Jeremy Kane: A Canadian historical adventure novel of the 1837 Mackenzie Rebellion and its brutal aftermath in the Australian penal colonies.

CHAPTER ONE

It was an unlikely day for bloody rioting.

There was a normal, prosperous bustle to the growing town of Toronto, that bright June morning of 1837, which could not be stifled even by the muggy heat already lifting a mist off Lake Ontario and wafting the stink of the bay inland through dusty streets. Schooners, barges, bateaus, Durham boats, York boats, canoes, and timber-rafts — vessels of all kinds cluttered the harbour, moving skew-wiff in a confusion of sails, funnels, and hulls that scarce left room for sight of the scummed black water between them. Trapped low by the blanket of humidity, gritty smoke seemed everywhere, rolling in from ship-stacks and dozens of manufacturies on shore. Not even the chimneys of Jesse Ketchum’s tannery, though, could match the sooty cloud fuming from the giant side-wheeler Frontenac as it headed out the Western Gap to transfer yet more of the hapless immigrants funnelling down the St. Lawrence.

As Jeremy Kane shouldered his way hurriedly through the raucous fish-market at the foot of Church Street, he groused to himself that with nine thousand people in the place already, Toronto was crowded enough, without packing in another thousand-odd every year. Some went so far as to say that Toronto promised to gain real importance in time, maybe even becoming another Kingston or Montreal one day.

Big for his age of nineteen, Kane was able to good-naturedly bull his way past insistent hawkers and careless porters hefting baskets. His likely looks attracted the notice of fishwives, who called bawdily to him as they stood elbow-deep in offal at the gutting-tables and whooped at his shy grin. So great was the press, that he cradled the papers he carried, their last pages just penned that morning and the cause of his lateness, careful that they not get crumpled by passersby.

Only a few years ago, his father’s cottage east of town on the Esplanade had been a pleasantly quiet spot, crowded on Sundays alone, when folk came out for a decorous stroll in fine weather. Many’s the time as a boy, he had been able to shoot duck for the pot from his own front garden, and could walk to school in town in less than twenty minutes. Now, the flocks of wildfowl were thin on the mudflats, and it took well over half an hour of pushing along congested roads to reach his place of employment.

Such pavements as had been recently built were often impeded with piles of merchandise, stacked outside by store-owners to daily enlarge their premises without paying extra tax. Hawkers delayed passage, too, badgering honest citizens to buy gimcrack toys, broadsheets, food, gin, hats, umbrellas, and all manner of wares. They were for the most part ignored by the solidly-placed men of business striding to bank, hotel, or shop. As much purpose was shown by the thronging clerks, hostlers, and servants hurrying to work at new businesses prospering everywhere in the colony.

Jeremy tried not to notice the many beggars who were also about; thin-faced immigrants for the most part, or dispossessed smallholders, who stood hands-out on every corner. Instead, he cocked an appreciative eye at the more attractive of the housewives or serving-girls who were already abroad, baskets on arms, eager to hear the latest delicious scandals that might be abroad. Two portly swells on the steps of the Canada Land Company were of the same mind, rumbling their own gossip as Jeremy brushed past.

Tell you, the little blighter’s nothing more than an out-and-out revolutionary!

What’s worse, his antics’ll push the Legislature into raising taxes for more troops.

Sweat streamed down Kane’s muscular neck and he loosened his linen stock as he rushed onto Yonge Street, so well repaired lately as to be called the main thoroughfare. He darted between the traffic, nimbly avoiding horses’ hooves and cartwheels that skidded dangerously on the corduroy of logs laid that spring by the Royal Engineers. The town’s commercial centre began here, more genteel than the stalls and factories around the harbour, a proud showcase for locals and a dazzling sight to newcomers.

Even now, Jeremy paused to ward back a small family of rural visitors who stood dangerously half in the roadway to gape. Keep your eye better peeled for traffic, sir! No wonder they stared, though. The vista included no less than two score large stores and half a hundred white and red brick houses. Beyond, as fitted Toronto The Good, were a dozen churches, bell towers and spires poking through the edge of a forest of blue-hazed trees that stretched to the north as far as a body could see.

