Читать книгу Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Janet Kellough - Страница 24

The Old Waterloo Circuit included not only villages like Portland and Camden, but the town of Kingston as well. Though he was often occupied in the smaller villages for weeks, Lewis could catch up on the latest news as soon as he returned to the large town with its bustling market and busy harbour, overlooked by the grey limestone walls of Fort Henry.

His estimation of the lawyer Macdonald went up when he learned that he had somehow arranged for the repatriation of a number of the American Hunters, most of them no more than lads who had got caught up in the excitement without any real understanding of the consequences. Many of the rest were sentenced to be transported to Van Diemen’s Land, and Lewis reflected that between Mackenzie’s rebellion and this last incident, that faraway place must be positively teeming with Upper Canadians and close to overflowing with felons and rebels.

As expected, the leader, Von Schultz, and those officers who could be credited with authority were condemned to be hanged. Lewis inquired at the gates of the fort as to whether any of them required the ministrations of a Methodist preacher, but he was turned brusquely away. He looked in vain for the officer who had so obligingly signed the papers excusing him from militia duty, but he was nowhere in sight. Not surprising, he supposed, as soldiers were moved around so much.

It seemed that the people of Kingston had only just got over the excitement of imprisoning these notorious criminals when they were stirred up again by the report issued by Lord Durham, the man sent to find a solution to Britain’s colonial problems. To everyone’s surprise and astonishment, he laid the blame for the unrest squarely on the shoulders of the government, particularly noting the roles played by Sir Francis Bond Head and the Family Compact cronies who dominated the Executive Council of Upper Canada.

“It appears as if the rebellion had been purposely invited by the Government which then severely punished the unfortunate men who were deliberately trapped into taking part in it,” he wrote.

His recommendations were astounding. “Combine the two colonies, Upper and Lower Canada, give them a reasonable government and let them get on with it,” was the concise summation of the report, as pronounced by the stonemason with whom Lewis stayed when he was in Kingston. “Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me, provided we can keep the Pope out of our affairs.”

This was the one drawback to the whole scheme, as far as anyone could see — all those Catholics in the lower colony against all the good Protestants in the upper. But the English speakers of Quebec combined with the English speakers in Upper Canada were enough to outnumber those who claimed French as a mother tongue, and Durham seemed to think that they would all be assimilated in time anyway. He speculated that eventually the French in Quebec would be indistinguishable, in either language or religion, from the rest of the population. Lewis wasn’t so sure. His own church was meant to have been assimilated by the Wesleyans, but the forced marriage was teetering on the brink of annulment, and Methodists like himself stayed staunchly Episcopal. Change didn’t happen easily, just because someone wished for it.

Generally, though, people warmed to the idea of turning two colonies into one, especially when it was revealed that, in spite of the disparity in numbers, there would be an equal representation for each — a decision that could well work to Upper Canada’s advantage. Lewis began to hear the phrase “responsible government” bandied about in almost every conversation.

There was even some talk that Kingston itself might become the capital of the newly fledged union of Canada East and Canada West. The young queen would have the final say, of course, but with its new penitentiary and its strategic location at the southern end of the Rideau Canal, the city stood a good chance of being considered for the honour. There was even some speculation that the Presbyterians might realize their long-held dream of establishing a university. All that was needed was for the Queen to grant the charter.

Thaddeus wasn’t surprised that the Presbyterians were campaigning. The Methodists already had their own academy at Cobourg. The Anglicans had established their institution at Toronto, close to the current seat of colonial government. They paid little attention to the older city at the eastern end of the lake. If Kingston were to become the capital, though, there would be a scramble to re-establish themselves closer to the centre of power, and then the Presbyterians could probably say farewell to their charter, for the Church of England would insist that its hegemony be upheld.

There were some who protested that Kingston was too small and too lacking in the necessary amenities needed for a capital, and that its southerly location made it vulnerable to attack. The recent events at Prescott had made the last a valid argument, although the same reasoning could well be applied to Toronto.

Still, there was an excitement about the place, and generally its inhabitants looked forward to the future with more optimism than they had felt in a long time. All they needed now was a period of peace, a reasonable harvest, and a steady influx of immigrants to help the city grow.

