There were four redcoats pacing Ada’s carriage as it trundled down the hill toward her house. Each one had a ride, bayonet, and pistol at the ready. They were all drenched with sweat in the blazing summer sun—and the quick pace certainly didn’t help—but their faces said they were determined to see their mission through, no matter how much it hurt.
When they finally reached her front steps, one of the soldiers opened the door to let her out, while the others spread out to the four corners of her property, taking up position, weapons at the ready.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” said the one by her door. “No one’s getting anywhere near you.”
“Good,” she said, with a stoic nod of her head. “And godspeed, corporal.”
She looked back toward Lowertown with a growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach. It was quiet—peaceful, almost—but she knew that would change soon. If they succeeded, Bytown would finally find some measure of true peace. And if they failed…
Inside, Béatrice was sitting on the staircase, wound so tight she might pop at any second. She looked up as Ada came in, not daring to ask the questions that needed asking. Her hands were stained red, squeezed tightly together. Trying to wring out her anxiety.
“They’re coming?” she asked Ada.
“They’re here,” said Ada. “Four, around the perimeter.”
Béatrice nodded absentmindedly. “Four. Good,” she said.
Ada climbed a few steps, sat next to Béatrice, and fought the urge to wring her hands together, too. They were an odd pair, the two of them, sitting there in this mismatched lives and mismatched accents, plotting an insurrection.
“I know I’ve asked a thousand times,” said Ada, after a few moments of silence. “But for my peace of mind…how does this not end in disaster?”
Béatrice grinned. “Is this for your nerves, or mine?”
Ada returned the grin. “Both, I suspect. But indulge me.”
A deep breath. A shifting of focus. And then Béatrice lifted a finger and began to recount her plan one last time…
“You talked to Bowen and made your case, yes?”
“Yes. It took some nudging, but he saw the advantages to stepping in.”
“Good,” said Béatrice. “The Shiners will already be on edge, thanks to Liam’s words and actions. Any Englishman crossing the bridge will be seen as a threat, so when Bowen takes his troops straight into Lowertown…”
“It will be a declaration of war,” said Ada.
Bowen’s camp was already taking shape, just south of the market, blocking Rideau and Sussex and making travel impossible without going through his checkpoint. There were more redcoats around than most of the residents had ever seen, which was bringing out crowds—much to Bowen’s annoyance.
“Extend the buffer,” he said to a lieutenant. “And clear the market. Tear down the stalls so I have a clear view north. No one comes within a hundred paces of this spot without me seeing the cavity in their very back tooth, do you understand me?”
“Aye, sir,” saluted the lieutenant, rushing off to do the deed.
Bowen was about to bark more orders at another underling when he saw what he was looking for: two squads of soldiers, heading in from the east and the north, with two very different prisoners in tow: Peter Aylen, being shoved and prodded ‘til he was almost off his feet; and Joseph Montferrand, whom nobody dared touch.
He stepped out of his canopy to greet them, arms wide. “Ah, gentleman, so good of you to come.”
Aylen spat into the dirt in reply. Montferrand said nothing.
“I thought I made myself abundantly clear, but perhaps something was lost in translation. So here it is again: if you can’t get your house in order over here, we will step in and do it for you.”
“It’s been a day, you daft bastard,” snarled Aylen. “What did you think would change in—”
“A man’s dead, Aylen. One of your men is dead.”
Aylen looked even more incredulous. “And how is that my fault?”
“Oh, it’s not,” said Bowen, then raised an eyebrow to Montferrand. “Is it yours, I wonder?”
“I do not speak for les Gens,” was the reply.
“No, of course not. It seems we are faced with a lone wolf of sorts.” He paced a little further forward, until he was between them, and tapped a finger to his lips as he thought. “Lowertown has something of a vigilante problem, don’t you find? Gangs, now that’s one thing. Gangs I can understand, and control…” He grinned at Aylen. “But this? A man killing by night, with no one willing to stand behind his actions? No one to speak for him? That stinks of chaos, gentlemen.”
“We’re the victims here…” said Aylen.
“Oh, I rather doubt that. A French girl is kidnapped, an Irishman is killed. Seems very cut and dried to me: you children are not capable of managing your own affairs.”
Montferrand spoke in a calm and respectful voice: “My men will find out who the vigilante is, Captain Bowen, and report back to you immed—”
“We’re far past that, I’m afraid,” said Bowen. “Lowertown poses a material risk to the good citizens of Bytown, and to that end, the military will be taking control of its territory until such time as good and proper order can be imposed.”
