The trial was scheduled for the middle of January, less than two weeks away. That the felon was immured in the cellar of Chepstow House under the watch of his captor merely added relish to an already tasty affair. It seemed that the colonel could do no wrong, that nothing could tarnish the sheen on his armour. Immediately after the massacre at the Windsor redoubt, Gideon Stanhope had accepted full responsibility for his captain’s ineptness in clearing out the buried crates of ordnance from the earthen walls. That meant taking the blame for the bushwhackers’ attack on that fateful December morning, a dastardly ambush rigged by the cunning and unrepentant Major Coltrane that had seen five men die (including the hapless and silenced Muttlebury) and eight others seriously wounded, two losing limbs and another blinded. But the regular staff would not hear of such a selfless gesture on the part of the colonel, however nobly intended. Instead of a court-martial, they recommended a citation, particularly in light of the colonel’s courage under fire in Baby’s orchard and his subsequent pursuit of the routed enemy, and of course the bayonet scrape on his thigh. From the narrow perspective of field tactics, the brass were inclined to fault Captain Muttlebury for his precipitate action in assaulting the Stars and Stripes fluttering above the redoubt before a proper reconnoitering and for his being naive enough to believe his opponents were out of bullets and powder, merely because one of them had claimed it was so with his dying breath.
When it was learned that every cell in every jail in the province was now full (the diseases of overcrowding had provided only temporary relief), the colonel graciously offered to incarcerate Coltrane, also recovering from wounds suffered at the Battle of Windsor, and to personally guarantee both his safety and his appearance in court. Indeed, if rumour were even marginally true, Colonel Stanhope was insisting on accepting his adversary as a military officer worthy of humane and dignified treatment. Several crates of the felon’s effects-an extra uniform, vintage pipes, numerous books that no loyal citizen would peruse, and a collection of rare silver snuff boxes-had been shipped from his home in Detroit. And despite a gentle remonstrance from the governor (who knew when to leave a popular hero alone) and in the face of the periodic picketing of Chepstow by Orangemen and Tory youth groups, Colonel Stanhope persisted in “doing the honourable thing.” Although no disinterested lover of justice had stepped forward, he even made a gentlemanly attempt to secure defense counsel for his prisoner.
The good colonel’s reward for such magnanimity was to have Coltrane give interviews to three newspapers, one of them a right-wing organ that was not about to let politics interfere with circulation. In these front-page pieces, Major Coltrane adumbrated his outrageous views and partisan opinions. The virtues of American-style republicanism were retailed ad nauseam and the corresponding failures of the Canadian provinces maddeningly set out in xenophobic chapter and verse, all the more irritating because many of them were true. The upshot was an even more strenuous picketing of Chepstow, not as a criticism of the colonel (his forbearance in the face of such ingratitude nudged his star even more steeply into the firmament) but as umbrage and outrage at the arrogant ingrate in his cellar. So unruly were the protests and so credible the threats to seize and lynch the Yankee murderer that a phalanx of the 85th Highlanders had to be placed in front of Chepstow’s iron gates day and night. It seemed likely that two phalanxes would be needed to escort him to the Court House at King and Toronto Streets.
Only yesterday afternoon Marc had been privy to a fascinating discussion between the Baldwins, père et fils, as to whether they ought to offer their services as defense attorneys for Caleb Coltrane, despite the obvious risks. Both men realized, as many in the town did not, that any hint of a kangaroo court being held for Coltrane-charged inter alia with murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, armed robbery, and forcible detention-or the least intimation of Star Chamber proceedings had the potential to ignite the still-smouldering passions of the thousands of Hunters and libertarians across the border. And just as tempers were beginning to cool and the U.S. government was getting a grip on its own renegades!
On the other hand, young Robert Baldwin had himself narrowly escaped being branded a rebel and seditionist and was still under a cloud of suspicion for his ambiguous behaviour during the rebellion. So much so that he had refrained from attending the Legislative Assembly except on rare occasions and did not speak on any matters pertinent to the current crisis. Sir George Arthur had a steady hand on the tiller of the executive and the legislatures, and Robert was content to let him guide the ship until Lord Durham’s report was published sometime in the next month or so. But Coltrane had to have legal representation, and some Tory hack would probably be appointed at the last moment to provide token counsel, if that.
“Perhaps we could have him defended by one of his own kind,” Dr. Baldwin had suggested, looking both pensive and mischievous.
“That would require special dispensation from the chief justice and the tacit approval of our fellow benchers,” Robert had responded, puzzled but ever aware that his father rarely spoke without some point in mind, however oblique.
“Not if said barrister were a well-known and experienced criminal lawyer from New York and one who has been residing here for the past two years.”
“You can’t mean Richard Dougherty! Doubtful Dick?”
“He lives just a block and a half away.” William smiled wryly.
“But he’s a known sybarite and, in all likelihood, something worse.”
“You mean he’s no gentleman?”
“Precisely. The Law Society would sooner see him in jail than a courtroom.”
William smiled even more wryly. “Expediency makes for strange bedfellows, eh?”
Robert, diffident and possessing less humour than his illustrious and ebullient father but his equal in perspicacity and political astuteness, said after a moment’s reflection, “I see what you mean. A corrupt, licentious, and debased Yankee lawyer from New York City defending an odious miscreant and arrogant pretender in a hopeless case-what could be more palpitating to the Tory heart?”
“If he has one.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea whether Dougherty would accept the challenge-he’s been well retired for two years now-but the chance to be admitted to our bar would surely be irresistible for a man who was once at the pinnacle of his profession and an American legend at law.”
“You leave the benchers to me,” William said. “I’ll have him installed within the week if you’ll agree to approach him about representing Coltrane.”
And before Marc could take Robert aside to learn more about the intriguing Mr. Dougherty, an important client had arrived, ending the conversation. After lunch tomorrow, though, he intended to get all the unsavoury details.
A light snow was falling as Marc left the Osgoode grounds and walked south along York Street. “Christmas breath” the children here called it, a hushed exhalation of flakes and a fitting prelude to the Feast of the Epiphany on the morrow. Marc thought of Twelfth Night, Shakespeare, and his friend Horatio Cobb. He thought of Beth and the child to be. And felt blessed. At King Street he turned east, making his way quietly through the shoppers who, lulled perhaps by the perfect peacefulness of the snowfall, lingered in doorways or spoke in muted tones to friendly passersby, reluctant to enter a shop and break the spell. It was near closing time, but Marc was nonetheless surprised to see that Smallman’s was shut up tight, with curtains drawn across the bow-window display. There were lights in the adjoining workroom and in Mrs. Halpenny’s apartment over the shop. Puzzled but not worried, Marc continued along King towards Briar Cottage, several long blocks away on Sherbourne Street. In fact, he began to feel pleased because it occurred to him that Beth, now well into her fifth month, seemed prepared to take his advice and spend only a few hours in the shop each day until the time when she would let Rose Halpenny fully supervise the workroom and Bertha Bethune, her assistant in the millinery section, greet the customers.