He tied the horse to a tree at the base of the hill and, after tucking his frozen hands into his armpits, climbed the slope toward the starlit sky. Some steps, he sunk into the snow up to his waist, struggling to move on. It took an action like swimming through turbulent seas to get free, and finally find enough solid footing to make it to the crest…
The landscape spread out ahead of him, cast in darkness and desperately endless. He was facing west, at least broadly. But beyond that, he had no idea where he was going, or how to get there. This was Maggie’s plan, but she wasn’t around to help him navigate it. Perth could be right ahead of him, and he’d have no idea.
He looked back, down toward Bytown, but couldn’t see a thing. Had the fire gone out, or had he just travelled further than he thought? He held his breath and listened: wind through the trees, a distant cry from an animal, and his horse shifting its stance, its harness jingling faintly.
No sounds of pursuers. Friendly or not.
He was on his own.
He cast his gaze back west and a shiver went through him. You’ll die out there, he thought, and no one will ever find your remains.
He couldn’t go back. He was afraid to go on. He thought of heading south, riding on until he hit the St Lawrence and hopping a ship at the nearest port and just—
///
“No,” said the bald man, barely looking up from his map. He gestured back toward the gangway, back to shore. “Not lookin’.”
Émile held his cap tight in his hands, did his best to look respectful. The other crew members were bustling by, carrying kegs and trunks as they loaded up the ship for the journey ahead. One especially large brute bumped into Émile, and delivered an angry grunt that felt like a threat, and a definitive one at that.
Émile cleared his throat and tried again: “I only ask for a chance to prove my—”
“French, eh?” said the bald man, with a grimace. “Doubly no.” He waved Émile away. “Go on, get.” He started back toward the bow, still reading the map.
“I know my way around a ship,” Émile pleaded, chasing after him. “There’s not a job I can’t do, and I’ll work hard and never cause trouble—”
“Yer causing it already,” said the man, tucking the map under his arm and glaring at Émile with enough force to kill. “Ye’re on a private vessel without permission, lad. By any law, I’ve a right to cut yer throat and throw ye overboard here and now.”
“Actually, while docked, you’d be required to bring me up on charges and hand me over to local authorities before—”
The bald man had clearly had enough. He stormed forward, grabbing Émile by his tattered collar and dragging him to the edge of the ship. “Here’s a deal for ye then,” he said. “I’ll skip the throat and just toss ye overboard, eh?”
They were so close to the docks that any fall would be fatal—so many bits of jutting wood and stone to break his neck on.
“Good-bye, little Frenchman,” said the bald man, and—
\\
—something glinted in the distance. It seemed like a reflection, but it was far too dark for that. Émile squinted, trying to make it out. It was hard to pinpoint, whatever it was he was seeing, because it seemed to be moving, cutting in and out of view through the thick treeline.
It took him another minute or two to realize why: it was a torch in the hands of a traveller, heading west along a road. A road! It might not lead directly to Perth, but it would almost certainly end up somewhere more definitive than the path he was on. And if he could catch the man with the torch, he might even be able to get directions!
He slid back down the hill, stumbling up to his horse with the biggest smile upon his face. “Good news,” he said, untying it. “I think I know where I’m going, finally…”
He mounted the horse, turned it in the direction of the road, and—
///
—his hands caught the edge of the ship as he yelled out: “The beer will get seized in Halifax!”
The bald man, so close to throwing him overboard, hesitated. “What did ye say?” he snarled.
“The beer you’re loading,” said Émile. “The inspectors in Halifax will seize it. All of it, the second they come aboard.”
“They’ve no right—”
“Import tariffs,” said Émile, still hanging over the edge of the ship. “They’ll say you owe import tariffs and—”
“It’s not imported, and it’s not meant for Halifax, neither!”
“And when you argue that, they will call for a hearing to decide the issue. But in the meantime…”
“…they’ll seize it all, for safe keepin’,” said the bald man, realizing. “How can ye be so sure?”
“Your map,” said Émile. “You made markings that Sydney, St John, Yarmouth are all congested, even though they’re either smaller or more out-of-the-way than Halifax. Suggesting…”
“The other ships are avoidin’ it for a reason…” The bald man pulled Émile back upright. “I thank ye for the tip, Frenchman. And in recognition of yer service, I will allow ye…” He patted Émile’s cheek happily, “to disembark on yer feet, ‘stead of being thrown over.”
Two shipmates stepped in and grabbed Émile by the arms, dragging him back toward the gangway.
“Wait! No, wait!” he called as—
\\
—his feet landed in the packed snow at the side of the road. He took the horse by the reins and, checking over his shoulder for unseen dangers, closed in on the man with the torch—while keeping as hidden as possible.
The stranger was alone, his own horse laden with packs and supplies, so he walked alongside. He must have been at it all night, but he still had a bounce to his step as he whistled a happy tune. Émile had been ready to run at the first sign of danger, but when he heard what the man was whistling, his whole body relaxed…it was a Canadien drinking song.
Émile’s horse stepped on a twig and the man glanced over his shoulder, then recoiled in surprise. “Goodness!” he said in heavily-accented English. “You scared me, friend!”
“I apologize,” Émile said in French. “I’m just glad to have caught up with you.”
The Canadien pulled the hammer on a pistol as he aimed it at Émile’s head. “Are you now?”
Émile froze. “I’m not here to—”
“To what?” asked the Canadien, walking backwards but not letting his target out of sight. “It’s the dead of night in the middle of nowhere. I am curious what you will say you were here to do.”
“I’m lost. I need directions.”
