The horse galloped through the snow like it had a destination in mind, so Émile let it guide the way. He had never been this far south before, and without the sun or stars to guide him, he had no idea how to find his way to Perth. All he knew for certain was that he had to cross the canal to get there…and there didn’t seem to be any way across.
Behind him, Corkstown had turned into a massive, towering pillar of fire, lighting the area with a horrifying orange light and filling the air with the screams of people losing everything, and the shouts of men trying to stop it.
He kept checking over his shoulder, trying to see if Maggie was following, if she was catching up. He looked into the pitch black wilderness beyond, and prayed she’d catch up soon. A lost man was as good as a dead man on a night like this.
Keeping the canal in sight on his right, he urged the horse onward, squinting through the misted snow to get a sense of what they were charging into.
“There!” came a shout from behind, and he turned his head to see a trio of riders coming up fast, torches revealing the white masks of Roland’s Scotsmen on the hunt.
Émile pushed the horse harder, holding on for dear life as it bounded over a small rise near a turn in the canal. The slope down to the canal itself was gentle enough, but Émile knew from the Bywash that the thickness and reliability of the ice was never certain. But there was no other way.
He aimed the horse toward what seemed like the narrowest point across the water, checking over his shoulder as the Scots closed the gap.
“Be brave,” he said to the horse, as they raced down the slope and—
—Émile pulled the reins and the horse skidded to a stop, just shy of the ice. Up on the other side were a dozen pinpricks of light, weaving in and out of the trees as a second hunting party made its way toward him. There was no way through anymore.
He veered the horse to the left and raced onward, right at the edge of the canal, desperate to find another way across without running straight into a trap.
Up ahead, he saw a clearing in the forest, and another chance to get ahead of his pursuers, where the treeline left an opening for what seemed like a good stretch out west. He squinted, trying to make sure he was seeing things right, because—
The horse’s hoof hit an uneven patch and it stumbled a bit, nearly throwing Émile off. He grabbed hold as the horse fought to keep itself upright—and slowed down considerably. Émile checked over his shoulder again, and saw the Scots were closing in…and the ones from the forest, too. There were fewer and fewer moments to waste.
He righted himself and doubled down.
Crack! One of the Scots from the forest tried to race his horse across the ice, and found it was not as stable as he’d thought. The hole sent his ride tumbling, and threw him several feet—where he landed with a sickening crack, his neck broken instantly.
Émile shivered at the sight of it, then looked ahead at the stretch he was targeting…frozen, yes, but solid?
Another crack and another crunch shattered his nerves; he pulled the horse left, away from the ice, and galloped up the slope toward something more certain.
There, to his left, was an opening in the forest. Just big enough to weave through, if he did it right. With the Scots closing in from behind, he had no choice. He raced straight into the thicket, branches whipping at him from all sides as he shot through the forest like a cannonball through a ship.
Behind him, the first of the Scots made a mess of his pursuit, smacking into a fall tree too hard and getting thrown from his horse. The others scattered to avoid the chaos, but that only made things worse. One ended up impaled on a branch, and the last was forced into a detour that bought Émile precious seconds.
He would need every last one of them.
He could hear it before he saw it, and when it finally came into view, he nearly cried out. Up ahead, past the edge of the forest, was the Rideau River. It was frozen and snow-covered, except for the very middle, which was rushing and crackling with black, frigid waters. A gap of maybe six feet, but six terrible feet.
Beyond it, more trees, but freedom…because beyond the Rideau was the realm of les Canadiens. If he could make it across, he would be safe. Protected.
But across the river was east. And Perth was west. If he crossed the river, he would be protected, but only for a time. And Maggie would be forced to make that terrible journey on her own.
He pulled the horse to a stop, just shy of the river’s edge, and watched the water race by. There was no guarantee the ice would hold. There was no guarantee he’d even make it close enough to have a hope of jumping the gap. There were no guarantees at all.
Behind him, the last Scotsman was breaking branches, getting closer and closer, swearing loudly with each crack.
East, to freedom. West, to…
Émile pulled the reins tighter, and kicked the horse into motion…away from the river.
He was nearly out of sight when the Scot got free of the forest and threw his torch away in frustration.
“You’re a dead man!” he shouted, and Émile had no doubt that he was right.
Émile’s horse was panting, exhausted from the speed and randomness of their journey thus far, but still willing to try. The way west went up…way up a steep hill littered with towering trees. There was no way they could make that climb in the snow. Not fast enough to matter.
He kept them aimed along the river’s edge, praying he could find another way through. He’d never seen a map of Bytown, had no idea where he might be heading…and if whoever’s land he might be crossing would be friendly or hostile to a lone Canadien tearing across his property.
The Scot was falling behind, the further they went. Ahead, he saw torches attached to a structure, and…he gasped in joy at the sight of a wooden bridge stretched across the river, connected on both sides by a well-trod road. It would send him further south, but the steadier terrain would also give his horse and chance to leave the Scot behind, and maybe end this nightmare for good.
He was so overjoyed that he almost didn’t notice the men standing at the near end of the bridge, muskets in hand, preparing for his arrival. A toll bridge…and he had no money on him.