Kane pressed on along Newgate, or rather Adelaide Street as it had just been re-named. Not that he could get used to it, anymore than he’d been able to get the new name of Toronto into his head after growing up while the town was called York. The brown-haired youth suddenly felt exhilarated by the pulse of change and growth about him, and lost his worry that Doctor Rolph would arrive at chambers first and witness his clerk’s lateness. The Miller’s mortgage papers crinkled under his elbow and he smoothed them as he walked. Resentfully, he thought how they had cost him the pleasure of a Sunday afternoon with Sophia and the prospect of a rebuke from his employer. He stepped impatiently around some jawing farmers and broke into a weaving trot.

Construction work made it hard to hurry, though; two new buildings going up on the corner and belying the predictions of ruin that were so often trumpeted during the recent election campaign. Scaffolds were still decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, drawings of the Princess Victoria, and tattered posters some pleading Out With The Greedy Compact, Vote Reform!, while many others showed a nine-headed snake wearing a Scottish tam-o-shanter, and the slogan — Vote Against The Hydra-headed Menace Of D — ed Democracy! The people of Upper Canada took their politics seriously, and were not mealy-mouthed in saying so.

Jeremy was just about to enter the doorway with a brass plate engraved John Rolph, M.D. & Solicitor, when two small boys ran into him. They would have fallen, if he had not caught each by the collar. He grinned down at them. What’s your hurry, lads?

Sorry, mister, one piped, We’re off to the scragging! They ran towards a growing crowd across the street, calling excitedly, Fight — fight, alright!

Jeremy looked after them, puzzled at sight of people coming running from all directions to congregate in front of Mister Mackenzie’s print-shop. Folk began to put up the rallying cry, Havoc, havoc here!

Their shouts attracted tradesmen, coming at the run with tools still in hand, luring store-clerks from their counters, along with not a few of their gentle customers, ladies eager for any entertainment to relieve the humdrum.

Dogs darted underfoot, barking with shared excitement as the mob surged closer to the bay-windowed shop. Still protecting Miller’s papers, Jeremy Kane shouldered his way across the street, using his bulk to press to the front where heads were craning to see inside. Some of their view was obscured by the election posters still displayed behind the bulls-eye glass. One, urging ‘Vote For Reform & Freedom’, was cross-labelled since the recent defeat of Mackenzie’s party — ‘Vote Reform Next Time!’

These signs of political dissent were now drawing curses from the mob, though Jeremy couldn’t for the life of him imagine why, considering the election was well past. Scarce a week went by without some diatribe being published in Mac’s newspaper, the Constitution, but today there was unusual outrage abroad, judging by the fists and cudgels raised in anger. Now, a chant began.

Bring the bloody rebel out!

Bring the bloody rebel out!

There was loud, cruel laughter from five or six well-dressed young men in front of the crowd, ring-leaders by the look of them. One waved his arms in time to the chant. That’s the ticket! he yelled. Let’s show how we treat rotten apples here! Jeremy recognized the rabble-rouser as Andrew Boulton, a scion of one of the Compact families, as were his companions. He knew them all of old as being arrogant macaronis who delighted in any mischief that held no risk to themselves.

Their brocade waistcoats were unbuttoned under light frock coats of sateen cloth, newly wrinkled and stained. Stubbled jaws and bloodshot eyes spoke of a night’s debauch with slatterns in the cribs behind Privat’s Hotel across the bay. Doubtless they had come straight here aboard the horse-ferry to take part in some planned deviltry. Ferret-faced Jacob Ludwig was with them, and it was he who nodded a signal that scattered the young bucks whooping through the crowd to stir up more hostility.

Anybody got a rope? Lugwig called, drawing another savage chorus from the rioters. Go to it Katie! Boulton shouted to a grossly fat young woman in a canvas apron speckled with fish-scales, who was carefully spitting onto every windowpane in turn. Drag him out here! she squalled. I’ll fix the little squirt’s codpiece for good! Kipper Kate made a vile twisting gesture that delighted rougher men in the crowd, and even drew smirks from normally straight-laced folk.

Listen to this! Though poorly dressed, Jacob Ludwig looked less bedraggled than the other ringleaders. He could not yet afford to spend a night carousing with them among the whores, but had arisen early to meet the Peninsula boat so as to herd the youths here as planned. Now, Get a load of Mac’s latest lies! he shouted, pointing to that day’s edition of the Constitution newspaper posted in the front window. Bold as brass, no shame at all! Listen! He began to painfully read aloud, In these terrible times, it says, we see our people oppressed, intimidated, and deprived of their rights ...