Lewis enjoyed this circuit. Although Kingston boasted a variety of churches, his rounds included the settlements east to Adolphustown, an area that included the first Canadian Methodist house of worship. The old church at Hay Bay, built with love and hoarded pennies by the first Loyalist settlers, appealed to his sense of what a meeting place should look like — plain, austere, nothing expended on unnecessary ornamentation — just a wooden building housing a people determined to worship God in their own way. He felt privileged to follow in the footsteps of William Losee, who had battled the elements and a broken heart to bring the Word of God to a people cast into the wilderness.

Losee was the first itinerant minister to leave the more settled Methodist circuits of the United States. He had arrived at the Bay of Quinte in 1790, galloping from place to place, setting a blistering pace for himself, seemingly indefatigable in spite of the fact that a childhood accident had left him with a withered, useless arm. “Oh, God, I call upon you to smite sinners,” was his cry, and often the sinners in question would fall to the ground, or so it was reported. Lewis wished it were that simple, that all he had to do was ask, and the terrible crimes and sinful passions of Upper Canada could be corrected at a word.

Losee was soon followed by others of his ilk. Their willingness to leave the settled areas for the lonely and isolated cabins and shanties of the clearings spread Methodism in a way that could not be countered by the faiths whose proponents preferred the comforts of a warm fire and a stout roof over their heads. Losee’s success was also his downfall, however. He fell in love with a local woman who not only rejected him as a suitor, but chose instead a more popular and far handsomer fellow preacher who had followed him into the wilds. He gave up his travels then, and went home a broken man, never even having been fully ordained as an elder in his church. The travelling connection took its toll, Lewis reflected, one way or another.

Kingston enjoyed a lively farmer’s market in the centre of town. “The Shambles,” as it was called, consisted of a series of wooden sheds, built to provide at least a modicum of shelter to the farmers who brought their goods in to supply the townsfolk. These shelters were flimsy affairs and a constant fire hazard. In fact, they had burned down twice already, but each time they were hastily thrown up again and The Shambles quickly returned to being a place of diverse scents and sounds as farmers’ wives hawked fresh eggs and vegetables, Natives brought their beautifully woven baskets to sell, and everything from fish to joints of beef were displayed at the stalls for passing buyers to pick over. There was some talk of building a new, more lugubrious marketplace along with a new town hall, but so far it was only talk, and the farmers were against the notion anyway.

“So where am I supposed to sell my pork while they’re buildin’ their fancy new meetin’ hall?” one farmer commented. “Typical, ain’t it? The last thing they ever think of is what happens to the regular folk.”

Lewis thought the man might be forgiven for holding this point of view, given the total lack of consideration displayed by the powers-that-be over the years. He could only hope that things would change now that the colony had been re-invented as the exalted-sounding “Province of Canada.”

The market also served as a sanctuary of sorts for a number of transients and rogues. Although the local constabulary attempted to rout them out every night, there were many desperate men, women, and sometimes even children who would find a night’s shelter amongst the crates and boxes that were left piled up beside the sheds. These people had been blamed for the previous fires —with good reason. They built small campfires after the sun went down, and in the attempt to shelter these from the eyes of the prying constables, they built them in out-of-the-way places, far too close to the piles of flammable material that surrounded them.

When he was in Kingston, Lewis often poked around the market in the evening, on the lookout for the sick, the hungry, and the spiritually bankrupt. It was only in this last area that he felt he was of much help; he could sometimes find aid for the ill, especially if they were children, and some members of the local Methodist Society might be persuaded to provide food for the truly starving, but there was little or no organized charity for the anonymous beings who had fallen on such hard times. Lewis found it difficult to talk to them about the state of their souls when he knew how cold and hungry they were, but occasionally he ran across a derelict who had drunk his way to a pitiful condition and wanted to turn over a new leaf.

It was a cold, raw December afternoon and Lewis could smell the snow that promised to fall that evening. There were few people in The Shambles. The farmers and their families had packed up early and gone home — it was too cold for customers to linger over their purchases and the farmers had no wish to stand all day for no return. As Lewis walked through the market, shifting crates and lifting boxes, he realized that there were very few of the other kind of regular inhabitants either. With any luck, they had all found warmer places to sleep on so cold a night.

