire-waisted gowns, which, in Cockburn's opinion, would have been put to better use as sugar sacks. He had, in fact, seen sugar sacks put to far abetter—and occasionally more provocative--uses in Montevideo.

Though some of the more skilled matrons had attempted to make over their outdated garments in the newer style, theirs was a losing battle. Even the most up-to-date fashion magazines could be over a year old by the time they reached the Canadas, let alone the backcountry. The eagle-eyed Cockburn needed no quizzing glass to size up a good-looking female, nor would he ever be so obtrusive in his assessments. He sighed, despairing of finding even one well-dressed woman. A South American or even a French-Canadian bosom, he knew, would be sadly out of the question, though the mere though made him quiver. Spain and Portugal had been veritable minefields, better even than France, thanks to the fiery temperament of les belles dames sans merci. South America had been in a class all its own; the extreme heat alone had added an unparalleled drama to his covert investigations. Even the Argentine women had taken to the streets of Buenos Aires to dislodge their misguided British liberators but he'd found this strangely beguiling—and perfectly rational from a Scottish point of view--though he and his men had been lucky to escape. Many captured soldiers of the first expedition had been exiled deep in the interior, never to return. As a young captain, he'd wished—nor expected—any mercy. He had been out to make a name for himself.

The heady fighting had not lasted long. Lt.-Gen. John Whitelock had all but surrendered, agreeing to a prisoner exchange and withdrawal after losing half the force. He was quickly court-martialled for his stupidity. Cockburn had once again found himself on a boat with the Blue Peter hoisted, without a single bosom to admire, save that of the considerably-endowed ship's figurehead, headed for a conflict on the other side of the Atlantic. Truly, his had become a lonely and difficult art.

Victory in the Peninsula had been dearly won and his transfer to the Canadian Fencibles—along with his long-awaited promotion-- had been welcome. He brought Alicia this time, though her presence had not entirely dissuaded him from his voyeurism. It was the only thing that made interminable social gatherings, particularly regimental dinners, bearable. Smirking at his own pun, he hurried upstairs. Neither of his present companions appreciated that detailed and fastidious comparison of depth and breadth of women's bosoms, brooches and battenings. Richmond was all for playing the end-game, which he'd found from bitter experience to be much less interesting, while Bowles was utterly hopeless when it came to any sort of women's fashions. There was just enough time for Cockburn and Bowles to wash and change into their own slightly tawdry dress uniforms before dinner. Dressing reminded him of Alicia, and that reminded him of things he ought not to think about just now. He managed to distract himself with images of the gormless women of Washington, particularly the horsey Mrs. Madison, who had no idea that she should not wear half-dress to an event requiring a ball-gown. She might have gotten away with an opera dress had anyone around her even been sensible of the distinction.

Cockburn's silent mammarian homage was interrupted by Baptiste's usual graceless thump on the door of the room he'd been forced to share with Bowles. The major answered, coolly unsurprised by the servant's announcement that the duke would soak in a cool bath before making his entrance at the reception. Baptiste shot a surreptitious look at Bowles, then hastened to the kitchen, ostensibly to fetch more water. Cockburn fixed his most menacing stare on the hapless major, mutely seeking explanation. But Bowles said nothing, fingers fumbling over his lacings. Why Bowles was withholding information was less vexation to the lieutenant-colonel than the weakness of character the major's dipped eyes showed. Now was not the time to have things out, Cockburn reasoned. He could feel the vein beginning to throb again in his temple at Bowles' and Baptiste's perceived betrayal. No matter. They would tell him soon enough.

Both drawing rooms and the dining room were packed with well-wishers, Cockburn joyously greeted with upraised glasses and urgent cries of "Slaintè." By the time the duke finally descended, Bowles in tow, Cockburn had already partaken of a toast or three, downing several glasses of surprisingly good whisky in the process. The duke looked a little green around the gills, he thought, Bowles a little more so. It must be the heat, he thought—or the alcohol. His firm "no" to the pipe of wine that had been opened was ignored, Major Powell sloshing a substantial glass into his hand. At the sting of the spilled droplets, Cockburn realized he had forgotten to wash out his cuts. Examining his hand, he saw no redness nor felt any radiating soreness. He had always been a quick healer. The duke, he recalled, was not, having complained for several days after the scratch he'd sustained at William Henry. Age and adversity takes its toll, Cockburn thought, watching with disapproving irony as Richmond pulled the wine carafe closer, refilling his glass for the seventh or eighth time. Cockburn was thankful there was none of Dr. Ordinaire's Parisian cordial to be had here. Hallucinations and pounding headaches were bad enough on their own without little green faeries dancing about on the tip of one's tongue. Particularly the duke's.

The first course of dinner had barely been served—an oxtail soup—and already the gathering had become animated, the faces of the officers and their wives shining with excitement and perspiration inside the airless building. Someone scratched up a fiddle as the guests awaited the next course; leaving Cockburn with the fervent hope no dance had been organized. The smell of warm, overawed bodies at rest was as much as he could bear; the sight and scent of them jostling madly about in vain imitation of the Lancer's Quadrille would be nauseating.

Cockburn strolled out onto the scraggly lawn, as anxious to escape the close confines of the Red House as he was to see if his horse was being properly attended. No planks had been laid down underneath the two large elms, much to his relief and it would be impossible to dance indoors. The muggy heat had become almost unbearable, and Cockburn thought, judging by the still-building thunderheads, the weather would break at any moment. Even a small amount of rain would turn the already sodden roads into impassable quagmires. He walked along the low banks of the Tay, tracing its passage through the town to where it bifurcated, making way for a small island picturesquely located at the heart of the little settlement. Just three years ago it had seethed with hope and promise, as the first veterans and their families set up camp before venturing forth to find their own lands. That promise had been delayed, but not broken, by the harsh weather that had stalked the settlers like a beast. He had felt honour bound to do what he could for them, doling out extra rations and sympathy. That had helped nurse many families through the Summerless Year; for others, it had merely prolonged the inevitable.

Cockburn crossed over a low bridge, passing the militia assembly grounds and meandered along the river's edge. He was headed toward a little mill located on some rapids on its upper west side, picking his way carefully along the marshy ground as fireflies playfully winked around his boots like fairy lamps. The wheel was disengaged, spinning a slow, meditative circle in the deepening twilight. Cockburn walked toward its hulking shape, drawn to its comforting, purposeful rhythm. He had been away from the gather longer than propriety dictated but he could not help it. Unbridled festivities disturbed him. People often said and did things they did not mean, only to regret them later. Or simply to inflict suffering on someone else. Alicia's blatant admission had been a case in point. He tried to see it as simply hurtful braggadocio, half-truths embroidered by drink, and even a little residual passion. He couldn't bring himself to accept that what she had said was true. She had been overwrought, lashing out at him because he was the only person left to her. And it was not him she wanted.

Now, he treated social gatherings as just another intelligence gathering mission. It was much easier that way. Oftentimes his quarries, their lips loosened by drink, dancing, flattery or, sometimes, other stimulants, volubly told him all they knew, and then some, without any subsequent memory. Not to say that Cockburn had never walked in similar shoes. He had, and on more than one occasion deeply regretted his behaviour of the previous evening--but at least he'd had sense enough to learn from his mistakes. As he approached the river's near bank, a small creature loomed out of the thick grass. He stepped carefully closer to the shining eyes, which revealed themselves to be a red fox, a vixen by the look of her tugged teats, probably out hunting for her kits. She eyed him curiously, only a tinge of fear showing in her stance before she loped away, her magnificent tail nearly dragging on the ground behind her. At that moment, Cockburn realized what had been perplexing him. A shudder of horror ran through his body, and he spilled the dregs of the wine from the bottom of his glass. It had been the fox all along.

Cockburn raced back to the gathering, spying Richmond in a corner, his face flushed read as he talked animatedly with Major Powell. To think he hadn't realized until now what was happening! He had been a fool—and he feared it would be his undoing. It was nearly midnight before the duke, having drank and smoked his fill, bid a congenial, if indistinct, goodnight to Major Powell and the remaining half-pay officers. Cockburn nodded to each of them as they filed out the door toward home. He said nothing. There was no point. The signs were still indistinct enough that he had no call to exceed his authority and force the duke to retrace his steps. He prayed silently that he might have been mistaken. If he was not, there was nothing any of them could do now except watch and wait, and take precautions against future blame.

The hour was late and Cockburn's body burned with fatigue as he climbed the stairs to his room. Thunder, which had boomed about in the distance, rolled closer and closer. A sheet of bright lightning lit up the sky like mid-day, interrupted here and there by forked sprays like the tail of the Devil himself. He entered his room just as the first heavy droplets of rain began to beat on the cedar shingles and found the shuttered being propelled back and forth like two vying treadles by gusts of wind. Setting the fluttering candle on the washstand, Cockburn pulled them closed and firmly latched the window. Prying off his boots, he climbed into the big four-poster bed and fished the little notebook out of his pocket.

Outside, the storm broke with a vengeance.

Chapter Six: The Price of Allegiance

Beckwith Government Depot, Franktown, Upper Canada

August 25 The Duke scarcely slept at all during the night, and only joined us for a short time at Breakfast at which he ate but little, left us suddenly and went up again to lay down till we were ready to start. About 8 o'clock he proceeded (still on horseback) towards the house of a settler named Saunders (about six miles distant from the store in Beckwith)....--Lt.-Col .Cockburn

Baptiste stood directly behind Bowles chair, shifting nervously from one foot to another, watching impatiently as the major finished his morning gruel. As Bowles dipped torn pieces of coarse, un-buttered bread into the liquid remaining at the bottom of the tin bowl, he sensed the servant standing uncomfortably close to him. What the devil did he want? Surely he had already breakfasted. He had, thanks to Cockburn, who had foreseen that feeding and housing the duke and his entourage might cause hardship for the settlers and had arranged for extra provisions to be sent from Perth.

Baptiste's edginess could be blamed partly on lack of sleep. He had spent a raucous night in the stable, sitting sprawled on the floor with a rag-tag selection of stable boys, indentured servants and one or two dissolute homesteaders, as they passed around what was left of the government-rationed rum. He enjoyed his instant celebrity and was quizzed by all present on every details of the duke's habits, what he ate, what sort of horses he rode, how much he drank—and what was wrong with him. Rumours that Richmond was at death's door had burned through the forest like wildcat fleeing a fire and the servant had been hard pressed to resist their entreaties to tell all. Baptiste denied his master was ill, saying he had merely caught a cold during his voyage to Drummond Island. His description of the long trip over Lake Huron, aided by lubricating swigs from a jug of dandelion wine, kept his landlubbing audience enraptured. The night flew by as he soaked in all the local lore about this godforsaken corner of the earth. The more he learned the more he longed to be back in Martinique—but there was little chance of that. He had pledged his loyalty to the duke, and no matter what people thought of him—Cockburn in particular—he was a man of his word. Richmond had been good to him, offering him protection, employment, a home, and even modest wages. It was more than he had ever had before.

Nor did he wish to change places with the land-owning inhabitants of Beckwith Township, most of whom were much less well-off than he. They could keep their swampland, as far as he was concerned, and the backbreaking labour of clearing it. He shook his head in disbelief at the tales he had heard of men, women and children pitched in to cut trees, chop branches, and stoke the fires—leaving little time for anything else. To Baptiste it seemed ironic that they toiled more slavishly than he ever had. There was not a cow in the district, and poultry was rare enough that even the duke was not given an egg for breakfast. Nor, of course, was there any chicken broth for him—the one thing he expressly desired. One of the lads had heard of a man who possessed a sow which might or might not be pregnant and the entire township waited on tenterhooks to see her miraculous piglets.

Most people lived in miserable shanties with little or no furniture, misery compounded by an unvaried diet of hard tack and salt beef. This menu was occasionally flavoured with the addition of certain berries, mushrooms, roots and greens and, when the weather co-operated, with cultivated vegetables like carrots, corn, squash and bean. It was only with great reluctance that some of the settlers had agreed to grow these last three items, introduced by the Algonquin tribes, who could not understand how on earth the newcomers could be starving in such a land of plenty. Scurvy was an annual threat, until the settlers learned—again the beneficiaries of the benevolent Algonquins, knowledge—to simply pick needles of any species of fir tree and chew them, or brew them into a tea. The local Indians were full of seemingly miraculous cures for European ailments, all save the common cold and smallpox, a disease which had ravaged their population in a way that war or severe winters had ever done.

Notwithstanding the double indisposition of lack of sleep and a certain ill feeling in his bowels, Baptiste had arisen at his usual early hour and slipped into the main building to assist the duke with his toilette. After emptying the chamber pot in the back yard privy, Baptiste stopped by the kitchen for a ewer of hot water. When he set the jug down on the washstand, took a straight razor in one hand and flipped a towel over his shoulder. He looked up expectantly at the duke, who always enjoyed his morning wash and shave and instantly knew something was dreadfully wrong. Though a good manservant like himself never spoke of any intimate services he might perform for his master, what had just happened was clearly out of the ordinary. Baptiste knew the matter must be laid before the commanders right away. As he descended the stairs, he wondered how to tell them without betraying the duke's confidence.

He found them in the cramped kitchen where Cockburn was talking, as usual, about ways to alleviate the grinding poverty of local populace. Mrs. Bog stood by the stove, oblivious to the perspiration that glistened on her forehead and dripped into the simmering potage in front of her. She listened with rapt attention, her ladle poised in mid-air over the simmering porridge, keen to sift out any pertinent details from Cockburn's diatribe that might benefit her or her family. Though the lieutenant-colonel always proceeded from a position of pure altruism, few of the radical reforms necessary to assist the settlers would be of any immediate benefit to the Bogs or any of the nearby hard-pressed farmers. Her entire family—husband, sons and daughters—were already out felling trees, trimming limbs and burning brush, the ubiquitous smoldering piles marking their daily progress in the war against the infernal forest. Even the chance to gape at the duke had not been enough to force them to delay. Every waking hour was preciously rationed and their work would only intensify in winter as they battled against the cold and the diminishing days.