Deep in the crowd, Boulton gave a mock groan, and the onlookers took up his mood, lowing a long chorus of Aaaawww! There’s worse! Ludwig read on haltingly, Is there not sufficient democracy in Upper Canada to understand the just word ‘independence?

No, that there ain’t! one fop yelped.

Angry cries added, Not while I’m alive!

For shame!

Hear out Wee Willie, in his own dishrag of a newspaper! Ludwig was new to the agitator’s role and his voice stumbled as he read from the news-sheet. ‘Can not people see it is to their advantage’, Mac says... His voice rose in an urging tone of outrage, emphasizing those words likely to incense his listeners. ...’to get rid of the present ruinous government — which is neither the free British constitution or the glorious American republic!

These last words were more than the mob could bear, and they roared with fury.

Dirty Yankee traitor!

Sedition, clear ‘tis!

A shrill lament went up from the fishwife. He wants to bring the Yank army back, so they can burn our town again! A young black man, by name of Mosely, yelled, That happens, ‘n’ we get taken over, they’d start up slavery here for sure!

While the mob was being whipped into an even uglier temper, a fine maroon carriage drawn by a pair of sleek mares halted across the street. Two prosperous-looking gentlemen in it watched the rioters for a few minutes, then exchanged satisfied glances. One of them, a big flaxen-haired man in his mid-forties, looped the reins and checked his gold watch. He nodded approvingly at the timing. Heartening to see how prompt our loyal citizens are.

Not a moment too soon, if you ask me, sir! Justice John Powell’s puce-hued face darkened with violence of feeling as he scowled at Mackenzie’s shop.Ah, good morning to you, Sheriff. We should see some just desserts doled out this day, eh?

Good morning, gentlemen. Burly William Jarvis had strolled over to the carriage with scarcely a look at the riotous assembly.

Mister Attorney-General ... and your Honour. He carefully addressed the two dignitaries by title and in turn of seniority. Though the Jervis clan was wealthy enough in its own right to make him feel secure, he never lost sight of the fact his office was a political appointment. After gravely raising his beaver hat twice, he nodded towards the shouting. We kept the constable away ‘specially, so perhaps I’d best stand here myself, just in case."

Quite so, Jarvis. The magistrate’s drooping jowls wobbled uncertainly for a moment. These vulgar mobs can get out of hand in a flash.

Not much chance of that, Powell. The drawling voice of Attorney-General D’Arcy Renard was almost sleepy in its arrogance, aping upper-crust British tones, as was fashionable among well-to-do Colonials. They know exactly what work’s cut out for them today, and who to pay their attentions to.

The three guardians of public order complacently watched as Ludwig drew a large stone from his pocket and hurled it at a window. There was an explosion of glass, and a baby began to cry somewhere in a room above the store, while the enraged patriots gave the stone-thrower a hearty cheer.

Go on, smash ‘im! Bash the little swine’s brains out! Kipper Kate screamed and snatched a book from a sidewalk table, tearing out pages by the handful, scattering them into the air. This is what’s wrong — books, books about bloody revolution!

Missiles began to fly, scooped from building-sites nearby, following the lead of Boulton’s companions, while excited hangers-on grabbed books to smash more glass. Jeremy caught sight of the small figure of Mrs. Mackenzie dart past an upper window. Others saw, and a rock shattered the pane beside her as she ducked fearfully, hunched to protect a shawl-wrapped baby.

Stop that! Jeremy blurted. There are children in there!

Rebel whelps! Kipper Kate shrieked, and clawed another book apart.

The young man found himself pushing forward to restrain her from doing more damage, wresting a volume from her fat paw. In turn, she snatched his papers, stamped them into the dirt, and pushed him back into the crowd. Hostile hands tore at his clothes, and someone dealt him a ringing punch in the ear. He pushed them off and tried to rescue a leather-bound set of Pare’s Anatomy. That’s Mister Mackenzie’s property!

The crowd hooted and surged forward, jostling for a chance to tear up books, smash the remaining windows, and batter the table into kindling. Meanwhile, Jeremy received a sickening thump in the stomach, delivered with all Kipper Kate’s brawny strength He bent over, gasping, while she cackled, It’s dirty books and newspapers that gives the likes of you their fawncy-dawncy ideas, cocky!

Ludwig threw a table-leg into the wreckage-strewn print-shop and observed that Kate was doing a better job than all his Compact bullies put together. Aye, listen to the lady, he shouted. There’s only two things a loyal Canadian need read — the Bible and the speeches of His Majesty!