As he turned to retrace his steps, Lewis heard a faint scuffling sound behind one of the empty crates. He assumed it was a rat — they were common enough in a place where foodstuffs were so easy to snatch — and continued walking until a nagging voice inside his head told him to go back. What if it wasn’t a rodent but a small child? Or a woman, or a drunk, curled up behind a box and in danger of freezing to death? He turned around and approached the crate warily. He shoved it aside and found, not an animal, as he expected, but a dirty and unshaven man, his clothes tattered rags, his face sunken.

It was Francis Renwell!

“You!” Lewis bellowed, feeling an unreasonable rage come over him. This man, this beast, had taken Sarah from him. Suddenly Lewis was certain that he had done more than that. Renwell had been close enough to commit the other murders, as well, hadn’t he? Having tasted blood, his appetite must have grown for it. Lewis didn’t stop to consider any of the other details that had puzzled him so. He was convinced that it had to have been Renwell. How many other young women had he killed? How many other families had he ripped apart?

Renwell shot one frightened glance at Lewis, leapt up, knocked him out of the way, and ran. He ran down the length of The Shambles and headed for the nearby shore. Lewis was surprised by the sudden shove. He fell heavily, but righted himself and quickly gave chase.

Renwell didn’t stop at the shore’s edge, as Lewis expected, but ran down a dock that jutted far into the water. There he hesitated. Lewis thought that he surely had the culprit now, for the ice was still too thin to hold a man. Instead, Renwell took one look over his shoulder at Lewis and leapt the three feet to the river below. The ice held, and he began to run across the river toward Wolfe Island. Lewis paused for only a moment — long enough to utter a brief prayer — then leapt down after him.

Renwell had a minute or two on him, and was a much younger man who, in spite of his apparent sorry condition, wasted little time in opening up a lead. Lewis pursued doggedly, his breath soon raspy and his chest aching. His quarry headed slightly off to the east, not toward the quay at Marysville, but farther down the shore where a point of land jutted out into the river.

The ice boomed and cracked under their feet as they ran. There were many places where several inches of frigid water lay on top of a layer of half-frozen ice and others that remained open to the water entirely. They avoided these, zigging and zagging across the surface, between and around the perilous areas.

Lewis began to gain a little; he had the advantage of merely following the other’s course, while Renwell had to choose his footing carefully. A sleety snow began to blow from the northeast and at times Lewis would lose sight of the man entirely in the swirl. Then a break would come and he could pick out the green of Renwell’s ragged scarf. Or was that the green of the conifers growing on the opposite shore? He realized he could no longer be sure, for the bitter wind made his eyes water and the snow was sticking to his lashes.

Renwell had slowed to a walk now, spent by his initial efforts, but so had Lewis, whose breathing was quite audible in the frosty air, his lungs sore, not only from exertion, but from the cold knifing into them. He could feel the temperature dropping rapidly, and his face became encrusted with a layer of icy snow. He attempted to pull the collar of his coat up to shield himself, but this limited his vision even more and he found it increasingly difficult to make out where he should place his feet.

He knew he had made a mistake as soon as he stepped down, but he couldn’t stop himself in time. The ice right over the middle of the river where the current ran swift gave way and his leg plunged through to the icy water. He grabbed the edge to prevent himself from falling farther, but the fragile ledge broke away in his hand and he plummeted into the cold dark water, only catching himself from total immersion with one last desperate reach. This time the ice held, but he was in water up to his shoulders and could see no clear way to get himself out. He could feel the current pulling at him, trying to drag him under the ice with it. Every time he attempted to shift his weight up onto the ledge of ice he only slid farther back. The cold was perishing and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before it took him.

Summoning up the last of his laboured breath, he shouted, “Francis!”

Renwell stopped and turned around.

“Francis! Help me.”

Renwell stood looking at him for what seemed like many long minutes. Please, Lord, Lewis prayed. Please stir this sinner’s conscience, for I am not ready to meet You yet. The Lord is my Shepherd … If it be Your will that I’m taken so be it … The Lord is my Shepherd … If not, then please let this man come to me now … The Lord is my Shepherd.