Cockburn had long since finished eating his unorthodox meal, well used to the ways of the country folk, and more appreciative—in his own way—of the sacrifice that Mrs. Bog had made in preparing it. He thanked her in the most glowing terms, as if she had been a countess hosting a weekend in Suffolk, and a red glow of appreciation spread up over her rough sunburned cheeks. Cockburn had spread open a sheaf of papers on the bare table. Bowles, his mouth full of gruel, grunted back at the colonel, eager to finish his breakfast and escape outdoors. The colonel had a familiar way with the lower classes, there was no doubt about it, most particularly with the females. Yet amongst his peers he exuded an overbearing moral superiority, like a preacher exhorting them wordlessly against their guilty pastimes—real or imagined. Conversing with his superiors, his manners and language were overly elaborate, bordering on obsequious, though Bowles knew full well it was yet another of Cockburn's stratagems, his way of poking vicious fun at anyone of higher rank, though, they all knew full well, hardly of higher intelligence or ambition. But what was most important to remember when dealing with someone as potentially abrasive, even dangerous as Cockburn was that his intentions were firmly grounded in moral motivation. This perspective, almost unique amongst his contemporaries, gave Cockburn the high ground every time. Perhaps, reflected Bowles, that was what made the colonel speak out so forcefully about 'American manners.'  He was more like them—and their apologists, like Thomas Paine—than he cared to have anyone admit. As it was, Bowles had not the slightest desire to engage in a long, fruitless discussion that would ultimately be won by the colonel. There had already been too many of those in the past year.

Baptiste, who was of the same mind exactly, chewed nervously on the side of his lip. He hovered uncomfortably close to Bowles, aware that his continued presence was irritating Cockburn. He was desperate to speak to the major privately, but dared not say so. His only hope was that Bowles would somehow sense his anguish and accompany him upstairs. Cockburn was now staring at him pointedly, hoping to force him into saying something—or going away altogether. The servant held his ground, clamping his lips stubbornly together. Finally, it was Cockburn who gave up, scraping his chair back noisily and stomping outside. After watching carefully for a few seconds to make sure the colonel was really gone, Baptiste leaned over and whispered in Bowles ear. As he related all that had happened earlier in the morning, the major's eyes widened in horror.

It had all started when Baptiste had tried to wash and shave the duke. The mere sight of the basin of water had caused Richmond to have some sort of spasm, his face contorting horribly. He had grabbed at his own throat, pushing Baptiste away in sudden, unexplained terror. Withdrawing to a corner of the room, he cowered in the corner like an animal, howling in fright and pain. After a few moments, the fit passed and Richmond lay shaken and exhausted on the floor. Baptiste approached the duke warily, taking care to first cross himself and take the crucifix he wore around his neck in his hand. As quickly as it had come, Richmond's fit passed, and he offered no further resistance as Baptiste tentatively extended a hand to help his master up. He settled the duke on to a rough stool, then rearranged his clothing and brushed his hair. Eventually, he managed to shave and wash the duke, though wielding the straight, sharp blade had taken all his patience and skill.

Half an hour later, Richmond declared himself fit enough to go down to breakfast. It was still extremely early and Bowles and Cockburn had not yet appeared from the outbuilding where they had passed an unhappy night. Baptiste crept downstairs, expecting to see the family slumbering on the floor. The kitchen was empty, save for Mrs. Bog, dutifully stoking the fire and stirring some bubbling brew. She threw him a gap-toothed smile and pantomimed eating, as though he were some sort of ape that could not be spoken to. Baptiste merely nodded, and went back up the rickety stairs to summon His Grace to Mrs. Bog's impromptu feast.

Within seconds, the table had been covered in all the household had to offer. Baptiste smiled in approval. The repast was not bad, all things considered, consisting of gruel, coarse black bread, wild grape jelly and boiled bull rush hearts covered in maple syrup, fried puffballs dredged with cattail flour and what might have been chanterelles. Yet the duke ate little, grumbling that he was tired and needed more sleep. Baptiste had carefully prepared him a pot of tea but he took only a few sips from his cup. Returning to his room, the duke lay back down on his bed and fell instantly into a deep sleep. He dozed for a half hour or so, Baptiste reported, then awoke abruptly, ordering his belongings to be packed and insisting the pain in his shoulder that had dogged him for days was nearly gone.

Bowles laid down his spoon carefully. The grape jelly had been unquestionably inspired, though he feared he may have chipped a tooth on the good lady's bread. He doubted Baptiste was imaginative enough to make up such a story. In fact, he was unquestionably honest and unfailingly loyal in any matter concerning Richmond. The servant's observations left no doubt that the duke's strange malady was much worse than anyone had been willing to openly admit--until now. Bowles rose from the rough-hewn table, hastily wiping his cutlery and stuffing it back into its case. Then he dashed outside to find Cockburn.

Chapter Seven: The Duke's Strange Malady

Beckwith Government Depot, Upper Canada

"It was then arranged that we should make 2 days of the Journey to Richmond instead of on: that his Grace should sleep at a house 11 or 12 miles distant and proceed the remaining 3 or 4 (miles) the following morning. We accordingly proceeded partly on foot and partly on horseback, halted for a few hours during the heat of the day at a Cottage.—Maj. Bowles

Clearly, the duke needed medical attention—and quickly. Retracing their arduous route back to Perth, where there was a physician, seemed the best course of action, though Bowles was certain the man knew little of medicine besides treating musket wounds and camp fevers—and would likely prescribe amputation in either case. There was little choice. There were only a handful of medical practitioners between here and Montreal, and even the barest knowledge was better than none.

But Richmond himself presented an unexpected obstacle. He refused to return to Perth, roaring in uncharacteristic rage when Bowles and Cockburn again urged the abandonment of the expedition. Nonplussed, the two men looked at each other in growing alarm. They were unwilling to disobey a direct order yet knew full well the risks they took in forging ahead given the governor's rapidly deteriorating physical condition, and now, his obviously impaired mental state. Should his condition worsen all three might be held responsible for going ahead yet the duke was not so completely overcome by his malady that they could feel justified in relieving him of command. Were the situation handled incorrectly, one—or all three of them—could face a court-martial. It had already dawned on Cockburn that they would need to document the events that were unfolding for later reference. Their careers and reputations—which were virtually one and the same thing—might depend on it.

There was no place for the men to confer quietly so for the better part of an hour, Burke, Bowles and Cockburn walked up and down the road outside the depot, cautiously plotting their next movements. It had taken hours to battle their way over the seven miles of road from Saunders's, and Bowles suggestion that they halt for the night at the next cabin was immediately accepted. Fortunately Burke had squirrelled away countless useful bits of information about the local farmers and squatters, and casually informed the two officers that the nearest cabin, Vaughan's, was not far away. It would be the only spot to stop before attempting the final four miles of the journey to Richmond, which, Burke warned, consisted almost entirely of swamp, marsh, quicksand and mud, in varying combinations. Horses passed through the quagmire only with the greatest difficulty, risked lameness or other injury during the journey. He had seen animals become irretrievably stuck, floundering helplessly for hours until they finally had to be shot. In short, the secretary promised with malicious cheerfulness, the area was a Hell-hole which, he promised, would prove to be the worst part of the trip bar none. Everyone--the duke included—would have to walk. Cockburn was loathe to leave Richmond but if the way were really as bad as Burke said, he needed to see the lie of the land himself—and he would need the secretary to show him the way.

The two men departed immediately, without waiting for the duke to awaken, fearful of being caught in the dismal no-man's land after nightfall. Bowles and Baptiste remained behind without complaint. They hoped to follow shortly, but who knew when the duke might awaken?

About an hour later, His Grace awoke refreshed, and seemed much his old self again, calling for his horse and his dog. The trio departed almost immediately, though their progress through the seven miles of wilderness between Saunders' and Vaughan's soon proved painfully slow. Horseflies buzzed around their heads like tiny demons and every so often one of the bloodthirsty parasites succeeded in landing, instantly punching a hole the size of grape shot in any uncovered skin. The winged vermin seemed to take particular delight in tormenting him. Were he to suddenly find himself marooned in this wilderness without shelter, Bowles was sure he would be devoured, one bite of flesh at a time.

Within less than half a mile, it was clear to everyone that if anything, Burke had understated the terrible condition of the road. At this rate, it would take hours to reach Vaughan's. To make matters worse, the duke soon showed signs of succumbing once again to fatigue, nervousness and an unusual sensation in his throat which he declared made him feel like he was being slowly strangled. Now and again, Richmond dabbed surreptitiously at his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, unable to disguise his disgust at the foamy mucus contained in his handkerchief. Bowles suspected malaria, though he continued to assure the duke his illness was merely a bad cold. Baptiste, who had recently discovered a few unwanted pustules on his own body, feared both of them might be suffering from the dreaded pox. They were both wrong.

Chapter Eight: At Vaughan's Cabin

Vaughan's Cabin, Upper Canada

His Grace did not appear more unwell than the day before and I particularly observed to him that he must be better as he did not appear so thirsty. He said nothing of any aversion to water but complained a little of his throat and I think of his chest observing at the same time that the pain in his shoulder was nearly gone. –Maj. Bowles

Vaughan's abode proved to be even smaller and less well- appointed (if such a thing were possible) than Bog's. The shanty was constructed of logs, with the ends sawn off and the cracks chinked with wedges of wood. There was not a nail or a screw in the whole dwelling, Bowles observed with admiration, which was plastered inside and out with the abundant local clay. Hollowed basswood logs formed the roof, though it was far from water-tight. The building had no foundation, the base logs being set on rocks for support. There was a small pit in the middle reached by a trap-door and a ladder. It had no fireplace, only four-foot-thick slab of limestone, with clay packed behind the keep the fire of the logs. A hole was cut through the roof directly above it to vent the smoke. A proper chimney, or even any furniture beyond the table, bed and two crude benches that currently adorned the small dwelling could be years away. The family's first priority was to clear the required number of acres of land in order to obtain permanent title to their land, a backbreaking operation at the best of times. Transforming the boggy, pest-ridden landscape that surrounded Vaughan's pathetic shanty into arable land would take endless hours of backbreaking labour from every member of the household.

As day turned to darkness, Vaughan lit a smudge fire in the clearing to try to ward off the more predatory mosquitoes and for nearly a half an hour it worked. The family, Bowles, Richmond and Baptiste, flanked by every one of the numerous Vaughans, gathered round to watch the smothering smoke belching from the green wood. Other small fires burned all around them in the woods, evidence of their constant clearing efforts. Eventually, the bloodthirstiness of the pests won out over the combined outpourings of smoke, forcing everyone to retired to the cramped, gloomy little cabin. The only bed was hoisted into the loft, where the duke took pride of place. Bowles, maintaining his fervent hope that the duke's "Indisposition proceeded from cold... persuaded him to drink a large wine glass of hot wine and water after going to bed which he did."

With the duke comfortably settled, there was little for Bowles to do but watch the single tallow candle sputter and hiss as it burned down the allowed two inches before being doused. The settler and his family, grown used to their isolated lives, made few attempts at conversation, having little idea of what topics could possibly interest such urbane visitors. Richmond, had he been in his usual jovial spirits, would have drawn them out, knowing instinctively that their reticence was not from lack of curiosity about the outside world but shyness. Bowles tried to step into the governor's shoes, gently encouraging the family to talk of all the dull intricacies of their dull lives, but he had only limited success. His attempts to ask what he thought were very well-phrased questions about agriculture, the area's rare social events and even the family's genealogy were met with blank stares or, it seemed to him, a response which had nothing to do with his query. Only when Cockburn hissed into his ear did the major realize the Vaughan's were trying to tell him that they considered their private affairs to be none of his business.

Pitch darkness would soon be upon them and he was unsure whether to rejoice or recoil. The cabin's other occupants merely accepted the inevitable, curling into tattered horse blankets, shifting, turning and muttering as they prepared for an uncomfortable vermin-ridden night on the hard earthen floor. Burke and Cockburn, meanwhile, had spent the morning hours after their brief warning stop at Vaughan's in an unpleasant battle of their own. Multitudes of flies, mosquitoes, ticks, blackflies and God –knew-what-else devoured them the moment they stopped moving through the trees. When they occasionally reached what seemed to be a clearing, their miseries were only multiplied by the discovery that there was no solid land underfoot—only bog.

Impenetrable scrub surrounded them for most of the journey but through sun or shade, the heat and humidity were intense. There was water everywhere, all of it ominous-smelling sludge which neither horses nor man dared drink, no matter how thirsty. As Burke predicted, the horses proved their greatest liability, becoming stuck constantly in the sucking mud, or balking at crossing yet another foetid stream. As they neared the village of Richmond, Cockburn's mare obstinately planted all four feet and refused to raise another hoof, forcing him to cut a cedar switch with which to whip her onward. Without question the Franktown Road was a curse upon all who dared travel it, and for the first time in his life, Cockburn began to doubt his own judgment. He had envisioned himself as their benefactor, but it now seemed more likely that he had consigned the men, women and children of the 100th Regiment to a new and inventive kind of living Hell.

Chapter Nine: Later That Same day

Richmond, Upper Canada

Something was afoot. Mrs. Hill knew it the moment she saw Major Burke rattle over the Jock River Bridge, accompanied by another, unfamiliar rider who, judging by the width of his girth and the age of his worn green frock coat, could not possibly be the long-awaited governor. Quickly, she took off her apron and stuffed it in a drawer, smoothed down her hair and stepped to the entrance of the Masonic Arms as the men tethered their horses.

Cockburn and Burke were as muddy as their weary animals, both infinitely grateful to have at last reached this compact, neatly-organized village deep in the Rideau River Valley. The lieutenant-colonel, never one to be trifled with, was in the blackest of moods. Before they could knock, the door opened, and Cockburn found himself staring straight into Maria Hill's hospitable face. He could not remember when he had seen a more welcome sight. Spiralling tendrils of hair snuck out from under her wilting mob cap, offsetting a pair of twinkling, deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, though her complexion, like Alicia's, had been bronzed by days spent carelessly in the sun. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and she wiped them away with the back of a deeply-freckled arm. She smelled of ripe apples and freshly-baked bread, mixed with wood smoke and sweat. The aroma was not at all unpleasant. In fact, Cockburn had always found himself drawn to the more basic scents of a woman, so often smothered under eau de cologne or other artifices. Despite his ingrained sense of snobbery, even superiority against intimate mingling with the lower classes he felt his perturbation melt away, like snow under a warm spring sun. He had eschewed the de rigeur liaisons with spirited housemaids expected of a high-born gentleman like himself but the sudden pang in his nether regions reminded him of how long it had been since he had been abed with Alicia. He didn't miss her, God forgive him. In fact, until the appearance of the statuesque Mrs. Hill, domestic relations had been the very last thing on Cockburn's mind.