It’s Her Majesty now, you mean! crowed Kate. God save our new Queen! She squalled delightedly and threw a confetti of torn pages over the crowd. They laughingly took up her cry, God save the Queen! As the chant rolled across the street, Attorney-General Renard frowned indolently. What the hell’s young Kane up to?

Interfering young pup! Powell blustered, then harrumphed in pleasure at the sound of splintering door-frame, and calls for a rope to be fetched. Our crowd’s howling for blood now, Mister Minister.

Admirable sentiments, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?

Absolutely, sir, chimed in Jervis. Nothing wrong with Toronto folk. Very sound politically, most of them.

From within the print-shop, there was heard a strange yowling scream advancing along the corridor. The drawn-out Yaaaaaaah! rose to an almost inaudible pitch, as William Lyon Mackenzie himself burst out at a run through the doorway. The volume of his fury was all the more surprising, considering he was such a tiny man, with a huge head topped by an ill-fitting red wig. Despite the moment, Jeremy’s lips twitched in a brief smile at the capering little figure who launched himself fearlessly into the crowd, flailing away with a long type-stick.

His shrill voice raged in a rich Scottish accent, Hooligans! Rogues, the pack of you! Take that ... And that! Pass it to Bond Head with my compliments!

Raising his voice to reach the back of the now large crowd, Ludwig shouted, There’s our traitor! Let’s string him up!

Fairly gibbering with rage, Mackenzie pulled off his wig, revealing a freckled pate, bald as an egg, the legacy of a childhood fever, and hurled the red mop at his accuser. Nay, it’s you who’re gallows-bait!

The shabby ringleader loomed over Mackenzie, picked him up in a bear-hug, and contemptuously threw him against the front rank of the crowd. Wielding his type-stick fiercely, the feisty publisher warded off any would-be attackers, then charged back at Ludwig. He delivered a series of good hard kicks to the bigger man’s shins before being knocked down again.

Enough! Jeremy leaped forward to protectively straddle the tiny Scot until he regained his feet. The blows came fast then, and Kane traded fist for fist, hitting twice for every blow he took, and rather enjoying himself, as lusty young men do at such times. There was less sport in it for Mackenzie, who fought desperately to avoid being pulled into the crowd where some intended to maul him badly. Only the metal-edged ruler and his own agility kept them off, while blood ran from where a stone split his forehead. He danced around as hands grabbed from behind, his stick raised, then hesitated, seeing Kipper Kate there.

Hit a woman, would yer? she cowered. Chivalry halted his blow, leaving him wide open for attack, when with a splutter of obscenities, she clawed for his eyes. A less inhibited hand reached out to deliver a heavy swipe at her bloated face, knocking the fishwife squalling against the wall. Mackenzie jumped back into the melee, with scarcely a quick nod of thanks to his rescuer, whom he vaguely recognized as a farmer by the name of Hardacre. A half-dozen other decent newcomers followed the lead of the young Yorkshireman, intent on evening the odds, either out of support for the Reformers, or from a sense of fair-play. They shouldered aside Toby Mosely, who hovered beside Ludwig, but without striking any blow. Speaking up was courageous enough for an escaped slave, without tempting fate by laying his hands on any white man.

Another reinforcement arrived when a wagon pulled up, its canvas hood stencilled with, Samuel Lount, Blacksmith. The driver rasped the brake tight and jumped down heavily, while his wife and five small children looked on. Usually the most peaceable of men, Lount was suddenly enraged, his massive chest threatening to burst his best come-to-town suit. He set to bulling his way through the mob, effortlessly throwing aside anyone foolish enough to bar his way.

He reached Jeremy defending Mackenzie against Ludwig in particular, who aimed to do the newspaperman real damage under cover of the crowd. Those brawlers who had joined in from idle malice were already copying Kipper Kate and Toby Mosely in making themselves scarce. Even those bribed here by a few shillings were weakening in face of hard, righteous fists, unexpected and less entertaining than the terrorizing of a lone family. Still, enough attackers remained to make hot work of it yet.

In shielding Mackenzie, Jeremy fell back against him, and the peppery little man whipped around to crack his rule across his champion’s nose before being able to hold. Claret spurting through his fingers, Kane let out a pained, Your side, sir!