He couldn’t remember the next line in the prayer. Try as he might, he couldn’t force his numbed brain to function, to dig down and retrieve the words.

Renwell picked his way back over the ice until he was close enough to be heard without shouting.

“Why should I help you?” he said.

“For the love of God, Francis, you can’t leave me here.”

“Better you than me. If I come any closer, I’ll go in the water as well.”

“No. The ice is freezing while we speak. It will hold if you go down on your belly.”

“And why would I? So you can chase me? So you can turn me in? If I leave you there, I’m free, at least from you. No one would ever know what happened.”

Lewis reflected that this was true, for no other living soul would be on the river on a night such as this, and by the time some fisherman or boatman again ventured out, all they would find was a corpse frozen into the ice.

“If I get you out, will you leave me alone? Let me go on, unmolested?” Renwell had moved a little closer, and was fingering his scarf. Was it possible that the man would act, after all? Lewis realized that it was, but that the price of his rescue would be to let his daughter’s killer walk away unchallenged.

He had never truly understood the story of Judas and the forty pieces of silver until then. It had always been presented to him as a venal act, an example of the power of money over men’s souls. But he knew now that the silver had nothing to do with the disciple’s treachery. He had agreed to the transaction in order to save himself. He had to marvel at the Lord’s ironical ways. Here he had been praying, begging Him for salvation, and his prayers had been answered, but at a terrible cost. He no longer had even his anger to sustain him. That had been purged by his plunge into the cold, sobering water. The choice was clear — justice for Sarah or life for himself. He had always thought of himself as a man of principle; strange how easy it was to stand on principle until it was tested. Then he realized that there really was no choice at all: he could agree or he could perish — Renwell would walk away no matter what he did.

“Why did you do it, Francis? Just answer me that. Whatever you decide here, just give an answer to that one question, and then you’ll have to let your conscience be your guide. Provided you still have one, of course.”

“Why did I do it? Because of the promise that things might change. We put our trust in Mackenzie; we mistook his ranting as a blueprint for action. And now we know how sadly that trust was misplaced. All of us.” Renwell stood with his head down, lost in the misery of past action.

What nonsense was this? Lewis shook his head, thinking that he had misheard. Why was this man speaking of Mackenzie and trust and things that had no bearing on the matter? Lewis began to doubt himself, to think that he was dreaming the conversation, that the cold had befuddled him into some strange hallucination, and that Renwell had not turned around and come back toward him, but had even now reached the shore and disappeared. He continued speaking anyway. Whether Renwell was actually there or not, it was his only hope. There were no other options.

“I don’t care about Mackenzie. I’m talking about Sarah — and the others. What happens when the bloodlust takes you, Francis?”

“Others? Bloodlust? What are you talking about, Thaddeus?” It was Renwell’s turn to shake his head and look confused.

“Rachel. Rachel Jessup in Demorestville. A woman in a cabin near Prescott. I know it was you. I saw you in Milford, and again when I left Fort Wellington to look for a bed.”

“Fort Wellington? Prescott? I’ve never in my life been in either place. I know you saw me in Milford, for I saw you as well. Demorestville? I’m not even sure where that is.”

Lewis went on. “You did it, didn’t you Francis? You murdered them all — Sarah, Rachel, and the other — there’ll be another and another after that, won’t there?”

A look of anguish crossed the young man’s face. “I didn’t know until days afterward that Sarah was dead. If you knew how many times I wanted to somehow go back in time and take back my actions, to stay with her. How many times I’ve wished I’d never heard the name Mackenzie. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have died. I know that. And when I saw you that day in Milford, with your accusing looks, I was sure that you blamed me and that you’d take your revenge by turning me in, having me hunted down with the other rebels.”

“I wouldn’t turn you in as a rebel. No, I wouldn’t do that. But as a murderer, yes, I would.”

“A murderer? You think I murdered Sarah? I lost everything that meant anything to me that day. And for what? Foolish politics and a lost cause.”

“And what about the other days? What about the other women? Were they all foolish too?”

“What other women? You think I was with other women?”

“They were all the same, Francis. They all died the same way as Sarah. What else am I to think?”