Burke introduced the lieutenant-colonel, and asked Mrs. Hill to put him up in her second-best room. Maria laughed at the odd request, chaffing the secretary playfully over who he thought should have the best bed. The lieutenant-colonel felt his lips curve unbidden into a smile as his black mood disappeared. The perceptive Burke perceived the change in his companion and its cause. He quickly excused himself, citing the urgent need for a wash at home, and a hot mash for his tired mount. It was then Cockburn realized he was staring at Mrs. Hill, who flushed an uncharacteristic red and immediately murmured something about business needing her attention in the buttery. A stable boy had already taken Cockburn's mount away and, finding himself alone, the colonel sat down heavily on the porch bench. He took off his coat and placed it beside him, loosened his cravat and then bent down to try to pry off his boots.

A small, girl in a well-worn apron and pinafore appeared to help. It took considerable effort to wrench the sodden boots from his feet but the girl was strong and evidently used to the task. He removed his sodden socks from his numbed feet, seeing with dismay that the skin around his toes had wrinkled like raisins from constant soaking. Tucking the boots under her arm the girl skipped toward the back of the house, calling over her shoulder that she would be back soon. A much older girl, attired in a dress made from the same faded homespun, came forward to take his saddlebags to his room. Taking one look at the visitor, she said she would carry some hot water to his room, which would be ready presently. It was plain his present déshabille did not suit her idea of how a staff officer ought to look. He made a low growl in his throat, sending her scurrying off with the heavy bags. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt cuffs, then jerked his head up sharply as he felt a pair of unaccustomed hands assisting him. Mrs. Hill had returned, quiet as a lamb, from her errand. Her lips showed a hint of a smile as Cockburn instinctively pushed her hands away. Cockburn's gruff mannerisms had usually served to keep people at a distance, saving him from all but the most egregious claimants. But not this time.

She picked up his sweat-soaked, burr-encrusted jacket. Cockburn noticed her strong hands, nicked and scarred in several places, at odds with her still-young, vibrant face. Impulsively, he touched her hand, and before he had time to reconsider his rash action, asked her what on earth had happened. Maria Hill did not seem the least offended by this. In fact, it seemed to Cockburn that the hostess was highly amused.

Mrs. Hill withdrew her hand decorously, but explained that she herself had served as a surgeon's assistant in the last war, hoping to be posted somewhere near where her husband, a sergeant, was fighting. It had been a mistake. She had earned herself little thanks and a raft of horrifying visions to haunt her dreams. A bitter shadow crossed her face and she stepped away from him. As she walked toward the summer kitchen to clean his jacket, Cockburn gazed after her in a fog of admiration. "I'll need to see your husband," he called after Mrs. Hill's swaying skirts as she departed, in an unintentionally throaty voice he hoped did not admit either his despair--or his desire. Husband! The heart-wrenching word rang bitterly off his tongue. He scarcely knew what the word meant.

Cockburn sat alone on the hand-hewn bench, feeling the hot sun soak into his aching joints. It was impossible to imagine his own wife joining the army and agreeing to lop off gangrenous limbs with a hand saw in order to be nearer to him. Not that Alicia hadn't liked being near the action. In fact, she went out of her way to find excitement, particularly when generated by British officers other than himself. Fortunately for Cockburn, duty had called, as it had always called him, and he had been able to subsume his wife's disloyalty in his work. That was what came of marrying for money, and status, as he and Alicia had. He had needed a good, loyal, hardworking woman who would support his endeavours and even miss him when he was gone, not one who gallivanted around the countryside, riding horses, dancing with his fellow officers and generally having the time of her life during his prolonged absences. He needed a woman like Maria Hill.

His heartsickness did not last long. In the space of a moment, Mrs. Hill returned just as his thoughts had bidden, carrying a mug of cool, fresh-pressed cider. She had a remarkably musical-sounding voice for the wife of an innkeeper, thought Cockburn, as he lifted his mug. He hoped the hostess might number evening entertainments—strictly wholesome of course—in her repertoire. He drained the mug and, at her urging, went upstairs to his room to await the promised hot water. He hoped against hope that a bathtub might be provided, but dared not ask for such an intimate accommodation from Mrs. Hill. A soak would do him a world of good, helping to wash away some of the unease he felt over what was happening back at Vaughan's cabin.

Less than five minutes later, he opened the door to the bemused face of the older girl he had met downstairs. The bathtub proved nonexistent, and Cockburn had to content himself with a quick wash in a basin of hot rainwater. He held the steaming flannel to his face, inhaling its slightly earthy smell and, feeling a twinge of light-headedness, realized he hadn't eaten since early morning. Cockburn knew he had been working too hard. They all had. Even so, he knew he would be able to smoothly bury his fatigue, along with his conflicting emotions, in the mounds of paperwork that awaited him, and which would all too soon wrap up this hopeless endeavour.

Chapter Ten: Desire and Despair

During the half hour it had taken for the lieutenant-colonel to refresh himself, news of his arrival, and the duke's unexplained delay had spread like wildfire. Mrs. Hill had worked a miracle, restoring his boots and coat to near-pristine condition. The cockleburs and mud had been removed, the stains and sweat steamed off, and the pulled threads and catches mended. Cockburn slipped it on, then sat down to pull on his boots, which had been polished until they gleamed. He felt like a new man. Almost.

There was still a good deal of the day left when the lieutenant-colonel set off down the wide, arrow-straight street, looking for Burke's office. Many of the village's 400 inhabitants thronged from their homes and workplaces to greet him, some giving a smart military salute—not from mere habit, but as a show of respect for the man himself. Cockburn smiled with genuine gratitude as he passed them, though he dared not stop to pass the time, half afraid of what he might hear. Already, he knew, the rumour mills were working full tilt, generating stories of the duke's horrible misadventure, though he doubted anything could be more hair-raising than the truth of his present situation.

Crossing the bridge over the shallow river, Cockburn's mood lightened as he spied the neat sign indicating Burke's abode. He had nothing but admiration for the rapid progress made so far in the sturdy little military settlement on the banks of the meandering Jock Putting his head in the office door, he called for the major, but his clerk, Mr. Whitmarsh, said his master had gone in search of the surgeon. Appraising the sparse but adequate surroundings, Cockburn decided the quarters would be entirely appropriate for his needs. He'd break the news of Burke's temporary eviction to him later. Or, rather, Whitmarsh would.

They didn't have long to wait. Burke, who had returned for a change of clothes, was coming down the street accompanied by Dr. Christopher Collis. The physician, a hardened battle surgeon, had no qualms whatsoever about tending deep cuts made by errant saw blades, arms and legs crushed by improperly felled trees or gangrenous gunshot wounds. It was of little matter to him how the injury was caused, since the procedure was inevitably the same: amputation, the sooner the better.

The ready availability of limbs to lop, combined with the dearth of up-to-date medical journals had the happy result of keeping Dr. Collis's skills finely honed. His universal method, had, however, meant his clinical skills were somewhat lacking. It made no matter. The cases he was called to attend usually resolved themselves. A feverish patient inevitably died or recovered. A malarial patient either died soon after the onset of the disease or suffered repeated, debilitating bouts of illness for the rest of his or her shortened life. There was nothing at all he could do for sufferers of cholera or typhus save stay away in order that he himself did not spread the infection to others. In fact, as the physician had been noting circumspectly to Major Burke just a few minutes before, death was the inevitable result of all of mankind's endeavours.

Before either of them could say more than a word of greeting, Cockburn bundled the pair into Burke's former office, peremptorily dismissing the baffled Whitmarsh who, before he departed, was required to shut up all the windows and doors despite the day's already-excessive humidity. Taking Burke's customary place behind the massive work desk, the now poker-faced Cockburn who motioned for Collis and Burke to sit down. What he required of them would take careful co-operation.

A short time later, Burke and Collis, both ashen-faced, emerged from what was now Cockburn's uncontested office. They pretended not to notice a horseman \-- who looked remarkably like Sgt. Andrew Hill-- riding out of town as fast as the squelching mud permitted, carrying a basket of provisions that contained, among other things, several bottles of the inn's best claret and a note beseeching the recipient not to come. Despite the disappointment the cancellation of the visit would bring to the community, Cockburn thought it would be an even crueller injustice to let them see a leader so fallen. The duke's official visit had been a much-anticipated event for the soldiers and their families He also knew Richmond, if he still had any of his wits about him, would never consent to the abandonment of this hard-fought journey, regardless of the consequences. Still, he had to allow for the possibility that the duke might well appear in town at noon tomorrow, insistent that his tour of inspection go ahead—even if not exactly as originally planned.

Accordingly, Cockburn spent the rest of the afternoon carefully rehearsing several carefully-orchestrated scenarios which would allow the veterans--who had fought, followed, scrabbled and died for the British army for the past 20 years--to cheer the arrival of one of their long-time heroes and commanders. The trick would be to ensure no one perceived the truth.

Cockburn had done his utmost for the veterans of disbanded regiments who suddenly found themselves no longer part of the army that had been their roving home for much of their lives. There was little use for the huge defense force that had been built up in British North America, not since the conflict with the Americans had turned stalemate. There was even less inclination on the part of the British government to pay for men it could not call to active duty. A one-man champion of military settlements, Cockburn had been at his persuasive best when outlining the ambitious plans for these displaced but deserving men, women and children. The duke had listened with rapt attention.

Though his own tastes regarding the perquisites of service had long tended toward private debauchment—like so many of his peers--Richmond was, at heart, a man of the people. Cockburn's comprehensive plan would ennoble and elevate his superior's countless small and often overlooked humanitarian gestures, turning them into something concrete and meaningful. There was little for Richmond to do but give his endorsement. But then the unexpected happened. To satisfy the curiosity that Cockburn's glowing representations had kindled, the duke elected to see for himself how the various projects were unfolding.

The duke's eponymous village had gotten off to a rocky start. Bureaucratic inefficiencies kept the men and women of the 99th from setting out for their granted lands until mid-July of 1818. Frustrated and rapidly running out of what little money they had, many began the long walk westward from Montreal despite having been promised free transport. Others were able to sail as far as Richmond Landing, where they began the arduous process of blazing a twenty-two mile road in a matter of months--through virgin bush--to reach their promised land. The road, though hastily constructed, was hailed as a marvel—the only well-built transportation link to the Grand River in a wild, rough region where a simple Indian path was considered a godsend. Only when winter was beginning to set in earnest would the new settlers finally be able to begin building shelters. Fortunately, they had been generously outfitted with axes, saws, hammers, window glass, nails and two years' worth of provisions courtesy of the British Army—and Cockburn.

By dint of their own hard work, some of the pioneers were beginning to enjoy a measure of self-made prosperity after one short year. Many felt—rightfully--that they had found the answer to their dreams. Others, he knew, would give up after their government rations ran out and move on, drifting to Elizabethtown, Kingstown, York or some other thriving centre. Few would ever see the British Isles again. But life for those ambitious soldiers who stuck out the harsh life could reap its bounty : one hundred free acres, with the same amount bestowed on each of their sons upon their coming of age. Cockburn was proud of his own positive influence on the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. Though he declined to speak of it publicly, he had been able to obtain a handsome bargain indeed for his settlers.. It was a rare recognition of the hard, devoted and dangerous work performed by the enlisted men and their families. Of course, the contributions of the officer class was not overlooked. Junior officers would receive 200 acres, a colonel was granted a veritable fiefdom of 1,000 acres.

There was just one catch. At any time, the inhabitants of the new settlement could be required to take up arms once again should any enemies of the State –be they French, American or Irish—evince a desire to invade British North America. "Loyal and warlike," the duke had called the settlers, with good reason. Despite their years of experience in various wars around the globe the inhabitants of the Perth, Beckwith and Richmond military settlements would meet with great difficulty in making good their defense of the area. For one thing, they had been required to surrender their rifles and muskets. For another, much of the choice Rideau River frontage they were expected to hold had already been granted to loyal Americans in the wake of the 1776 rebellion.

It was galling to Cockburn that so few of these supposed Loyalists had bothered to take up their land, while he, the instigator of the Richmond settlement, was put in the awkward, even ludicrous position of having to plunk his own colony far inland from the soon-to-be-important waterway, up the shallow and often un-navigable Jock. The town's landing was an inconvenient mile or more away at Chapman's Farm, where the Richmond Road to the Grand River began. Though its location meant Richmond would be less vulnerable to attack, at least by water, it also meant the settlement could not mobilize immediately. To neutralize this liability, Cockburn had come up with an alternative. Each Richmond inhabitant, from tall to small, was prepared not only to defend their homes but to gather information and report on suspicious developments. All ears and eyes were finely attuned to the unusual. Great interest was taken in strangers, to loosened tongues in the ale-house, and to curious late-night goings-on, making them not only soldiers but spies, pastimes which meshed perfectly with Cockburn's own unsung talents. Providing protection—by one means or another—was just another of the lieutenant-colonel's specialties.

Late afternoon was turning to evening, and the heat of the August day was finally dissipating. . Everywhere he went he had been hounded by eager but well-meaning settlers expecting him to solve their every problem, and Burke's office had proved a virtual lightning rod of buzzing activity. Eventually, Cockburn had retired to his room for a few more hours of quiet work on official--and highly unofficial--paperwork. A slight breeze off the Jock lifted the curtains at the window, bringing momentary relief--and with it, the sounds of a quarrel. Cockburn put down his quill, leaning forward to get a better view of the scene below. He watched, bemused, as the Hills hastily re-painted the inn's signboard in anticipation of the duke's arrival. Both parties, apparently, had strong opinions about the wording and symbols to be applied, using equally colourful linguistic and artistic strokes in the execution of their task. Cockburn poured himself another glass of sweet water from the sweating stoneware jug on the wash stand and drank it gratefully.

He tried to work some life back into his stiffening right hand, clenching and unclenching it for several minutes. He missed Bowles's presence, if only to share in the never-ending administrative work load that he dared not trust to anyone else. To Whitmarsh, Burke's clerk, he gave only the most mundane correspondences and book-keeping tasks, fearful the true gravity of their situation might be carelessly revealed.

