Marc rode up to what he deduced to be the front door, dismounted, and, failing to find a hitching post or ring of any kind, wrapped the horse’s reins around one of the protruding log ends. The door itself drooped on stretched leather hinges and boasted a number of gouges and splinters where a boot or fist had met it in anger. Marc gave it a tentative rap, fearing he might knock it irreparably askew.
A booming voice that might have been female answered from the depths inside: “For Chrissake, don’t just stand there pickin’ at your scab, open the goddamn door and come in!”
Marc did as he was bidden. Seated in the centre of the room in a horsehair chair of princely proportions was a woman of ample dimension and extraordinary presence. Marc recoiled visibly, as if unable to take in the image of her all at once.
“Cassie, get off your plump rump and take the gentleman’s hat! Buster, vacate that chair this instant or I’ll take a strip off yer arse and turn it inta a red bandanny!”
The fire in the hearth, fitful and smoky, flung a dim glow through the almost windowless room. Cassie came meekly out of one of its shadowy corners: a young woman clad only in a shift and moth-eaten sweater, whose beauty was marred-or perhaps made more exotic-by a glassy walleye and a mole at the base of her throat. Staring at Marc, abashed, from her one clear, blue eye, she stretched out a trembling arm for his coat and shako cap. She continued to stare at his uniform.
“You keep yer eyes on the floor, milady!” the girl’s mother-as Marc assumed her to be-roared with an accompanying guffaw that shook the room with the vehemence of a fart. “Young Cassie’s got a thing for soldiers. Come militia day, and we gotta lock her in the pigpen!”
“Good day, madam. My name is-”
“I know what yer moniker is, young gentleman. I’ve been forewarned, ya might say, and I know why you’re here. Take that chair by the fire. Buster, get yer greasy paws offa it! You get the loo-tenant’s uniform dirty and he’ll take you outside and shoot you silly with his Brown Bess.”
Marc smiled reassuringly at young Buster, who seemed deaf to his mother’s entreaties and more intent on looking for any sign of said gun. Marc sat on the edge of the chair.
“I’m Bella Hislop,” the woman said, “as I’m sure you’ve figured out already. You met Cassie, my oldest and prettiest-don’t blush, girl, beauty’s not a gift to be sneezed at, the good Lord only doles out so many talents-and Buster there, with the gawkin’ eyes and big nose, my eldest of the bollocked variety. And up there the other six are skulkin’ and tryin’ to keep outta my reach, aren’t ya, ya little buggers!”
On this last note, Bella Hislop wrenched her thick torso a quarter-turn, which allowed her to gaze up into a huge loft that covered almost half the house at the north end. Several titters and much rustling ensued, and Marc could just make out in the gloom a row of dirty children’s faces peering down with curiosity and trepidation.
“Mr. Hatch has been here, then?” Marc said.
“Indeed he has, the old crook. I damn near run him off the place.”
“He has wronged you somehow?” Marc said, unable to hide his surprise or his irritation.
Bella Hislop rose in her chair, lifting her heavy flesh into a posture of indignation and contempt, like an overweight marionette whose slack strings are suddenly jerked upwards with a singular flourish. Her voluminous dress went dangerously taut, threatening to burst. Her jowls quivered stiffly and her eyes blazed.
“He merely swindled my husband outta twenty barrels of flour, that’s all. And us with eight mouths to feed and me still teat-feedin’ the young’un. ‘Full of chaff and tares,’ the bastard says to Orville, right in front of half the neighbourhood. That’s all he’s got to say for comin’ up twenty barrels short on our millin’, our whole summer’s harvest. Well, we got our pride if we got nothin’ else. My Orville just turns and walks away, real dignified, like the gentleman he was brung up to be.”
“I’m sure the miller is not a man to cheat his customers,” Marc said.
Bella gave him a withering look, then abruptly relaxed, her flesh and bones sagging thankfully back to their accustomed position. She emitted a thunderous chuckle. “You are a young man. You know little of the ways of the world and its thousand iniquities. All millers are cheats and mountebanks. If they were honest men, they would till the soil themselves instead of feedin’ off the sweat of their fellows. And what redress have we got anyways? You think my sweet Orville-as honest as Esau, as upright as Solomon-can trot along cap in hand to the constable to swear out a complaint?” She burst out laughing. “Is that bugger Hatch gonna arrest himself?”
“There is a sheriff for the county,” Marc pointed out. “And a magistrate a stone’s throw from the mill.”
“Randy-the-dandy MacLachlan, you mean!” she roared, and the shock wave made the peering faces in the loft bob. “I wouldn’t let my six-year-old Susan near him. And who do you think is a charter member of that faggots’ club up at the squire’s?”
“I would be most pleased to forward any written complaint or petition on your behalf,” Marc said, not for a second believing Bella’s charge but nevertheless feeling some obligation to demonstrate the absolute objectivity and probity of British due process.
“What makes you think Orville and me got any surplus to sell to the English army of occupation?” Bella said, and she pinned him with a stare.
“That’s what I’m here to find out, ma’am. I’m merely an emissary.”
“A papal legate, sort of,” Bella grinned. “You payin’ with cash?”
“Pound notes only.”
“None of that funny money, now, that army scrip yer betters palmed off on us last time. And no notes drawn on the Bank of fuckin’ Upper Canada.”
Marc flinched, noted no reaction from the two eldest at the obscenity, and forged ahead. “We’re looking for pork as well as grain,” he said.
“Our pigs aren’t doin’ so good this winter. Some kinda fever gettin’ inta them. The boar’s doin’ poorly too. Unfortunately, a boar is a necessity, ugly as it may be, eh? Like God and shitty weather.”
“Is your husband at home, madam?” Marc said.
“Jeezuz, I ain’t been called ‘madam’ since the time I stumbled inta a hooer-house in Syracuse lookin’ fer that arsehole that got me up the stump and had to marry me or take a load of buckshot in the underparts!”
“I can return another time,” Marc said, starting to get up.
“Siddown, for Chrissake, nobody’s tryin’ to scare ya off. Cassie, bring out the jar of hooch and pour a mugful fer me and Officer Edwards.”
“Really, ma’am, I couldn’t-”
“You call me ‘ma’am’ once more and I’ll toss ya headfirst inta the fire. Now unhitch yer high horse and relax. I got some questions I wanta ask you.”
Cassie did as she was commanded, blushing fiercely as she served Marc and sensed his eyes upon her flimsy dress and what it inadequately concealed.
“Pretty one, ain’t she?” Bella said, downing half her drink in one gulp. “Spittin’ image of me, though you’d hardly think so now. ’Course I had two eyes to see with back then and still ended up in this shit-hole.”
“How may I help you?” Marc said.
“I wanta know why you’re really here.”
“But I’ve told you that … Mrs. Hislop.”
“I hear Monsieur Papineau and Wolfred Nelson’re kickin’ up shit in Quebec. Colborne, and his Tory ass-lickers think the same trouble’s about to start up here, don’t they?”
“I am not at liberty to comment,” Marc said, swallowing his astonishment.
“Aren’t ya, now. Well, that’s one of the things wrong with this province, ain’t it? The people in power don’t feel the need to be at liberty to say anythin’ by way of explanation to the wretches who’ve got no power of their own.”