There was no time for an apology, and a moment later Ludwig would have put the boots into Mackenzie’s vitals if Lount had not arrived. The danger waned with his coming, as many more assailants slunk away, thinning the mob until only Boulton’s bucks of the town remained with a dozen paid thugs. They pressed forward in a final assault that collided with the counter-attack led by Lount, Jack Hardacre, and a growing number of Reform defenders.

A knife flashed in Boulton’s hand as he lunged at Mackenzie. The fop dropped it with a squeal of pain from the rap of another type-stick, this in the hand of Adam Wettlaufer. He had just been shooed into the fray by Mrs. Mackenzie, along with his fellow apprentice, Eli Pater. The two late-comers tipped the scales, and the mob for the most part fell back, though still fighting.

With his nose gory, Jeremy’s temper was up when he managed to corner Ludwig. His punches landed well, but his fury blinded him to the other’s craftiness, and the man suddenly kicked his feet from under him. Sprawled helplessly on his back for a moment, Kane saw his assailant scoop up the knife and lunge. His comrades were kept too busy themselves to notice, and things could have gone badly for him in the next second, had it not been for the Mackenzie children. A swarm of little girls came running out of the shop in a row of descending sizes from teens to toddler, and hurled themselves screaming and scratching onto Ludgwig’s body.

Attacked from ankle to shoulder, the goon missed his chance. It gave Jeremy time to sweep the children aside with one careful arm, while the other landed a satisfying blow to Ludwig’s jaw. He herded the girlish allies into the doorway, then turned to find his assailant was again amidst those attacking their father.

Jeremy jumped to help Mackenzie, and the pair fought back-to- back; an incongruously -sized pair, fending off the remaining opponents. Most had clearly lost heart, scrambling to escape the pummels of Hardacre’s dozen stalwarts. Big Lount no longer hit anyone, content to just shove men away with bellowed warnings to leave peaceably.

A table-strut was raised to strike, and Jeremy caught the motion from the corner of his eye. Ludwig’s face was twisted with the intent to kill, aiming at Mackenzie’s fragile skull. Look out! Kane pushed the Reform leader aside, barely in time to divert the cudgel, which smashed at already snaggled window glass. Ludwig swung forward, bent over from the impetus, presenting a target too good to miss. Swinging his muscular leg with all his strength, Jeremy Kane planted a boot between Ludwig’s parted coat-tails, and catapulted the man into the fleeing crowd.

You cowardly scuts! Mackenzie hopped up and down in feisty glee, calling after his retreating enemies, Run, aye run — and tell your skulking masters you failed again! With a last flourish of his splintered type-stick, he turned to his rescuers. Thank you, gentlemen. Most kind of you all. I’m obliged to you, Mister Lount. He looked uncertainly at Hardacre, whom he scarcely knew. And, er, to you, sir.

The young farmer merely shrugged, massaged a growing lump in his carroty hair, and strolled off without a word. The rest of Mackenzie’s supporters began to drift off, too, after shaking the Scot’s hand and mumbling well-wishes. Some left with a rueful grin about how it would be to explain torn clothes or black eyes to disapproving wives.

Jeremy searched through the rubble until he recovered his papers, glumly saw they were so damaged he would have to copy them afresh, and turned to leave. Mackenzie piped, Hi, where are you rushing off to?

Me, sir?

No, Jeremy, the man in the moon! Come along inside, and get that schnozzle looked after. As he spoke, the panting newspaperman surveyed the wreckage, ruffled tufts of reddish hair on his pate making him look all the more like some outraged Bantam rooster. One of his children found what he was looking for, gravely handing him his wig. He shook the dust from it and clapped the toupee back on his head, jauntily askew. Thank you, Janet, dear.

’Lizabeth.

Eh? Oh, aye, of course you are, dearie His confusion seemed understandable, what with the close ages of his six surviving offspring, and bereavement of five others from the all-too-common childhood diseases that thinned every family. Only recently, Mackenzie’s infant son passed away from diphtheria, another tiny coffin sadly laid to rest in the Presbyterian Burial Ground.

Come along, laddie. He led the way through his brood, each already trying to salvage what they could among the scattered books. Norah winked solemnly at Jeremy, who grinned back and followed her father inside.

The crowd dispersed within minutes, leaving only knots of gossipers on the sidewalk to excitedly embroider the events for re-telling over many a day to come. The three gentlemen in the carriage exchanged sour looks. Damn them! Powell broke their silence. They didn’t near earn their shillings. Why didn’t they teach the little upstart a proper lesson when they had their chance?