Out of habit, Cockburn lifted his spectacles to rub his temples. The headache which had devilled him off and since Kingston had ebbed to a quiet throb and he realized that through he had been as busy as ever, he felt somehow calmer. Intrigued by the notion that this unusual sensation might be due to Mrs. Hill's soothing presence, he closed and fastened his official letterbook. He would go downstairs and join the enthusiastic rehearsal in honour of the duke's imminent arrival the next day, and perhaps engage the siren herself in conversation. Half-rising from his chair, he thought the better of his impulse, deciding instead to confine his confidences to the little leather notebook he kept tucked inside his waistcoat.

Details of the impending celebration, aided by several jugs of fermented cider and countless pots of ale, were raucously fine-tuned deep into the night. Somewhere around ten, a swarm of voices spilled out of the front door and into the inn-yard, like a hundred buzzing and very angry bees. Cockburn didn't bother to investigate, surmising rightly that it was only the first of a series of alcohol-fuelled fist-fights which would take place that night, in defense of the Duke's honour, His Majesty's health, the regimental colours or some other outburst of misplaced enthusiasm. Though the combatants were quickly subdued and sent packing, it had apparently been decided the celebrations would continue outside.

The rapidly cooling air acted as a tonic to the overheated revellers, lulling them into what Cockburn knew would be only a brief compliancy. Once their blood was up, he knew, military men—even discharged ones—were unlikely to remain placid for long; Within the hour, a whole new series of challenges would be issued in the name of Richmond. Cockburn got up to shut the window, deciding to he would have to suffer the stifling heat. A drunken caterwauling had commenced which he realized was meant to accompany a singer trying valiantly to make herself heard in the yard below. Gradually, the throng quieted, allowing the high clear voice to soar up to Cockburn's casement. "I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, I've felt all its favours and found its decay." Cockburn didn't dare lean out the window for fear of being seen by the riotous assembly--and called down to join it. He looked down at his hands, which were now gripping the sides of the table, and watched as the soft hairs on his knuckled stood upright. The tune he knew well, as did all those gathered below. The singer, beyond doubt, was Mrs. Hill but how on earth had she known? The song commemorated lost relatives, like the 10,000 who had paid so dearly—a Cockburn among them—fighting against the English, yet the true meaning of the words, he felt certain, were intended for his ears alone. "She rouses me with song," Cockburn thought wryly, collecting himself with an unbecoming snort of pleasure. He wiggled his fingers as the prickling sensation spread upwards over his arms and along the back of his neck. Mrs. Hill's lament for lost souls had wrenched his heart so forcefully he felt that it had been put into a vice.

The early morning hours were well advanced when Mrs. Hill finally came wearily up the stairs to bed, and she was surprised to notice Cockburn's lamp still burning. She raised her scarred knuckles to knock on his door, then hesitated. Maria had always been able to read men's fortune's in their faces and had, in fact, whiled away more than one evening in such pursuits, to the delight of her paying customers. But Cockburn was different. It wasn't something he wanted so much as something he lacked. Sleep rarely came to troubled minds, which sought to shore up their steely defenses with work, and more work. She'd seen it before: unhappiness manifested behind a façade of quintessential busyness--misnamed ambition—that dared not open a crack for fear of admitting even a finger of disappointment or reflection. Even so, it was hardly proper for a married lady to call upon a gentleman, especially so late at night. Lowering her hand, Maria turned and walked down the hall to her room, silent and slender as a doe. Far be it for her to open that door, knowing too well what lurked behind it. Inside, Cockburn sat frozen at his desk, pencil poised over his little book, fighting a strange urge to leap from his chair.

Chapter Eleven: The Typical Terrors

Vaughan's Cabin, near Richmond, Upper Canada

August 26th—The next morning his Grace was up the first of the party. He said he had slept well and wished to set off immediately. I observed that he had not washed or shaved himself. But it being a small Cottage and the distance to Richmond only 3 or 4 miles I was not surprised and believing that he wished to postpone it until his arrival at that place. He drank a little tea but complained of a difficulty in swallowing.—Maj. Bowles

Major Bowles awoke groggily in the half-light, rose from his blanket and grimaced. He had slept fitfully at best, plagued by the lice, vermin and haphazard filth that abounded in Vaughan's cabin. His back would not straighten; he felt as if he had been kicked by a horse. He glanced over at Vaughan suspiciously. Despite the strange phosphorescent lights which had danced all night in the sky, the farmer had lain beside him undisturbed—obviously unimpressed by the portents at whose meaning Bowles shuddered to guess. Stumbling outside, the major massaged his kidneys with one hand, while fumbling at his trowser buttons with the other. It had been anything but a festive evening. Cockburn had gulped down his cup of wine as though performing a highly undesirable duty. Richmond, for his part, had downed only half of his usual gargantuan nightcap and retired without fanfare to the loft Vaughan and his family had vacated. Bowles himself had been too worried by the duke's deteriorating health to consume more than a few cups of watered wine, and his body's painful reprimand came as a surprise.

He crossed the long, wet grass to the other side of the clearing, pushing through drooping, dew-laden spider webs, heedless of the fat yellow spiders that raced out in challenge. He let go an aromatic golden stream of piss, aiming, rather poetically he thought, at the pockets of mist rising out of the low, marshy land. The sharp crack of a broken twig under his foot sent a pair of red-winged blackbirds cackling away from their nest in the cattails. A startled deer froze in her tracks at the sudden sound, then raised her white tail like a flag and bounded away into the dawning day. Bowles was left alone to silently curse his luck. Cockburn, he knew, would never have blundered out of doors without his Hompesch at hand and would have bagged the animal with a single, sure shot. He bent down to pick up the smooth piece of wood from under his boot, his heart sinking as he discovered it was a crushed piece of the small carving he had aimlessly begun the night before. He must have dropped it as he walked around the perimeter of Vaughan's unhappy kingdom before turning in. Bowles had half intended to present the figure to little Sophia, the youngest of the Lennox sisters, who, at eight years old, was his chief—and perhaps only--ally in a rather one-sided suit for the hand of Mary, the eldest sister. He squatted down on his heels, turning the small bit of wood over in his hand. It was ruined now, cracked nearly in half by the weight of his foot. He sank back into the damp grass, taking his clasp knife in its holder. He would have to start again—or give up his plan altogether. Given the current circumstances, it was probably the prudent thing to do.

Though the village of Richmond was only four miles away, the duke's extreme fatigue meant they had again stopped short of their goal. Was it only a few days ago that Richmond had shown up his younger officers time and again, spending whole days in the saddle with only short breaks for lunch and dinner? It was hard for Bowles to believe that his chief now found it nearly impossible to ride more than a few hours at a time – and required a long nap of an hour or more at midday. Yesterday the duke had succumbed completely to another seemingly-random bout of exhaustion, and was unable to travel even the handful of miles that remained. Baptiste had said nothing, as though voicing his misgivings would betray his master and condemn him to a worse fate that the purgatory in which he now lived. Bowles, too, was loath to believe the evidence of his own eyes, that the duke behaviour was getting stranger, and that he was growing weaker.

During his army career, Bowles had developed a unique ability not only to disregard unpleasantness, but even to blissfully ignore almost certain disaster. This talent had more than once stood him in good stead, nowhere moreso than at the Battle of Waterloo. Stationed in Brussels, and finding himself more often at the Richmond household than not, Bowles had revelled in all the city had to offer. A deep feather tick, lace-trimmed sheets and a cup of morning chocolate presented on a silver salver He had attended balls every week and had even danced the forbidden Waltz with more than one of Richmond's daughters. When the call to arms finally came, Bowles' exhilaration was inexpressible. As a dispatch rider was delighted by the very real possibility of being shot by either side as he galloped his way at top speed between the various general's camps. Despite the carnage all around him, Bowles had escaped with nary a scratch. After it was all over, he had suffered mightily under the concerned ministrations of the duke's daughters. It had been glorious.

Boney's defeat had been swift, bloody and ignominious, and the British and their allies pressed their advantage all the way to Paris. Bowles had ridden right behind Richmond and Wellington, enjoying every champagne-filled month of the ensuing Occupation. Richmond had treated him like a son, and, aided by the decimation of the ranks, received his majority long before he might otherwise have expected —or been able to afford. Wisely, Bowles laid his undying loyalty squarely at the duke's feet, and when asked to cross the Atlantic as his benefactor's secretary, he did not waver.

Despite his outwardly unflappable nature (which Cockburn dismissed as a serious lack of intelligence or initiative—if not both), Bowles was secretly fascinated by almost everything. Certainly nothing in his European experience had prepared him for Canada. Never had he seen such wild, untamed country—or admired a place more. The St. Lawrence River made the Thames look like a stream and each of the Great lakes was a virtual ocean unto itself . Within weeks of his arrival he was travelling distances that surpassed the length and breadth of Britain simply to get from one muddy stockade to another. But there was more, much more.

He had walked through endless forests filled with impossibly towering trees, scaled precipitous cliffs and traveled across heartbreakingly beautiful lakes. As they passed through Lower, then Upper Canada, he observed the Chippewa, Iroquois and Algonquin who glided out of the forests and waterways, sleek and strong yet gracious in the face of the ever-encroaching white menace. He marvelled at the Voyageurs, human machines who paddled hour upon hour, day upon day, all the while singing the joys of life and eating virtually nothing but lard and beans for two thousand miles. He was horrified by the pathetic remains of the distant and scurvy-wracked Drummond Island detachment, reduced to living in bark huts and eating maggot-infested biscuits. Canada, undeniably, was a brutal place for the uninitiated. Yet Bowles was impressed with this stunning, unforgettable land with a rhythm and purpose all its own. He was sure Mary, who had left them at Kingston to return to Lower Canada, would love the remoter parts of this wild, undiscovered country. No doubt she would insist on travelling the upper lakes as long as her father would spare her from his table. That is, if the duke survived.

Richmond had been uncharacteristically charitable regarding Bowles' relationship with his favourite daughter, allowing him to pay discreet court to her despite having sent other, more highly bred—and richer—men packing. Mary's quiet vulnerability made it seem as though she had little in common with the outgoing personalities of her headstrong sisters—like Sarah. If she were even a little more like Sarah, Bowles signed, it might be possible to sweep her completely off her feet à la Maitland--and take his chances with the duke later. On second thought, he had no stomach for such an enterprise. He did not have the lieutenant-governor's sang froid nor, he suspected, would Richmond countenance the quasi-abduction of another daughter.

Though Mary wasn't overly encouraging, little Sophia, the youngest Lennox sister, at least seemed to like him, permitting him to play games and take her and Mary on excursions in and around Quebec. They had enjoyed going out in the cariole, walking with spiked shoes on the frozen river, and driving out in the sledge to view the thundering, half-frozen mass of Montmorency Falls. Unfortunately, he was not the only gentleman who enjoyed these and other sights with Mary, in particular, Charles Augustus Fitzroy. He'd noticed Mary's eyes soften when she saw him and God only knew how far their relationship had advanced over the summer. If all went, well they would be back in Quebec City by early September, in time for the Governor's Levee when Bowles would see for himself where Mary's affections lay. He hoped his devotion would not always be measured by the quaintness of the toys he carved for his beloved's baby sister. Clenching his teeth, he threw the small round figure far out into the rising summer dawn. The heat had begun to rise with the sun and he took out his handkerchief to wipe his neck. The cloth was already spotted with the insects' excrement and he knew from bitter experience the stains could never be washed away.

The major was startled out of his reverie by another sharp, snapping noise from the thick bush that surrounded the clearing. He scrambled to his feet, brushing away several crickets which had burrowed into his linen. Bowles walked around the perimeter of the small cottage and its desultory garden. Not much grew in the thin, rock-filled soil save junipers, whose labyrinthine thickets sprawled right up to the edges of the blueberry-filled bogs. Beyond these were dark forests of cedar, oak, beech and maple. He could see no animal or marauder and, thinking the sound must have come from the deer he had surprised earlier, he went inside the dim cabin. The small space stank of the peculiar, sour fug of unwashed men. He put a foot on the ladder leading to the loft and peered over the edge; his charge was nowhere to be seen. Descending, he peered amongst the untidy bundles of supplies and sleepers, noticing Baptiste and his blanket were also missing.

Plunging out of the gloomy shack, Bowles was momentarily blinded and paused to let his eyes adjust to the morning's increasing brightness. Forcing his eyes to focus on the edge of the clearing, he gradually made out two silhouettes. The duke was standing stock still, as if transfixed by some shocking event. Baptiste gently stroked his arm, murmuring something soothing in colloquial French that Bowles couldn't quite hear. At the major's approach, Richmond's eyes widened in terror, his body beginning to coil for flight. Bowles was struck by the similarity of the duke's response to that of the deer that had earlier caught his human scent in the shifting breeze. Baptiste, too, snapped to attention, switching abruptly to English. "What is it Sir, your shoulder again?" Bowles inquired. "Shall I bathe it in Spirits of Turpentine? That helped last night, did it not? And some more water and wine?" Richmond straightened to his full height, making a supreme effort to shake off the trepidation that had abruptly gripped him. He did not reply, but stared fixedly over Bowles shoulder.

Baptiste caught the major's eye and nodded knowingly. Together they led the now-complacent duke back to cabin. Baptiste helped him up the ladder into the loft, where he lay down. Richmond had been up for hours, Baptiste told him learned, and had already dispatched one of Vaughan's urchins at the crack of dawn to carry an urgent note for Cockburn. The lieutenant-colonel had departed the day before, taking Burke along with him, ostensibly to make advance preparations for His Grace's arrival in Richmond. Baptiste pretended to know nothing of what the note contained. Just then, the boy arrived back with a basket of provisions and a note from Cockburn; he had intercepted a messenger along the way, exchanging epistles and saving them both the trouble of the entire, torturous journey.

"He wants to leave right away." Baptiste would say no more.

"But why haven't you shaved him? Why hasn't he changed his linen? He can't enter the settlement looking like that."

"He's not himself, "Baptiste warned in a low, rumbling voice that sounded to Bowles like a warning growl. "He won't let me shave him. It has something to do with the water here. He says it doesn't agree with him."

"He just has a cold, "Bowles retorted casually--but his mind was full of concern.

Half an hour later, he and Baptiste finished saddling the horses and packing the saddle bags. The duke had awoken from his peculiar nap and drank a little of the tea Baptiste brewed him. After a few sips, Richmond set his cup down with a look of revulsion, saying his throat hurt so much he could hardly swallow. He had eaten nothing. Surely, Bowles reasoned, the duke should turn back—or at least stay where he was until he felt better. But Richmond would have none of it. His desire to reach his eponymous village only strengthened as the morning hours wore on and eventually, Bowles gave a silent not to Baptiste to bring their mounts up. The Vaughan family stood squinting into the harsh brightness as the trio swung into their saddles for the arduous journey to Richmond.