With a wail of torment, Francis dropped to his knees. “Oh, Thaddeus, are things at such a pass between us that you would think that of me … that I would take pleasure in murder? Oh, my Lord, forgive us both, for we are poor wretched sinners in Your eyes. And I know not which sin is the greatest — my callous actions or your unfounded suspicions. Oh, Thaddeus. Is that what you’ve thought all these months?”

“It is.”

“You are wrong.”

Lewis started to think that he was indeed wrong, and this belief was confirmed in his mind as Renwell pulled the long green scarf from his neck and wound one end around one hand. Stretching himself out as flat as he could, he slowly slithered forward until the other end of the scarf was within Lewis’s reach.

As Lewis tried to grasp the scarf, he realized why he had not been sucked into the water by the river’s current — his woollen mitten and the right sleeve of his coat were frozen to the ice. With an effort that threatened to force his mouth under the water he heaved his left arm up and over the edge, and managed to touch the end of the scarf before he fell back again. Renwell wriggled forward another foot and threw the scarf once more. This time Lewis was able to grab it. Renwell started pulling slowly and steadily, and Lewis felt his body slide a little farther onto the ice. Winding a loop of the scarf around his arm as he inched forward, he was drawn gradually out of the water until he was close enough that Francis could reach his hand. Renwell slid backward gingerly until he was once again on solid ice. With a sharp jerk Lewis freed his frozen coat sleeve, but the mitten was left behind. He could not stand up. He had no feeling in his feet or legs and was so short of breath that attempting to inhale had become a trial. Renwell hunkered beside him, sharing body heat by wrapping his arms around him.

“You have to try to get up, Thaddeus. You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze.”

Lewis tried to get his feet under him, but his legs slid sideways and he collapsed. Then he felt himself being lifted, an arm around him, his body dragged toward the island shore. As he began to put one foot in front of the other a little feeling returned and they made better progress, but he felt a strange lethargy wash over him and he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ice and sleep for a time.

“Keep going, keep going,” Renwell said when he realized what Lewis was trying to do. “You can’t stop. You have to keep going.”

Lewis tried to focus his numbed mind on the act of walking: One foot down. One foot down, the other foot down. One foot up, one foot down. Keep going. One foot, then the other.

They staggered toward the shore, Lewis at times nearly taking the other man down with him when his strength failed and his knees buckled. Each time he was lifted and urged forward.

When they at last reached the shore that had seemed a million miles distant, Renwell stopped.

“Look, there’s a house just here with a light in the window. They’ll let you in, I’m sure.”

“Where are you going?” He had clung to Renwell, to life, for what had felt like forever, and now he panicked at the thought that he would be alone. He wouldn’t make it to the house on his own, though it was only a few steps farther, he knew he wouldn’t.

“I’m a wanted man, Thaddeus. The reason I disappeared on the night of Sarah’s death was to join Mackenzie and his pathetic little army. She begged me not to go, but I laughed at her fears and off I went. And then, when things went so horribly wrong that night on Yonge Street, when Mackenzie’s pitchfork army was routed, I couldn’t go back. I’d been seen. I was a known rebel. And then I discovered that there was little to go back to anyway. I can’t stay in this country anymore. I’m not sure I’m welcome in any country, but if I can slip into the States I stand at least a chance of starting some kind of new life without the fear of being found out and arrested. It’s either that or Botany Bay. You won’t ever see me again, Thaddeus. I promise you that.”

“Francis …” Lewis wanted to speak so badly, to say that was precisely what he was most afraid of at that moment, of not ever seeing him again, and that he knew now how mistaken he had been and that he was sorry for it, yet he knew he needed all of his breath for the last few feet of his journey.

Renwell grinned weakly. “It’s all right. It’s enough for me that you know you were wrong. I only hope you realize that you’ve been wrong all along — about everything.”

Lewis nodded.

His grin grew a little broader. “I forgive you, Thaddeus. That’s the Christian thing to do, isn’t it?” And then his voice grew wistful. “Give Martha a kiss for me, will you?”

Renwell led him to the doorstep of the house, gave a quick rap on the door, and disappeared into the darkness. Lewis sank to his knees and scratched at the wood. He fell into the room when the door opened, this he remembered, but then all went black.