Two schoolgirls tripped by, chattering about the excitement as they hurried off to Miss Fraunce’s Finishing Academy, each with ringletted hair flouncing in time to the swing of short skirts. Renard pulled out a square of crimson silk and began to rub it caressingly between thumb and forefinger. He followed the girls with his wide, blazing, eyes as he sneered absently, What did you expect, Powell?

Why, him crippled at the very least!

Oh, well, gentlemen, we learned a thing or two, still. Sheriff Jarvis snapped his notebook closed. If nothing else, these little affairs do draw a few of the other rats out into the open where we can identify them. Renard look so intently at the officer that Jarvis stumbled on, Like it sort of reveals the secret Reformers, too, sir, if you get my drift.

I do, indeed, Jarvis. The Attorney-General sounded strangely pleased. Something to expose the whole stableful of rats, once and for all. Decisively, he jerked the reins. Yes, that’s just what we need, Powell. A piece of cheese so tempting, it’ll flush out every last one of the vermin. Right into our trap!

CHAPTER TWO

I confess, I never expected to be beholden to the son of our Compact-appointed Postal Inspector for rescuing me from Galloping Head’s bully-boys. Mackenzie waved away the further ministrations of his wife, and pushed his wig back in place over his split scalp.

My father came by his position honestly, sir! He’s no political toady! Jeremy’s dark eyes flashed, and he half-rose to leave.

William, be still — after what the dear boy’s just done for us! Isabel Mackenzie clucked, looking up from settling her baby in his cradle. She was as miniature a lady as suited her spouse, with hair in a neat prematurely-gray bun and a much-mended tartan dress powdered with dust from the siege. Jeremy was not sure, but she seemed to be showing signs of yet another pregnancy already.

Though there was scant ornamentation in her front drawing room, the place was comfortable with worn furniture. Except for the clutter of books, it looked as spick-and-span as possible after her hurried attempts to clear away the worst of the broken glass. Books lay everywhere; stacked in shelves, piled on tables, many lying open on chair arms as well-thumbed testimony to the Scottish crusader’s appetite for reading.

A kettle sang on the fire which burned in the grate, old-country style, even on a warm day such as this, and she had contrived to make tea between stanching the men’s wounds. Mrs. Mackenzie bustled over to top up her guest’s cup, while showing her upset with a pursing of lips at her cranky husband.

No offense meant, my dear. He knows that. Or should. She nodded sharply at the apology, noted the young man had settled back, and put herself to darning one of a pile of woolen socks.

Aye, Jeremy, her mate went on, Your father may somehow have got his position through mere hard work and merit, but ... He shook his head ruefully, Now I fear your actions may make his main task will be to hold on to his job. Guilt by association, as the powers-that be will likely see things.

Jeremy was about to make another hot retort, when the two apprentices came back to help clear up wreckage. How’re you, Eli? Kane grinned at the nervous-looking youth, as skittish now as years ago when Pater had gone to Sunday School with him. Don’t see much of you these days.

No wonder, Jerry. The Lord has found more serious work for me to do.

Meanwhile, He’ll not mind, if you also turn your hands to a few immediate earthly chores. His employer jerked a thumb at the other apprentice, struggling alone to move a splintered shutter. Pater anxiously skipped to help, lifting the heavy wood with a quick strength belied by his slimness, and backed from the room.

Mackenzie shook his head. I’m a God-fearing man, myself, as you know, but I cannot help think that young Pater’s gone soft in the noggin over Scriptures. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of the dark-complected man of twenty-five or so, who was gloomily examining the broken window-frame. Shake with my new assistant, Adam Wettlaufer. Not as handy with his fists as you, perhaps, but willing for all that.

Mrs. Mackenzie beamed at the two young men, one so open-faced and the other seemingly so forlorn. She passed them a cake-tray, and poured cups of tea. Have you two not met before?

Not likely, Isabel. her husband spoke instead. Especially the way this town is taking sides so fast. Besides, Jerry, young Wettlaufer’s just recently from Ohio. A fugitive himself, and a bit shy of making friends as yet. The American crammed a scone in his mouth, busying himself at gluing back the cover of a torn book. He caught Jeremy’s enquiring glance, and allowed a faint smile. Nothing criminal, to my mind, Mr. Kane. A small matter of helping runaway slaves.