They had picked their way less than a mile along the track when it became clear riding any farther was futile. Everyone, including the duke, would have to dismount and lead the horses through the quagmire before them. As Bowles splashed unthinkingly through a small pond, he heard an anguished cry behind him. The duke had dropped his horse's reins and leaped into the bushes, where he cowered in terror. His eyes held all the terrors of a doomed fox's, which had been cornered and was about to be ripped apart by a pack of hounds. He peered at Bowles and Baptiste, recognizing neither one for several moments. Finally, his gaze softened and he appeared to return to some semblance of his old self.

"My throat," Richmond croaked, in an unnaturally metallic voice. "Difficult to breathe." Swallowing with an audible gulp, Richmond walked stiffly to his mount, which he found grazing unperturbed in a cedar grove. Instead of mounting, he handed to reins to Bowles, then strode off in the opposite direction without a word. The day, which had begun strangely enough, was getting stranger.

The duke's path lay through the slippery muck of the low-lying forest. His frenetic pace soon put him out of sight of Bowles and Baptiste, who quickly rounded up the other two horses. They pulled the unwilling animals behind them, making every effort to keep up with the duke's superhuman pace but it was no good. Since rising from his sick bed at Vaughn's, the governor seemed to have taken on superhuman strength and speed. Neither Bowles nor Baptiste could claim to be an experienced tracker, and they were hard-pressed to find traces of Richmond's passing. Some muddy footprints, a few threads from his jacket, and the odd broken branch were the only clues they had to follow.

Their plight was compounded by the terrain, easily the most miserable they had yet encountered on their journey. The road , hardly even a track, disappeared countless times into a sucking mire which, Bowles felt sure, could easily swallow them up without a trace, or hold them-- stuck fast--until Doomsday. To make matters worse, Richmond had developed a maniacal aversion to water in any form. Clearly, the duke was suffering from no mere cold.

Chapter Twelve: At the Richmond Arms

Richmond, Upper Canada

On our arrival at Richmond he said he preferred seeing the stores, village and he did before he dressed or breakfasted. We then returned to the Inn, went to our room to dress. Before I was quite ready the Duke came to my room and asked the name of the surgeon. I immediately sent for the only medical person in the Settlement. Whilst waiting his arrival we breakfasted. I think his Grace drank some tea.—Maj. Bowles

At ten a.m., Cockburn was astonished to see Richmond striding alone and unheralded down McBean Street. The note he had sent had implored the duke not to come. He had taken care to include explicit details of the horrors of the Franktown Road. The man had returned posthaste with what he mistakenly thought was Richmond's reply, dated at 6 a.m.—"an unusually early hour for him to be up as a matter of choice-- wherein he stated that the pain in his Shoulder was better, but that he found a difficulty in Swallowing and that he should be in Richmond rather early.

Even so, Cockburn had not dreamed the duke would arrive so soon—nor make such an unmitigated breach of protocol. Richmond, usually so concerned about his habiliments, had not been shaved, washed or dressed properly. His jacket, unbuttoned, was full of damp and mud. His cravat askew was untied and his hair was full of straw.  Cockburn was shocked at the dramatic change--literally overnight-- in his chief's demeanour. He looked demented. Cockburn rushed to greet his commander, hoping to spirit him to the relative anonymity of the inn where (he now knew with confidence) he could rely on Mrs. Hill to assist the duke in regaining his decorum. He glanced hastily around for Bowles and Baptiste, who were nowhere in sight. Silently cursing their ineptitude, Cockburn turned back to the duke; he would have to deal with the absent aide and servant later. "I asked him if he would not return to the Tavern and change his clothes, that he appeared very wet and dirty. His answer was "no, he had rather see what was to be seen first," and accordingly proceeded to the office and store both of which he went through and having done which I asked him to walk and look at the River. This however he objected to, and on my rather pressing it he made some other objections and walked away."

In one fell swoop Richmond had laid waste to all of Cockburn's carefully-laid plans of the day before. In a loud, eerily metallic voice, he declared he would visit the whole settlement from end to end—before breakfast--taking deep offence to Cockburn's suggestion that he first attend to his toilette. Spit flew from Richmond's mouth as he spoke, which he absently wiped away with his sleeve.

Cockburn succeeded in dabbing the mud from the governor's face with his handkerchief then, with extreme reluctance, took Richmond's arm and guided him down the street. At that moment Bowles and Baptiste made their ill-timed appearance. Caked in mud, breathless and dragging the remaining footsore horses behind them, Cockburn thought they looked like a pair of condemned convicts. Bowles rushed up to them, and drew Cockburn aside attempting to explain their tardiness. "The duke walked very strong and made his way through the swamps to Richmond without difficulty," he wrote later, "but he observed to me on seeing a person jump or run into a wet place he had a sort of spasm in the throat for which he could not account. I did not observe anything particular in his appearance although I thought he looked unwell." The lieutenant-colonel held up his hand to stop the torrent of words flowing from the unruly-looking Bowles. Now was not the time for recriminations. A more urgent problem occupied his mind.

The morning's events had forced Cockburn to admit what he had long suspected. The duke had contracted hydrophobia, a disease so horrible that its sufferers were often killed outright, long before they died of its weirdly devastating effects. Now, it had progressed to the hydrophobic state, having affected the brain and progressed to the salivary glands. The duke was not only unstable, he was also highly contagious. His condition would soon worsen to the point where he was unable to travel. That he should die here in this godforsaken bush—and under Cockburn's care--was unthinkable.

The moment had come for Cockburn to assume control--though not outright command--of the expedition. It was a delicate situation that, if mishandled, could expose the lieutenant-colonel to court martial, even charges of treason—and he had more than enough experience of its humiliating effects upon men. Dispatching Bowles and Baptiste to the inn, Cockburn sent for Major Burke and Dr. Collis, with instructions to meet him posthaste at his office, the latter armed with a goodly supply of Dover's powder or some similarly powerful opiate. As the two officers strolled along, the duke stopped every few feet to inspect the most curious details of the government store, private houses, public buildings and even barns and livestock, an infantile but apparently genuine look of wonder upon his countenance. Cockburn took a deep breath as stabbing pains again shot through his head.

Word of the governor's arrival spread quicker than cholera, and the villagers eagerly laid aside their daily tasks to come and greet him. Instead of the vice-regal figure they had expected, the Richmondites were amazed and not a little frightened to see their namesake erratically prowling the streets, wide-eyed, a two-day growth of beard upon his face, and reeking like a bear. "Shame on you, Richmond!" he was shouting. "For shame! Charles Lennox endures your sufferings like a man!" The governor, it was plain to see, had gone barking mad.

Cockburn knew it was essential the governor be remanded to his room, at least until this bizarre episode was over. Doing so proved no easy feat, reminding him vividly of his boyhood attempts to tame a wild crow he had once captured. Hopping onto his arm without digging in its claws earned the bird a thick, juicy worm. Croaking out his own name was rewarded by a bit of cheese. More often than not, whenever the young Francis had let his guard down—even for a moment—the bird pecked him on the ear, jumped on his head, or even shat upon his shoulder. It had taken great patience to lure the bird inside his father's manor house, and the duke was proving no different, though the promise of wine and several attractive young officers' wives had to be substituted as incentives. Eventually the governor was inveigled into the Duke of Richmond Arms to wash, dress and breakfast after which Cockburn sincerely hoped he would take a very long nap.

Having extracted solemn promises from both Bowles and Baptiste to keep a close eye on the ailing and erratic duke, the lieutenant-colonel judged it safe for him to return to the office. He would have solicited a similar pledge from Mrs. Hill but she, alas, appeared to be occupied elsewhere. Where was she, he wondered, and what was she doing? He reviewed what he knew of domestic work but realized it mystified him. By the time he had reached Burke's office, he had forcibly banished her from his thoughts. Settling himself on an uncomfortable cane-bottomed chair, Cockburn began the long process of reviewing the secretary's land allotments. A short time later, Dr. Collis hurried by Cockburn's window. There was no need to join the physician on his call. Cockburn had realized immediately where he was bound. Collis, undoubtedly, would be reporting back to him shortly.

Chapter Thirteen: A Gargle of Port Wine

Richmond, Upper Canada

On the Surgeon's arrival he examined the Duke's throat; he recommended his using a gargle of Port wine Vinegar and Sugar, & taking a little medicine. On going away he told me he thought his Grace would be quite well the following day. The Duke used the gargle frequently but always with difficulty & he made me observe that even taking the cup in his hand gave him a spasm. –Maj. Bowles

Bowles and the duke were sitting calmly at breakfast when the physician entered the dining room. Collis, though fully briefed by Cockburn, played along with Bowles' serendipitous opinion that the duke was suffering from cold or rheumatism or both. The doctor examined Richmond's raw and painful throat thoroughly, though it was his eyes that alarmed him. In them he saw the wildness of a caged animal, a look he had seen only once before. Collis shuddered at the memory of the slavering, inhuman creature that had thrashed and twitched in helpless, unending spasms before him. It had taken days for the poor girl to expire, and laudanum had only seemed to fuel the nightmarish demons inside her. Then, as now, there had been nothing he could do. Dr. Collis shook the awful scene from his head and gave Bowles his recommendation for a port wine, vinegar and sugar gargle.

"Give him a little of this," he added, proffering a vial of brownish liquid. Packing up his medical bag, Collis made to leave, then stopped when he saw the duke eyeing him suspiciously.

"You will be quite well tomorrow, Your Grace."

Richmond nodded meaningfully at the physician. Neither man believed it would be so.

Bowles rose from the table, calling for Mrs. Hill. Upon his instructions, she prepared the gargle, which the duke tried several times. As he reached for the cup, his hand shook, and a look of utter horror crossed his face. "He said it was extraordinary," Bowles told Cockburn later, "but that he could not help it. He treated it rather as a joke and in other respects appeared perfectly well. We then walked out for a few minutes but the sun being very powerful returned almost immediately to the Inn." At three or four in the afternoon Richmond paid a visit to Cockburn "talking generally about the business of the Settlement and even wrote on the Back of a Petition his decision concerning it."

"About an hour after this," Cockburn wrote, "I received a note from Major Bowles requesting me to send him some writing paper for the Duke." Absently, the deputy quartermaster-general dispatched Whitmarsh with a dozen sheets, never suspecting that the duke was writing his last letter to his daughter.

"Now my dear Governor," Richmond said, handing the letter to Bowles, "do not think me a fool but here is a letter which if anything happens to me you must deliver to Mary." Bowles shook his head, alarmed. "I was much alarmed at his manner which though mild was particularly serious and endeavoured to laugh him out of what appeared to me a nervous fit. He then again alluded to his throat and said that as a sudden spasm might carry him off, he though it right to be prepared. He then talked on the subject of the letter and on some other subjects on which he was very solicitous and said that having so done and having written he felt better." As if to prove his own dire prediction, Richmond suddenly slumped forward in what seemed to be another nervous fit. His head and hands shook, saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He put his hands to his throat, as though he was choking. "I again endeavoured to rally him, and he took this in good part, but on my making a remark that he would certainly deliver his letter himself he said very earnestly, 'No, my dear Governor, you will deliver that letter.'"  Even more seriously, Richmond was dehydrating quickly in the soaring humidity which, after days of rain followed by continued high temperatures, had penetrated deep inside even the inn's coolest rooms. Though the duke knew he had to drink, his continual attempts to sip water only resulted in increased spasms and further constriction of his throat. "I thought one of the glands of his Throat appeared a little swelled....I felt his pulse which was about 72 and quite regular." Bowles felt as helpless as the duke surely did. What on earth should they do?

Just as Cockburn had anticipated, the duke's miraculous return to lucidity was short-lived. After failing to convince Richmond to cancel the evening's celebrations, he reluctantly invited a small, very select group of officers-plus Collis, of course—to attend. They had been hand-picked as much for their rectitude as for their aversion to obloquy. It would not do to have the duke's strange behaviour bruited about. All were sworn to secrecy.

After his staff and the village's half-pay officers and their ladies took their places at the table, Richmond stood and lifted his glass. God save the king!" "To the king," the officers rejoined, just as a spasm shook the duke. The company stopped in mid-swallow, gazing on in fascinated horror as Richmond attempted to force himself to drink. Holding the glass sideways to his lips, he tried unsuccessfully to pour the liquid into his mouth. Wine spilled like blood down his chin, seeping into the starched white cloth of his dress shirt and splattering the linen table cloth. Seeing the mess he had made, Richmond put down his glass. 'It is fortunate that I am not a dog,' he joked, "or I should certainly be shot for a mad one." Major Burke guffawed loudly, leading the rest out of their stunned silence, then signalled to Mrs. Hill, who was already coming forward to wipe away the telling evidence of the duke's frailty. "Neither myself nor my family," he assured the gathering, "have ever been in the slightest degree nervous."

Cockburn exchanged surreptitious glances with Collis. The doctor patted his pocket in silent reassurance. He had come prepared. Richmond, seeing the gesture, perceived what was implied. As a courtier and a Knight of the Garter, the duke was intimately familiar with the details of King George's peculiar blue madness. It had been years before His Majesty had recovered his senses, though he had never returned to his old self. Richmond jumped to his feet once again, immediately raising his glass. "To the King's continued good health!"

The dinner proceeded, it seemed, at a snail's pace and everyone was relieved when the duke announced he would retire early. Bowles departed for his own billet at a house Burke had found for him down the street. Cockburn lingered behind, smoking a cigar with the duke, as was his wont, discussing the settlement and its decrepit roads, as well as their plans for the ensuing days. The duke was still determined to follow their original itinerary. They would travel the score-and-twain of miles--on a decent road this time--to Richmond Landing. From there they would sail down the Grand River to Montreal, where a growing list of appointments—and Mary--awaited. Whether they would arrive in time for the duke to deliver his urgent letter only God himself could tell. "About ½ past 11, I wished him good night and His Grace immediately retired to his room."

Cockburn was dog-tired, and he followed without cavil. But his longed-for sleep did not come. Only a thin partition divided Cockburn's chamber from the duke's and he lay awake for hours listening to Richmond's restless, gasping dreams. As the darkness finally began to wane, the lieutenant-colonel mumbled a halting invocation to St. Hubert. If he was right, only the saint's miraculous intervention could save the duke from the horrible fate about to befall him. And Cockburn was accustomed to being right.