The Canadien waved the pistol back, back the way he’d come. “That way.”
“No, to Perth. I need to—”
“No,” said the Canadien, stopping suddenly and fixing his aim. “That way.”
Émile looked back down the road, winding its way back to Bytown. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to head that way…but he realized he had no choice in the matter. He gave the Canadien a slight nod and started backing up, making sure he kept his hands visible at all times.
“I travel at night to avoid these kinds of troubles!” the Canadien called. “You come after me again, and I’ll put a ball in your eye, you understand me?”
“Yes,” said Émile, still backing up. The Canadien was about to go around a corner and out of sight, after which he’d have to find another way west. Back through the forest, maybe…though he doubted he’d find another road for miles.
Just then, they heard the sound of hooves galloping through the snow. The second the Canadien spun around, Émile grabbed his horse’s reins and led it into the treeline, back as far as they could go without losing sight of the road.
“That’s far enough,” the Canadien called out in English as a pair of riders approached from the west. Émile couldn’t see them clearly, but could tell they were stopping a safe distance away from him, spread apart like they knew exactly what they were doing, facing off with an armed man.
“Awfully late to be out on the roads,” said one of the men. Irish.
“Or awfully early,” said his partner. “Either way, awful.”
“I need to be at Carleton Place by noon,” said the Canadien.
“Where, now?” asked the first Irishman.
“Carleton Place,” said the Canadien. “Morphy’s Falls.”
“Ah, Morphy’s, right,” said the first. “Funny thing is, we just came from there, and they don’t want you.”
“They—” the Canadien began, before the second Irishman cut him off with:
“Frenchmen, that is.”
Émile ducked lower, trying to get a better view of things…and also to keep himself out of sight.
“Monsieur Morphy is expecting me,” said the Canadien. “You can ask him, he knows me.”
“Oh, we know you, too,” said the first. “Don’t we, Jimmy?”
“Aye,” said the second. “Been lookin’ everywhere for you, too. Made good time, you did.”
The Canadien’s voice betrayed fear. Panic. “I promise, you have mistaken me for—”
“Frenchman, headed west,” said the first Irishman.
Émile ducked even lower—tried to find an escape route deeper into the forest—but worried any attempt would draw attention immediately. The Irishmen were moving to either side of the Canadien, penning him in. He had a pistol, true, but only one shot…and Émile had no doubt they were both armed, too.
“Frenchman with a stolen horse,” said Jimmy.
“This is my—”
“Armed and dangerous,” said the first.
“Explains the bounty,” said Jimmy. “A lot of risk, taking down a French killer in the woods.”
The Canadien suddenly realized what he was up against. He loosened his grip on his pistol and tossed it into the snow, his hands up over his head. Émile cursed the poor fool’s luck.
“I am no horse thief,” said the Canadien, voice trembling. “And I’m not the only Fren—”
A pair of shots rang out, and Émile—
///
—kicked and thrashed to get free before the two sailors threw him down onto the docks below. “Let me go!” he shouted. “I can help you! I can—”
“You can what?” asked a voice, and the sailors stopped as a middle-aged man came up the gangway toward them. His face was sun-scarred and scruffy, but by the way the others deferred to him, he was clearly the captain. He stopped short, observing Émile with a curious grin. “What can a beggar help me with? Hmm? Enlighten me.”
“I’m no beggar,” said Émile. “I’m—”
“A stowaway,” called the bald man from the edge of the deck. “Pardon, Captain. I was showin’ ‘im more mercy than ‘e deserved.”
“Indeed,” said the captain. “Still time to do it right, I reckon.” He gestured off the edge of the gangway. “In with him.”
“Halifax is a trap!” Émile shouted as the two sailors—
The captain raised a hand, and they caught him again, dangling off the side. “Halifax is a what?” he asked.
“Inspectors, Captain,” said the bald man. “Seizin’ goods at Halifax harbour. This one overheard me tellin’ the men why we’re changin’ course to skip it.”
The captain grinned at Émile. “Nice try.”
“Don’t skip it,” Émile said. “You’ll thin your supplies. You need Halifax.”
“Then how d’ye propose we deal with the inspectors, then?” laughed the bald man.
Émile kept his eyes locked on the captain. “Third spot down, fly a red flag. The authorities will leave you alone if they see a red flag. Won’t even ask to come aboard.”
“And how’s that?” asked the captain.
“It’s how the British Navy marks their secret ships. The ones running missions outside the law. Inspectors know to stay away when they see the red flag. They know not to interfere.”
The captain gave the bald man a sideways glance, a curious smile creeping across his face. He gave Émile another once-over, like he was re-assessing the entire situation, top to bottom. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Deschênes. Émile Deschênes.”
“Well, Mr Deschênes,” said the captain, slapping him on the shoulder. “Looks like we can use a beggar aboard after all.”
The two sailors deposited him back on his feet, and led him back onto the ship. The sensation of relief coursed through is whole body so suddenly, he nearly—
\\
—screamed in horror as the Canadien’s horse whinnied and ran full-bore down the road. The Irishmen circled their kill, kicking him onto his back and prodding him with the muzzle of their rifles.
Émile was flat on the ground now, shivering from the cold and terror all at once.
“You think he’s the one?” asked Jimmy.
“No way to know,” said the other. “Aylen wants proof, though.”
“It’s a long way to carry him if we’re wrong.”
“Aye. If it’s down to that, can’t say I’m sure. Maybe roll ‘im off the road and come back ‘round if nothing else—”
And that’s when Émile’s horse whinnied, and everything fell apart.