Aye, we keep no shameful secrets in this house, which is more than can be said for yon House of Assembly!

Isabel looked up from mending a tiny bootee. Now, my love, young Master Kane has had enough of politics for one day. Will you not take more tea, Jeremy?

Lord, woman, everything’s politics in Toronto! So long as that cursed Family Compact rule, the very air we breathe smells political!

Close-mouthed by habit of late, Wettlaufer clearly wanted nothing with such a topic, and quickly finished his task. He picked up some of the more damaged volumes and turned to leave. It’ll cost at least twenty dollars — pounds, I mean — just to pay for the windows. He nodded morosely at the room, and disappeared down the corridor.

The price of truth, Adam! Mackenzie called after him. He turned back to Kane, chuckling wryly. We’ve had plenty of practice at home repairs. No chance of getting damages awarded this time, though. They used a mob today, without sixpence between most of them worth suing for. Och, I soaked the government hard for costs when the scoundrels broke my press a few years ago. He bared a row of horribly brown teeth while a yelp of laughter burst from him at the memory. Court awarded me damages of six hundred and twenty-five pounds Sterling, no less!

Isabel tried to turn talk to more social things; a constant duty when her fiery husband engaged in conversation with any guest at all. As much to calm her own nerves as anything, she prattled, I’m afraid your poor mother will be vexed at us for getting you into a nasty fight. And she so sickly, the now. We weren’t able to get your coat any too clean, either.

Think nothing of it, ma’am. Jeremy made to leave. I wasn’t the only one to help.

No, but precious few do raise a finger, and we’re in your debt. His host capered back and forth across the broken shards of glass, the brittle crackling sounds punctuating his indignation. Help’s scarce in this country anywhere. Hundreds of immigrants starve to death each winter for the want of aid. Whole farm families expire of the cholera if they lack charitable neighbours.

Jeremy found himself waved back into his seat while the tirade went on. Except for a bit while I was mayor, nothing official’s ever done to help the needy. Why? Because the bulk of taxes goes to line Compact pockets. Yet barely a public complaint’s ever raised! Can you explain that, now?

A lengthier debate was saved when six-year-old Helen slipped into the room like a cotton-clad mouse and scampered onto her father’s lap. Jeremy made a funny face at her, but she would not smile, and instead pointed parts of a broken toy horse at the visitor. That bad man there stepped on Dobbin

Mackenzie kissed his daughter wetly. Now there, lovie, he soothed, and helplessly pressed the wooden pieces together.

I’m very sorry if I did, young lady. It wasn’t on purpose, truly. Jeremy reached for the toy and began to mend it with Wettlaufer’s glue.

Whisht, don’t bother the gentleman, dearie. Mrs. Mackenzie placed a tray on the lace-covered table Try another scone, won’t you, Jeremy. You’re courting that pretty wee Sophia Van Wyck, I hear.

He kept his head down over the toy, and mumbled, Well, I call on her sometimes.

Tosh, no need to be bashful! Isabel chirruped. We hear another young man’s calling there, too. So press your attentions. A fine laddie like you!

If I know Cornelius Van Wyck, you’ll not be welcome at paying attention to his lassie after today’s wee donnybrook! Mackenzie yelped in bitter laughter, and bounced his daughter on his knee in time to a jerky song.

"Oh, Galloping Head,

Galloping Head...

It’s what he does,

Not what he said!"

The little girl giggled, helpless with mirth, and the tight fierceness of her father softened for a moment as he stroked her hair. But he quickly grew dour again in a moment, peering at his visitor. Aye, everyone’s a political animal hereabouts. Even the good Doctor Rolph, Reform-minded as he is, will be leery of you after today.

Jeremy held out the toy. Here, Helen. Don’t take the string off ‘til the glue’s dry … Why so, Mister Mackenzie? I thought my employer was a fellow-sympathizer of yours, sir.

Mackenzie fondly squeezed his daughter before allowing her to struggle from his knee. What do you say to the gentleman, dear?

Ta. But you shouldn’t have broken it in the first place. She pattered out, followed by her father’s wistful smile. Even she’s picked up my cursed sense of right from wrong, regardless ... Aye, Rolph’s as staunch a Reformer as any, if over-inclined to play both sides at the same time. But that’s the lawyer in him. A pat on Jeremy’s shoulder. He’ll teach you the profession well.

Again, the youth tried heading for the door. "With two more years of articling still ahead, I sometimes wonder if I’m