Chapter Fourteen: An Idiot in a Skiff

The Duke of Richmond Arms

Richmond, Upper Canada

August 27th—At daylight the Duke sent for me. I found him in bed, he said he had passed a very disturbed night, had awoke several times with a feeling like the nightmare and an idea that something dreadful had happened and that he would not attempt to go to sleep again in that bed for the world. That he knew it was absurd but he could not help it. I was much alarmed at his manner although he was perfectly collected and even more than usually firm and mild. –Maj. Bowles

The sounds of Richmond's blood-curdling screams startled him awake. Cockburn, who had slept fitfully, was out of bed in an instant, grabbing his pistol and running for the door, fully expecting to have to disarm some marauder assaulting the duke. Bursting through the door, he saw Baptiste, bending over the shaken duke, soothing him with soft words in French. "C'etait un cauchemar, c'est tout. " Without turning his head, the servant motioned for Cockburn to go back to bed, and, seeing there was no other useful service he could perform, the exhausted officer uncharacteristically obliged.

As Cockburn settled back down to bed, he knew sleep would not come again that night. His dreams had been replaced by an ever-growing list of private recriminations, and chief among them was his growing belief that they should have either stayed on at Kingston or returned directly for Montreal. He had felt in his bones that something was terribly wrong even before they departed For Henry, but by the time he had discovered the source of his unease, the calamity had been well upon them.

He looked up at the unpainted roof beams, their shadows throwing weird shapes on the silvery, moonlit floor and shuddered involuntarily. Though the night was hot and humid, he reached to the foot of the bed for the folded quilt and drew it up over himself. He heartily regretted this present misfortune that would almost certainly be grounds for his court martial should the governor die before they reached Montreal. He forced himself to lie abed, and not return to the mountain of paperwork that awaited him. Cockburn had borne the entire burden of this particular command, having engineered and overseen every aspect of the expedition. It also meant he bore sole responsibility for all that had happened, and his every action would come under close scrutiny. If asked, he would have to admit that he had known of the fox bite Richmond had suffered, that he had suspected the animal's unusual behaviour, and then witnessed the delayed but unmistakable effects of hydrophobia take effect upon the duke. A pox on Collis and his damned port-wine gargles!

At five in the morning Cockburn rose for good, his keen ears pricked by the sounds of a whispered conversation wafting over the thin partition that divided his room from the duke's. Fearing the worst, he donned his breeches and peeked quietly in through the neighbouring doorway. Richmond was writing busily at a makeshift table, with Bowles sitting attentively at his side. Cockburn frowned. The major must have slipped noiselessly into the room sometime during the wee hours of the morning—a trick at which Cockburn was adept, though he did not admire the same quality in others. Why hadn't the major called him? He was fairly sure he had not dozed off...or had he? He frowned again, unable to disguise his irritation at being usurped.

In the end, would not really matter. Cockburn would chart the same unwavering, practical course as always, unswayed by promises of promotion, money, goods or status His incorruptibility had so far helped him elude the far-reaching machinations of the Chateau Clique. During the past year, its members had thoroughly ingratiated themselves with Richmond, consolidating the formidable power Prevost had sought to break. He alone had dared cross them, and he had paid a high price. After Prevost's death, Cockburn became even more circumspect, rarely letting down his guard, especially not with his wife. Even his friends him 'Quaker' or 'Puritan' behind his back, but he took no offence.

Bowles, seeing Cockburn at the doorway, hurried over, seeming surprisingly anxious to impart his latest confidences. This time, the news was grave: the duke's infirmity had advanced to the hydrophobic stage. "So great had become his dislike to water," Bowles confided, "that he could not even put his towel into the basin, but had been obliged that morning to direct Baptiste to wet it for him and lay it by him on the dressing table and that even than he was obliged to rub his face very hard with his hand before he could prevail on himself to raise the towel towards it."

The news was the latest addition to a growing list of irregularities in the duke's behaviour and Cockburn was convinced that Richmond was in peril. For the first time in his career, he did not know what to do nor whom to trust—least of all himself. Conspiracy, it seemed, was everywhere. Any blunders he made now could expose him to charges of serious misconduct, even dereliction of duty--lapses not soon forgotten in the British army. In the past few days, nothing had gone as planned. Now the delays had made them late for their rendezvous with the steamer waiting at Richmond Landing. Someone would have to ride the twenty-two miles to the banks of the Grand River to tell the captain to bide until they arrived—but who?

At that very moment, the pains in Cockburn's head exploded, his temples pounded and his heart beat madly. A large black spot appeared before him, as the walls began to revolve slowly around him. He felt sure he would fall into a faint. Baptiste noticed his distress, quietly wringing out a cool cloth in the basin, then passing it surreptitiously to Cockburn behind the duke's back so as not to alarm him with either the sight or sound of water. The compress provided immediate—though not total—relief.

He sat down, a trifle too heavily on an empty chair startling the duke, whose nerves—like his own—had become as tightly wound as a new pocket watch. He tried to focus his aching eyes on the portrait of a young King George III hanging above Richmond's desk. Cockburn knew he could never sustain the hours of madcap galloping over a bush road that would be necessary to convey the message which needed to b e sent immediately. Bowles, who had at least some experience as a dispatch rider, was the obvious choice to be the messenger, and Cockburn's longing to pry him away from his tête-à-tête with the duke made his selection even more palatable. But Richmond seemed comforted by the major's near-constant presence and it would not do to stir His Grace unnecessarily. Someone else would have to go. Though Baptiste was expendable, the man could scarcely ride his way out of a barn. In all likelihood, he would fall and concuss himself while still within sight of the village. That left Burke, Collis or Sgt. Hill. The latter, it turned out, was still sleeping off the effects of last night's festivities. Burke, the insufferable old gossip, had blurted details of the duke's illness to his clerk, who, after being sworn to secrecy, had naturally informed the rest of the village of the terrible tragedy that was unfolding. As a result, Cockburn was loathe to entrust Burke with another solo assignment—at least not until he had been given a severe reprimand. Who knew what he would say to the boat captain, or anyone he might meet along the way about the duke's condition? The messenger would have to be Collis, who, with his miserably small bag of medical tricks nearly expended, could probably be dispensed with for the better part of a day. If he set a brisk pace, Collis ought to arrive at the landing in about four hours.

Within twenty minutes, Collis had handed Cockburn the keys to his surgery, mounted his horse and tore off at full gallop down McBean Street, spewing impressive clods of mud in his wake. Cockburn walked to the bridge, brushing bits of dirt off of his frock coat. From his vantage point he could see the doctor fruitlessly try to rein in his bolting horse as they approached the crossroads, then skitter awkwardly to the right, heading roughly in the direction of Chapman's farm. The doctor would never rival the young, adrenalin-fed aides-de-camp who could easily gallop the distance between Richmond and the Grand River landing in two hours--given a couple of well-conditioned horses and a dram or two of Irish whiskey.

Cockburn shook his head, cringing inwardly at the thought of the inexperienced doctor attempting to sustain his reckless speed more than a few hundred feet. After that, the bush would close in around him, forcing him to slow his pace, and likely even to dismount and walk the few miles of narrow path to Chapman's farm. There he could pick up the Richmond Road and make much better time. With any luck, he might even be able to exchange horses along the way.

He wished Collis a silent "Godspeed", then turned back toward the inn, where he hoped to fortify himself against the tumultuous day ahead with some of the duke's remaining black India tea. At the very least, Collis's absence would ensure no more blood was let from the duke's veins. Physicians seemed to think bleeding a man improved his health. In all his battles, Cockburn had never seen a man improved by lack of his own blood; in point of fact, the procedure seemed to have quite the opposite effect.

As Cockburn approached the inn, he could see Richmond pacing back and forth outside. The duke appeared to be engaged in a heated argument with himself, and the lieutenant-colonel hurried toward him, anxious to avert another public display. Before Cockburn could reach him, Richmond slapped himself hard on the face. Cockburn gasped, then looked around quickly to see who had witnessed this fresh scandal. Luckily, the street was deserted, save for Whitmarsh, Burke's clerk, who had sworn to take no notice of anything the duke—or any of his party—said or did. Cockburn scowled at the man, and he scurried off. Calmly addressing his commander as if nothing was wrong Cockburn led him gently inside.

Mrs. Hill was setting the breakfast table, and had placed Richmond's elaborate and securely locked tea caddy in the middle. Cockburn pulled out a dining room chair for Richmond, and managed a wan smile for Maria, who looked at him quizzically. Richmond perched on his chair like a wary crow, peering into every corner as if it held a banshee. Cockburn shook his head at Maria, who nodded in silent understanding, then made him a leg and hurried back to the kitchen. She nearly collided with the truant Bowles, who was just emerging from somewhere in the back of the inn and simultaneously attempting to tuck in his shirt and produce the tea caddy key. Drawing up a chair, he unlocked the container, then shakily parcelled out the rare herb into the duke's lavishly-decorated Meissen tea pot. The sight and sound of the boiling water being added to the pot was too much for Richmond, who gagged and jumped from his chair. Baptiste had just finished packing and arrived downstairs in time to intercept the duke, coolly leading him back to the table. Baptiste bid his master sit down, and Richmond meekly did as he was asked.

He looked, Cockburn thought, like a man struck by lightning. Richmond's graying hair, thickened with perspiration, stood stiffly, despite Baptiste's efforts to dress it. He had torn his cravat aside, unable to bear the touch of anything next to his painful throat. His shirt, rumpled and stained from the hours earlier spent writing, badly needed changing. Cockburn shot the servant his darkest look, admirably conveying his disapproval of the duke's toilette. Baptiste serenely ignored his gaze, retreating a discreet distance behind Richmond's chair. Confound the man for a knave! Cockburn took a deep breath, reminding himself to ignore the man's increasing insouciance—for now.

When they were all settled a second time, Bowles began pouring the duke a cup of tea. But as the hot liquid streamed into the cup, Richmond recoiled in horror, his eyes rolling back into his head. Baptiste leaped forward, steadying the duke before he could topple backward on his chair and injure himself. The duke gagged, nearly vomiting as quantities of saliva flowed out of his mouth and down the front of his shirt. He tried to tell Bowles something, but could make only short, coughing sounds before collapsing into Baptiste's powerful arms. The servant gently lowered Richmond back into his seat, murmuring the soothing endearments Cockburn had heard earlier and which he was beginning to think sounded much too personal. Without warning, the duke slapped himself again on the cheek. This time, a large red welt spread across his face. "There," Richmond declared, apparently greatly satisfied with himself. "Perhaps that will help to ease me of my folly." Bowles's involuntary, alarmed glance had confirmed Cockburn's suspicion. Richmond's seizures were rapidly becoming more violent, making his actions less predictable, and, therefore, less controllable.

Cockburn's head was pounding again and it took a concerted effort just to think clearly. What could they do to control the duke's fits now that Collis was gone? As he lay awake the previous night, he had recalled the arcane practice of some of the peasants he had encountered on his European travels, who swore the little iron crosses they carried were a cure for rabies. When the crosses, known as the Keys of St. Hubert, were heated and instantly applied to the newly-made bite wound, those afflicted could sometimes make a miraculous recovery. Though he was ready to try anything, he knew it was too late to affect this particular cure—however strange—upon the duke. Some fifty days had passed since the fox had bitten Richmond—and even St. Hubert couldn't help him now.

The longer they tarried, the worse the duke's condition was likely to become. He had seen cases of rabies before, and once the disease had progressed to the advanced stage of hydrophobia, the victims' behaviour became difficult, even impossible, to control. He decided it was best to leave right away even if their abrupt departure did add fuel to the wild speculations already flying about the village—that Richmond had turned into a lycanthrope.

The quickest way to Chapman's farm was by water. Cockburn dispatched the inn's ostler with the horses via the trail Collis had taken and ordered a canoe to be gotten ready. The bags, which Baptiste had packed earlier, were carried to the street and loaded onto mules, which would continue on to the Grand River landing.  Given Richmond's increasing aversion to water, it would be a risky trip, especially if the duke attempted to bolt from the craft. But given the urgency of the situation, his own pounding head (not to mention his rising sense of panic) and the rising sentiments he feared might easily turn to frenzy ,the canoe voyage seemed to Cockburn to be the only option. Once in the little vessel, the duke could at least be restrained–forcefully if necessary--and the voyage down the shallow Jock River would be swift. There, they would pick up the Richmond Road, and proceed swiftly to their rendezvous.

Defying all expectations, the duke stepped placidly into the waiting canoe, assisted by Bowles and Baptiste. The trio shoved off, the duke gripping the sides of the canoe, his knuckles white with fear, like a deer about to bolt before a pack of hounds. Cockburn noticed "there was something particularly striking in the manner in which he took his little dog (Blucher) into his arms and kissed him." Cockburn and Burke watched them safely out of sight, then picked up the footpath that led to Chapman's. Cockburn , who was too angry over Burke's indiscretion to say anything, strode ahead though the forest, slapping branches irritably aside with his Hompesch. There had been no time for him to take a long leave of Mrs. Hill, which was just as well. He could already feel sentiment clouding his judgment, an unheard-of complication in an already messy situation.

They had been walking only a few minutes when a rustling in the bushes stopped them in their tracks. Instinctively, Cockburn stepped off the path, and put his hand to his sword. He knew the rifle would be useless in such close quarters. Burke drew up beside him, panting heavily and peering anxiously into the gloom. Unearthly moaning and sputtering sounds were coming from the trees directly in front of them. From somewhere farther away, he heard Bowles shouting. Had they wounded some animal? Cockburn had heard tales of cougars stalking settlers through the treetops, and though black bears were not uncommon, they rarely attacked. As the noise grew closer and increasingly louder, Cockburn deliberately slowed his breathing and soon felt his body lapse into the eerie calmness he always felt before a battle. Even the pulsing cicadas had left off their abrasive whirring in anticipation of some nameless clash.