He tried to think of how to talk his way through when the Scot, screaming at the top of his lungs, bellowed: “Stop him! Stop that man!”
The bridgemen spotted him, pointed their guns in Émile’s direction. Frantic, he jerked the horse sideways, galloping back into a forest so thick he couldn’t tell which way he was going at all anymore.
Muskets fired, loud cracks echoing all around, as wood splintered and crumbled as shots went wide. Émile ducked but didn’t let his horse slow down.
Then, just as fast as they’d entered the forest, they were out again, crossing the northern part of the road leading back toward the bridge.
“Stop!” shouted a man, and fired, narrowly missing as Émile crashed through another set of trees, racing for…something. He had no idea where he was anymore, or where he was meant to go. Was he facing south? West? North? He had no idea. All he could tell was that the voices behind him were growing more distant, and that the gunshots had stopped, and that his horse still had energy to run.
He wondered if Maggie had made it this far. If she’d made it across the canal, and was halfway to Perth by now. He wondered how angry Béatrice was with him, that he’d left her there to go on this fool’s errand.
He wished he had a map. Or light to see it by. Or a chance of surviving.
He came out of the forest at the head of a gentle slope downward into the strangest sight: it was like a lake spread out before him, frozen solid, and dotted with a hundred little specks that seemed to be the stumps of trees, jutting from down below. Like the lake had cleaved them all apart, and then receded and left their remains behind.
He was at the edge of the canal again: it snaked off to his left, and then to the right, toward a faint orange glow on the horizon. Across that lake was west. But it was so much farther than before. So much uncertainty.
“Hurry!” came a voice from behind, and his ears attuned to the sound of angry men shoving their way through trees.
And then: “This way!” to his left, and the sound of hoofbeats on the ground, along the canal.
And then: “Keep going!” to his right, cutting off all other choices.
There was nowhere else to go.
There was no choice but west.
The only question was how far he’d make it. And what would be the cause of his death.
He patted the horse gently, took a bracing breath. “I’m sorry, mon ami,” he said, and kicked the beast on.
The ice cracked immediately, but didn’t break. The horse nearly lost its footing in the first steps, but quickly learned what it was dealing with, and charged forward like it had been born for this. There was a low shoreline directly ahead, and both Émile and the horse seemed to see it at the same time, and adjusted their course to meet it.
Then: crack! a shot from behind. His pursuers had reached the canal, too. Two more shots, and then suddenly one of the tree stumps near them exploded into fragments as a musket ball hit it, spraying bits of wood and spooking the horse—it reared to a halt, throwing Émile off.
He landed on the ice, slamming into another stump so hard it knocked the wind out of him. He rolled to his stomach, then got to his knees, reaching a hand out for the horse—which seemed afraid to run in any direction as the men on the shore fired more shots at them.
“Doucement, doucement…” Émile said, stepping toward it like nothing was happening around them, like nothing was wrong at all.
The horse sensed his calm, the gentle way he was speaking, and slowly…slowly…it calmed too. He rested a hand on its neck and smiled and said: “Good. You’re safe now. Don’t worry.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men starting across the lake, reloading their weapons for another volley. The ones on horses were having a hard time convincing their animals to go onto the ice, but it made no difference if the muskets found their mark. Émile knew there was no time to waste, but he had to move carefully.
He took hold of the reins, and the horse flinched, looked ready to bolt. “Shh,” he said, patting it reassuringly. “Shh…”
He put his boot in the stirrup, and with a slight pause to keep it calm, lifted himself into the saddle. The horse stopped fretting the second he was settled, like it remembered its purpose with the weight of a rider on its back. It snorted, ready to ride.
“Fire, dammit! Fire!” came a voice from behind, crack! more shots sped past, embedding in the ice and snow all around.
The horse needed no urging: it galloped for the far shore as fast as it could move, weaving between the tree stumps as the distance closed.
Back on the other shore, the horses finally gave in and hopped onto the lake, skidding and slipping and knocking one of the riflemen over. But as they tried to recover, they gathered closer together, and—
—the ice beneath them broke apart, toppling them all.
Émile heard the screams as the men fell into the freezing water, battered by wedges of ice, or kicked by their flailing horses.
He had no time to look back, though. He had no time for anything but Perth.
Back on the shore, the Scot finally made it through the forest in time to see the carnage in the broken ice. He stopped, caught his breath, and dismounted, picking bits of twigs out of his frozen skin.
One of the bridgemen made his way up the shore to meet him, jaw set tightly in fury and grief. “Mr Billings won’t be happy about this,” he said.
“Mr Billings can kiss my ass,” growled the Scot. “An’ I don’t care wha’ it cost ‘im—we’re splittin’ the bounty 50/50.”
Billings’ man blinked, confused. “Bounty? There’s no bounty.” He pointed across the lake. “He got away!”
The Scot’s face drained of colour as he looked back toward Lowertown, and the fires still burning there. He clapped Billings’ man on the shoulder and sighed: “Good luck tellin’ Aylen, then.”