The bush crashed open, a hulking shape filling the narrow gap between the trees directly in front of them. Richmond! Hesitating for only an instant, both men lunged forward, blocking the duke's only avenue of escape. Richmond struggled to free himself from their grasp, before a flicker of recognition passed over his eyes and he slumped into their arms. Bowles puffed up the path, followed by a smug-looking Baptiste. The major seemed both relieved and embarrassed to see the three men standing stalemated before him, their arms fervently locked as though celebrating some pagan embrace between a king and a pair of fools. It took several seconds for him to find his tongue. The duke, Bowles stammered to a stone-faced Cockburn, had found the "the effect of passing through the water was more than (he) could bear." Leaping out of the canoe as soon as it had come close to shore, Richmond had run pell-mell through the woods, eluding Bowles' and Baptiste's best efforts to catch him. His Grace had possessed, the major testified, what he could only describe as superhuman speed and strength—paired with pure animal cunning.

"[O]ur suppositions respecting the Duke's disorder having thus been fearfully increased we dispatched Major Burke to inform Mr. Chapman we were coming to his house." He was to say nothing about the peculiarities of the duke's illness, nor, if asked, was he to discuss any of the ridiculous rumours abounding in the village. Cockburn knew the new would not have reached the Chapmans from Collis's lips—though the discretion of the ostler and the mule train drivers was highly suspect. Hearing tales of the governor having turned into some sort of werewolf would certainly strike terror into their hearts--and he could hardly blame the credulous Chapmans if they refused the party shelter. Even he had qualms about Richmond's uncannily feral behaviour. He hoped he wouldn't have to commandeer the family's dwelling, but, Cockburn reflected ruefully, he was quite prepared to do so.

The short trek to Chapman's proved even more difficult than the short-lived jaunt down the Jock. Bogs and brooks abounded in the dank, rock-strewn woods, sending the duke into paroxysms of fear. "[T]hough we always endeavoured to cover over the water with logs and boughs it was with the greatest difficulty I could prevail on the Duke to cross them, and when he did his Agitation was dreadful," Cockburn wrote later. Finally, Richmond could take no more. He walked straight into the woods. It was impossible to match his immense, powerful strides and he quickly disappeared.

This was the moment Cockburn had feared most. Losing a healthy governor with his wits about him would have been bad enough, but letting a dying one elude him in the backwoods was much, much worse. To complicate matters, it appeared they had strayed from the track during their pursuit of the wayward duke. They were lost. Cockburn reproached himself bitterly for his carelessness. He had skillfully captained a company of men constructing a road through the Upper Canadian wilderness, he had traveled undetected countless times over the American border, and yet he became lost not two miles from his destination. How was it possible that every decision he had made since awakening this morning had turned out to be hopelessly wrong? Proof of his incompetence must surely be complete. The best he could hope for now was demotion, since, thankfully, officers could not be flogged. He had to find the duke—and the way back--before they became hopelessly entangled in these trackless woods. God help them all if he did not.

Cockburn struck off on his own to try to determine the route back. He left Baptiste and Burke to follow the duke's crashing footsteps with strict orders to find and subdue him—regardless of his inexplicable superhuman strength . He was fairly sure the cabin lay in a northeasterly direction and, after taking a rough estimate of his position from the sun and examining the north-growing moss of several trees, struck off to test his theory. In less than 20 minutes he had arrived at a clearing around a farm, which he hazarded must be the Chapman's. His suspicion was confirmed when he sighted Burke deep in conversation with the farmer. Even from a distance he could see Chapman's eyes widening in surprise and disbelief.

Shaking his head in resignation, Cockburn turned back, retracing his steps. There was no point in second-guessing what Burke might be saying. The garrulous major had his instructions and Cockburn was confident he would persuade the Chapman's to begin preparations for the duke's imminent arrival. Striding back through the woods, Cockburn easily recognized his own broken tree branches and boot-scuffed soil. Before long, he heard a familiar French accent, then Bowles's laconic syllables urging the duke to cross yet another small rivulet. Their efforts failed and a moment later a panicked Richmond sprinted through the trees, nearly running Cockburn over. Behind him staggered Bowles and Baptiste, both too tired to notice the duke's sudden, nearly-paralytic fear of some dead leaves stirred up by the breeze. Cockburn hissed at them in consternation, then took the duke firmly by the arm and marched him, dazed but docile, toward Chapman's. The duke's pacific demeanour altered the moment they reached the settler's clearing. Scenting the water, Richmond lifted his head and sniffed like a stallion priming for a mare in heat. Then he went berserk.

Chapter Fifteen: Bleeding or Blistering?

Chapman's Farm, Upper Canada

[O]n our approaching this place it was impossible to prevail on the Duke to proceed straight on, he quitted the road abruptly, jumped over a very high fence and proceeded at a very quick pace from the River. Indeed it was with some difficulty we could follow him....

The duke refused point-blank to go into the cabin. When all four men insisted, Richmond took to his heels, jumping a six-foot-high fence and astonished them so thoroughly that it was several seconds before they could give chase. He did not make for the woods this time but headed for the barn, set several dozen metres away from the riverbank. When Bowles, Burke, Cockburn and Baptiste arrived only a few heartbeats later, the duke was already inside, flattened against the wall, apparently thinking himself well-hidden. The four men exchanged puzzled but wary glances, then plunged into the semi-darkness to find and subdue their leader.

The structure proved reasonably clean, light and airy, with a passageway down the middle that allowed the humid air to circulate. At the sight of the four men converging on him, Richmond began to howl like the wild animal he increasingly resembled. Baptiste motioned to the others to retire, as he continued to creep toward the agitated duke, murmuring soft entreaties in French.

The officers ceded control of the situation to Baptiste and smoothly backed out of the barn. Outside, the Chapman family waited. Their anxious faces silently begged an explanation for the strange goings-on, but the three men ignored them, engaged deep in conversation about what should be done. Seconds later, their assignation was interrupted by a commotion, followed by a shrieking Richmond running very fast out the other side of the barn. The three men joined Baptiste in an idiotic sprint after their escaping ward, who was heading for a nearby pasture.

Richmond stood defiantly in the field, his head up, again scenting the air and scanning the woods. As the quartet converged on him, he coiled himself for flight. Just as he readied himself to spring over another set of split rails, the duke's fit passed, and with it, the last vestiges of his strength. He slumped into Baptiste's arms. The servant stroked his master's head, and cradling him in his arms, helped him back toward the barn.

Seeing Richmond safely settled on a pallet of straw Cockburn heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. It was clear the duke needed to be sedated—urgently--before he hurt himself or ran off again. And for that they would need Collis. Groaning inwardly at the thought of the long gallop ahead of him and what it would do to his already intolerably-aching head, Cockburn began saddling two of the horses Chapman had penned. He would take Burke with him, just in case. The unexpected had already happened more times than he cared to count. Minutes later, Burke and Cockburn set off down the Richmond Road at a bone-jarring trot, the lieutenant-colonel gritting his teeth. Within two miles they encountered the returning physician who, miraculously, had already delivered his message to the waiting captain at Richmond Landing. Collis had turned out to be a better rider than he had expected—and he had earned himself no obvious contusions during his protracted sprint. Cockburn could not disguise his relief. "I changed horses with him, mine being fresh and I returned with Major Burke." With luck, Collis could be back at Chapman's in ten minutes.

Collis was nowhere in sight when Cockburn and Burke rode into the stable yard half an hour later. Bowles and Richmond, Chapman reported, were "in serious conversation" in his barn. This was a new development, and one which unsettled Cockburn immensely. It was rare-unheard-of, really—for him not to know every fragment of information (valuable or not) that passed between members of his expeditions. He longed to hear what secrets were being shared, but every time his shadow fell in the passageway, Richmond looked up, startled, and refused to utter another word. Undaunted by the duke's disinclination to confide in him, Cockburn went around the side of the barn. There, he found Burke and Collis, biding their time in the spreading shade of a butternut tree. Cockburn glared at them, his eyes reproving their indolence. Ignoring his black looks, Collis motioned good-naturedly for Cockburn to join him on some upturned rock elm stumps. The physician had attended many a dying patient and inevitably found the process took longer than expected—or, to be frank, than was strictly necessary. Intervention only resulted in both physician and patient becoming exhausted. And occasionally, he had discovered, it was necessary for the doctor to keep his wits about him, just in case.

Richmond had refused all attempts by the doctor to sedate him. Richmond had stated categorically that his business with Bowles was urgent—and confidential.  Cockburn sighed. He could guess what was being said. The plan to put the duke back under direct medical supervision was failing miserably.

The doctor propped his bag on the stump beside him, and opened it. There were only two options left, Collis explained, holding up a scalpel in one hand, and a bell-shaped glass in the other:  bleeding or blistering. Cockburn had endured both methods at the hands of doctors eager to banish the evil humours which caused his headaches and he relished neither. He nodded. The decision was Collis's—and Richmond's—when the time came. The trio fell silent, absorbed in watching Baptiste's practiced movements as he washed some of the duke's soiled linens in the river, scrubbing at the dark blemishes with fine sand dredged from the riverbed. Normally, the clothing of a sick man would have been boiled in lye-filled cauldron or, at the very least, liberally soaped. Baptise did neither. The servant barely nodded as Cockburn approached, but this time the lieutenant-colonel took no notice. They both knew it was useless to stand on ceremony now, or to pretend Richmond was not at death's door.

The day had once again turned powerfully warm and Collis, lulled by the duke's earlier refusal of treatment, had boldly taken off his boots. He was soaking his aching legs in the river when Bowles called softy to the waiting men to come into the barn. They watched in silence, horror mixed with revulsion, as Richmond writhed on his straw pallet like an animal, convulsed in agonies of pain and fear, his mouth full of frothy saliva mixed with blood. Cockburn was shocked to see the appalling deterioration in Richmond's condition in the space of a few short hours. His once-stentorian voice had become a croaking whisper and he longed for a drink of water. When one was given to him, he recoiled in horror, no longer able to swallow even the smallest trickles of liquid. Huge quantities of saliva continually collected in his throat, and his attempts to spit it out frightened him even more. Seeing the duke's distress, Cockburn put his head out to door and signalled Collis to come in. It was time for the surgeon to practice the last tricks in his limited repertoire.

The physician hurriedly dried his feet, then awkwardly struggled to draw on his boots. Picking up his bag, he walked to the entranceway, squinting into the dimness. It took a few seconds for Collis to pick out the duke on his humble bed of straw. He moved slowly toward Richmond, aware that any sudden movements could bring on another convulsion. Cautiously, Collis kneeled before him and opened his bag. He drew out a vial of laudanum and a pill box containing a few precious grains of opium. Administering either of these physics proved impossible. Richmond slipped from one convulsion to the next and in the short interval between, started at unexplained noises, gasped for breath and, occasionally, confided some important fact to Bowles. Nodding apologetically to Cockburn, Collis whispered to the duke, who seemed to concur.

The doctor drew out his scalpel and made a deep cut in one of the duke's veins. Cockburn held the basin as two pints of Richmond's blood flowed copiously into it. After this the duke "seemed for a short time if anything more tranquil"—but the respite was brief. The paroxysms soon returned, this time "with increasing violence (and) during these his sufferings were dreadful." Unable to lie down or even sit, the duke paced like a caged animal, Bowles loyally holding his arm. As they walked, he dictated messages to family and friends, recounting in loving detail past events involving his children. Even the stoic Cockburn was moved nearly to tears by the duke's poignant descriptions. "They were such as I could never forget and such as fully bespoke the kind and noble heart of him whose private and public virtues will long endear his memory to all who have the honour and happiness of being known to him." Bowles scribbled madly, attempting to commemorate every word for posterity. "Mary will take care of Baptiste he is an honest fellow. I give Blucher to Mary. She will cry at the first; turn him in when she is alone and shut the door...."

From the corner of one bleary eye, Cockburn saw Mrs. Chapman standing at the door of the barn, holding a tray laden with food. She appeared uncertain whether to offer the sufferer the sustenance she had prepared, or to follow her mounting urge to drop everything and run. Cockburn motioned to the bewildered woman to put the tray down, which she did, then skittered like a crab back to the safety of her kitchen. Around four o'clock, Cockburn wrote, "nature appeared to have exhausted herself, and he became more tranquil." Finally, Collis was able to get Richmond to take about twenty drops of laudanum in some peppermint water, and, a little later, a full grain of opium with two or three teaspoonsful of chicken broth. "On our afterward offering him some bread, his mode of taking it appeared to me almost to amount to snapping." Just like a fox, thought Cockburn. Or a wolf.

As afternoon crept inexorably toward evening, Cockburn was forced to admit that Richmond's death was at hand. The duke's "paroxysms were increasing with additional violence" despite his liberal ingestion of opiates, and Collis' regular bloodletting . It was nearly 7 o'clock before Cockburn finally persuaded the duke to let them move him to more comfortable quarters inside the house, mindful of Richmond's mischievous (but true) confession that he had been born in a barn. It was unthinkable that he should die in one, too. Mrs. Chapman had made the duke a passable bed on a couch beside her stove and offered, a little hesitantly, to nurse him. Nervously fingering an iron cross around her neck, she looked palpably relieved when Baptiste insisted he would perform this last duty for his master. Quickly making them a leg, Mrs. Chapman withdrew outdoors where her husband waited. The couple walked hastily to the barn and disappeared inside. A short time later, Cockburn smelled smoke in the yard. He was about to raise the alarm when he realized the Chapman's had lit a bonfire. They were burning the straw the duke had lain on, fearful it would spread the contamination that had infected him.

As the hours dragged by, Richmond grew weaker, sinking in and out of feverish hallucinations. "The perspiration continued at times so much so that we deemed it advisable to change his linen." Bad smells tormented him, though no one else could find their source, or even perceive them. The smallest sound startled him into a frenzy; he insisted that a beaver was creating a disturbance, repeatedly asking that it be bought and thrown overboard. Only Blucher brought him to any kind of sense. "He preserved his affection for his little spaniel to the last moment of his recollection," Bowles wrote, "and in the midst of violent pain would sometimes call out to him in his natural tone of voice." The reprieve was fleeting. By midnight, Richmond no longer recognized anyone. At first light, Cockburn dispatched Burke for Montreal, with strict instructions to travel day and night—speaking to no one--until he arrived. With him the major bore a letter from Bowles intended to prepare the Lennox children, now anxiously awaiting some word of their father's whereabouts, "for the sad event which appeared inevitable." He also carried the duke's last letter to Mary.

Three hours later, Bowles reported "the quantity of saliva collected in the throat and mouth caused the appearance of foaming at the mouth, and at a few minutes past eight o'clock on the morning of August 28 his sufferings were terminated without a struggle."

Chapter Sixteen: A Trickle of Scarlet

Chapman's Farm, Upper Canada

August 28, 1819

He dwelt particularly on the comfort he felt on leaving the world in perfect charity with all mankind and most earnestly begged Col. Cockburn and myself to forgive all this world as sincerely as he did, if we wished to die as happily.--Maj. Burke's account

The duke's body lay stiffening in the Chapmans' kitchen, its vacant eyes fixed on some distant, perpetual horror. Baptiste wept shamelessly in a corner while Bowles sat staring at nothing, his lower lip trembling. Collis, looking relieved that his skills were no longer needed, had gone to the river to wash away the distasteful evidence of his night's labours. Cockburn turned away from them, tapping his fingers on the thick plank table, his mind racing. It would be unthinkable to bury the duke here in the backwoods. They must get his body to Montreal for the state funeral that would undoubtedly be planned—despite Richmond's wishes to the contrary. Within a few hours the rigor mortis would leave the body and the process of decay would begin in earnest. The corpse needed to be washed and dressed – and soon. It was women's work but Mrs. Chapman was nowhere to be found. Confound these village women and their superstitions. He would have to send for Mrs. Hill.

Cockburn dared not fetch her himself; his duty to assure the duke's safety remained in effect even in death, sending Bowles in his stead. He remained alone in the kitchen, waiting in agonies of hope for her arrival, and guarding the corpse from prying eyes and hungry words, watching as the tall tallow candles burned, one after another, into puddle of rancid fat. It seemed like hours before she arrived. It had been good of her to come at all, let alone on such short notice. In fact, Maria had dropped everything and followed Bowles into the waiting canoe with an eagerness that belied the task awaiting her. She had already heard the rumours of his death—though she would not say from whom, nor what they bespoke. On her arrival, she exchanged no pleasantries with Cockburn , abruptly asking for fresh linens, some lye soap and an extra kettle of water. She made her way past him to where the body lay, then asked him to leave. He hesitated, looking at the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bonnet. The door shut firmly in his face.

Cockburn saw to it that Baptiste fulfilled Mrs. Hill's orders, then rested his back against the shanty's rough-hewn timbers. He was utterly exhausted, though a full day and night's work still lay ahead. He could only imagine how Burke must be feeling, dispatched with the awful news that would devastate the Lennox children and throw all of Montreal into mourning. He listened as Maria began to sing softly. The dead held no mystery for Mrs. Hill, who was undaunted by the cock-and-bull stories of duke's corpse walking, ready to devour all that lay in its path. Nor had she given any credence to accounts of the weird appearance of the duke's body. Its yellow waxiness was taken as proof the corpse was full of fresh blood, gleaned from feeding on unlucky victims. The trickle of scarlet that dripped from his mouth, and from the wound where his blood had been let, was evidence his lycanthropic transformation was complete. Apparently he also had a magnificent erection, just what would be expected from an erotomaniac wolfman. The whole thing was ridiculous. Battlefield carnage had wrung all the superstition out of her. Death, she knew, was always final.

Carefully she dipped the flannel in hot water and lye soap, washing the long limbs of the corpse that rested on the table before her. The rigour had all but passed and she could now fold the duke's arms over his chest, in an aspect of peace that she hoped he could somehow feel if not acknowledge. Gently, she combed his sweat-stiffened, greying hair off of his fine face with her fingers, smoothing it behind his ears. "The finest formed man in England indeed," she whispered, bending low over his graying lips. It must have been true once, before his recent, unimaginable agony had begun to wreak its vengeance.

Outside, Cockburn stood on the stoop waiting patiently, even reverently, listening through the door and envisioning each of Maria's deliberate, practiced movements in the kitchen. He wanted to watch her, even at this terrible work, but he didn't dare open the door. Entry was forbidden as much by his own conscience as by the accepted conventions. He knew there was no reason he could invent that would gain him access to this most private of functions.

There had been no sound for some time from behind the door, and just as Cockburn realized this, he heard the latch lift. He opened his eyes, enchanted to see Maria standing before him, her arms fetchingly bare. Cockburn sensed her apprehension. "You may come in," she said, standing aside to let him pass into the darkened room. Richmond's body lay on the table, immaculately attired in his dress uniform. Pennies rested on his eyes to keep them closed, a scarf tied around his head to keep his jaw shut. Only when her task was finished did Maria confide to Cockburn the gossip she had heard in the village. On closer examination, the duke's corpse had indeed taken on a certain waxy appearance, though, thankfully, the saliva no longer dripped from his mouth.

Outside, wagon wheels creaked and a sharp voice bid the horses to halt. Philemon Wright had arrived, and just in time. The lumberman had driven from Richmond Landing to collect the body.

Better him than a posse of pitchfork-toting vigilantes arriving dispatch the undead duke once and for all, Cockburn thought wryly. He took his leave of Mrs. Hill, bumping into the errant Mrs. Chapman who had returned to offer some belated assistance. The two women wound the corpse into a clean, bleached sheet that served as a makeshift shroud, sewing both ends shut. There had been no time to build a coffin, and Cockburn wondered how her handiwork would look—and smell—by the time it was battered along the road to Richmond, and then down the river to Montreal. Maria had an answer for that, too. Moments later, Baptiste appeared, lugging a straw mattress down from the upstairs loft. Carefully, Richmond's body was rolled onto the mattress, then carried to the waiting wagon. Maria followed, carrying several ominous-looking grappling hooks. As Baptiste, Cockburn and Bowles lifted the corners of the mattress up, she drove the hooks, already suspended from the wagon's iron framework, through it. Wright then spread a sheet of canvas over the frame to protect the body from the sun.

After partaking of a glass of cool, fresh-pressed cider, a plate of cheese and some apples, the train was ready to depart. The Chapman's were paid for their hospitality and the loss of linen and certain movables; Maria Hill refused compensation for her handiwork. There was nothing further Cockburn could say, or do, to thank her and he mounted his horse for the long ride to Richmond Landing. Sgt. Hill had arrived to collect his wife and Cockburn eyed him jealously as he tenderly took his wife's hand a kissed it. On Cockburn's signal, the train rumbled to life. In this heat, there was little time to lose, and no time at all for goodbyes.

By early evening, the doleful train had reached its destination. A casket, swiftly constructed by some of Wright's men, had been ferried over from Wrightsville to Richmond Landing. The duke's remains were unslung from the makeshift hammock and deposited into the box, which smelled of fresh pine. Cockburn saw the lid securely nailed and the coffin placed in the hold. One of the ship's boys was stationed beside the box, which had been covered with the duke's own standard, and given strict instructions not to vacate his post or doze off until a replacement arrived.

The trip downstream was mercifully quick, devoid of the typical raillery of a home-bound voyage. Dirges in honour of the fallen duke were played on wooden flutes and penny whistles and tots of rum were consumed in a constrained silence. Everyone on board seemed to be contemplating how heavily the hand of the Maker could fall upon them. At any moment a man could be taken if not by God then by the many manifestations of the Devil. Tales of the loup-garou, the flying canoe, and other stories of the Supernatural abounded; Cockburn overheard snatches of many a whispered story in the night-time gatherings on deck, thought the voices always hushed themselves when he drew near.

Exhausted, Cockburn retired to the cramped cabin he shared with Bowles. He threw himself down on his hard bunk, briefly savouring the rude comfort of the straw mattress. The unwelcome noise of the steam engine rumbled, its giant heart thumping ominously below decks interrupting what sleep could snatched between portages. Cockburn checked on his precious cargo repeatedly, never letting it leave his sight when the body had to be transferred to another boat. Removal of the cumbersome coffin more provoked hasty signs of the cross made by crewmembers (even, he suspected, those who were not Catholic) than Cockburn had ever seen outside the field of battle. Yet the mariners performed their duties carefully, and the slapdash funeral cortège arrived in Montreal just one day after Burke. So far as Cockburn could tell, Richmond's corpse hadn't stirred once.

Chapter Seventeen: Colonel Cockburn's Account

Government House

Montreal, Lower Canada

September 1, 1819

Cockburn had asked an orderly have one of the small drop-leaf tables sent up from the drawing room to serve a desk. Richmond's downstairs office had proved too public, and his knees were already bruised from banging against the tiny washstand, which, in any case, was far too small to hold his ledger. The two kitchen boys dispatched to do the job grunted and groaned as if performing one of Hercules's labours, hopeful that their pains would compel a gratuity. There was little chance of that, Cockburn snorted to himself. The pair of oafs had dropped the table like a stone in the middle of the floor, then stood gaping in front of him, without even removing their caps. He shooed them away, feeling the warmth rise to his cheeks and invective flood his throat. Lack of sleep, coupled with news of Maitland's imminent (and, no doubt, interfering) arrival had made him impatient. The boys scampered out the door, banging the door shut in revenge for his miserliness.

The barren room echoed with misgivings as he scraped the table across to the open window, then turned an armless cane-bottomed chair to face it. The Montreal heat so relished by his wife could be felt full force in the stuffy garret that had become his temporary retreat. Sitting down heavily, he opened his leather-bound letter book and prepared his quill. He had a long, uncomfortable job ahead of him, but he knew he must complete it while the horrible events of the last week before the fatigue that had laid siege to his body conquered it completely—and he must do it before Maitland arrived. The Upper Canadian lieutenant-governor would doubtless demand a full account of all that had happened and Cockburn had a niggling feeling Maitland would be looking for someone to whom he could assign blame. To Bowles he had delegated the awful task of comforting Richmond's bereaved family, especially Mary, though he sensed this would not be such a terrible task for the young gallant. He would see to it that the major wrote his own account of what had happened as soon as possible.

Already, Cockburn felt his own memories of the catastrophic events were dimming—though it was essential he vindicate his actions. What had really happened? Why had every moment of the ghastly trip had not burned itself into his brain? What, exactly, had he pledged during the duke's final, wretched hours? The lapse vexed him. Somewhere, buried under the anguish that so effortlessly gives life to all manner of superstition, was the truth--though he doubted he would ever discover it. As he picked up his pen, his eyes were drawn to a spider relentlessly spinning in a hollow between the inn's squared timber ceiling. The segments of its filmy web glimmered in the shadows, each thread highlighted by the rays of the long afternoon sun that crept in warmly, dangerously, through the leaded windows. A cicada began its lament, whirring and clicking its love song to the heat that rolled in waves off of the cobbled streets. His head drooped and he closed his eyes, lulled to stillness by the onrushing autumn. He tried to recall the vanished sounds of another riverbank, the creaking of wagons over a little bridge, Maria's singing. Instead he heard only the duke's eerie, agonizing death cries, and the chilling response of the dark forest surrounding him.

Epilogue

Richmond Landing, Upper Canada

Midsummer, 1821

Cockburn stood on the rocky bluff, looking with newfound respect at the Chaudière Rapids. The last time he had suffered them it had been high summer and the water level considerably lower. Two years ago the waters had been docile, even sluggish, like a sleepy cougar lazing in the sun. Now, at the beginning of summer, the beast had fully awakened.

The new governor, Lord Dalhousie, had insisted on making the same trip through the Rideau River valley, so he could see for himself where the thousands of pounds the British Treasury had finally released for construction of the Rideau Canal would be spent. Cockburn had been selected as the best man to shepherd Dalhousie throughout the expedition. In truth, there were few other officers who could stand his presence for long. Philemon Wright's community had prospered since he had last seen it though its sister settlement on the opposite bank could not be considered anything more than a rough-and-tumble lumbering town. It was the sort of place where it was best to keep one's cards close to one's vest.

But Dalhousie had never been mindful of nuances. Impulsively, he told the assembled guests that he wanted to acquire 400 acres of level land adjacent to Richmond Landing for the new canal. Cursing under his breath, Cockburn knew, even without seeing the face of the man who hurried off into the darkness, that the price of the land—shortly to be offered at a sheriff's sale—had just gone up.

Cockburn sighed and re-filled his glass. It would be another summer spent mopping up someone else's mistakes. By his reckoning, they had another 1,329 miles to go. That is, if Dalhousie—who had complained bitterly about the relatively easy river voyage—could last the whole way. Nevertheless, the lieutenant-colonel had to admit the new governor did have his uses.  Getting under General Maitland's skin was one of them. Cockburn and Maitland, who had temporarily taken over command after Richmond's death, despised each other ever since spending nearly two months together during their trip to Drummond Island two years previously. Maitland was a pompous ass who wanted to control everything—especially Cockburn. Despite his self-effacing claims to the contrary, Cockburn knew Maitland had been deeply disappointed not to have been selected as the new governor.

Cockburn had faced no rebuke over Richmond's death though he sensed Maitland's suspicion that there was more to the affair than what was contained in the accounts he and Bowles had submitted in such painstaking detail. He had heard from reliable observers that the documents had been quietly circulated around Whitehall, then vanished. It was as if the whole affair hadn't happened. Cockburn had been more surprised than anyone at the seeming indifference to what he had thought might have been seen as an incendiary report. Then again, Earl Bathurst was not known for his voluble replies, at least not where North American governance was concerned.

Dalhousie was a different matter. He had arrived a year ago, pledging humbly to "steer my course and take myself off when I can no longer do good." If only he had kept his vow, Cockburn thought privately.  So far, Dalhousie's reign proved even stormier than Richmond's--no mean feat considering the trouble the duke had stirred up. Cockburn had managed to set Maitland and Dalhousie at each other's throats, though this was small consolation. Maitland had assumed control of Cockburn's colonies and Cockburn wanted them back. Though they would revert to civil governorship in another two years, Cockburn was not yet ready to give up their control He had devoted years to planning, building, nurturing and seeing Maitland get involved was just too much. A whisper here and a whisper there roused Dalhousie's ire and he was so on firing off letters to Maitland telling him how to run them. In the space of six months, Maitland had fired off letters of his own—straight to London—complaining about Dalhousie and--though only by implication—Cockburn.

Downing his whisky, Cockburn excused himself from the table. Even he had to bow his head as he passed under the lintel of the cramped, smoky tavern. Outside, the air was still humid, but as evening approached, a fresh breeze had sprung up off the river. Unbuttoning his jacket, Cockburn started toward the water, feeling his mood lift as he walked. He patted his jacket, reassuring himself the little package was still secure in its inside pocket. Tomorrow evening, God willing, they would arrive in the village of Richmond. He had something important for Mrs. Hill.

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