Aylen knew it was coming, it was clear, but it still drove him mad. “If you think—”
“I do think, Mr Aylen. And unlike you, I am following through on my promises.” He raised his voice so anyone in the vicinity could hear clearly: “Lowertown is under curfew until further notice! Anyone caught on the streets will be subject to arrest, or worse, at my own discretion.”
“Starting when?” asked Montferrand, knowing all too well that half of Lowertown was out and about in the middle of the afternoon.
Bowen grinned at him. “Starting now.”
Béatrice raised a second finger, mind running through her plan again and again, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything important. Ada waited patiently, because she could see the tension in the younger woman’s face, and how much her self-inflicted responsibilities were weighing on her.
“Bowen will push hard,” she said, “which will only make Aylen’s life even harder. He rules like a king, so bowing down to an outsider will be hard for his people to swallow.”
“How do you know he’ll bow down?” asked Ada. “What if he fights back?”
“It’s his way,” said Béatrice. “He never strikes impulsively. He talks first, tricks you into thinking he’s on your side. He makes concessions you think he’d never make. And then, just as you’re convinced the rumours are wrong, and he’s not as bad as they say…then he strikes.” She shrugged. “Ask enough of his victims, and they all tell the same story. He holds his punches until he knows they’ll hurt the most.”
“So if the English take the streets—”
“Aylen will be struggling to keep his hot-headed subjects from doing something he can’t undo.”
Aylen slammed the man against the wall, arm pressing into his throat so hard, the poor wretch was struggling for air. The tavern was packed with displaced Irish, all rounded up by soldiers or choice when they realized they couldn’t make their way home in time.
“I said no,” snarled Aylen. “You set foot outside, and you’re a dead man, do you understand me?”
“But Mr Aylen, sir,” said another Shiner, from somewhere in the crowd. “We can’t just do nothing. This isn’t their—”
Aylen spun ‘round, trying to catch whoever’d spoken in the act, but came up short. He stepped onto a nearby table, getting as good as look at the crowd as he could before calling out: “If we provoke those English now, lads, they’ll burn us all to the ground. Every last one of us. I guarantee it.”
“But how are we to live like this, Mr Aylen?” asked a woman, near the middle, who did a respectful curtsy after asking her question, as if that would ward off any evil spirits.
“We bide our time,” he said. “They can’t stay forever—”
“But what if they do?” asked someone else, who wisely stayed hidden.
“They’re not here for us,” Aylen said, barely keeping his temper in check. “They’re here because good Irish lads are bein’ slaughtered, and they want it stopped. Now, I don’t agree with the how of it, but the why is—”
“But they did the killing!” said yet another coward, and Aylen’s face twitched in fury.
Before he could respond, a man near the front chimed in: “They said this is their domain, didn’t they? Said they’d take it back?”
Aylen felt control slipping away from him. Someone who’d been near enough to overhear his fight with Sisk had learned just enough about the damned vigilante to start spreading rumours, and now those rumours were going to sink him.
“This isn’t their domain, and they’re not taking anything from us!” he shouted, and the room quieted somewhat. “They’ll make a big fuss about looking for the killer, get bored and go home.”
“How can you know?” asked the respectful woman. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because, madam,” Aylen said with a smile. “None of us will be daft enough to provoke them otherwise.”
A third finger raised, as Béatrice continued unraveling her plot. It all seemed so clean and so clear, Ada’s confidence was building by the word. All the groundwork had been expertly laid, so that each domino would fall without the slightest bit of resistance, and cascade straight through to victory.
It was that simplicity that made them both nervous.
Béatrice thought a moment before speaking. “Aylen will try, but he cannot be in all places at once. His people will be agitated, and those outside his direct control will see the soldiers as enemies to be defeated.”
“It takes a lot of bravery to pick a fight with the King’s army,” observed Ada.
“Not if the King’s army crosses the line from law enforcement to a gang of bullies.”
Ada nodded. “And so?”
“And so it would be unfortunate if something were to put them on edge…”
Four redcoats stood side-by-side, staring in anger and consternation at the front of the bakery. The windows were all broken, and scrawled across the wooden exterior in blood red paint were the words: “DIE ENGLISH.”
The soldiers looked to each other, nervously, and gripped their rifles a little tighter.
All down the street, more houses and shops were splattered with red paint, blaring all kinds of vicious taunts for all to see. From the windows, they saw people looking out at them, glaring at them, wishing they were gone.
Wishing they were dead? Maybe so.
Never mind that the paint had dried long before they’d ever crossed the bridge. Never mind half the citizens had been desperately trying to clear it off as the redcoats came through. All they say were threats against their lives, and a hostile population intent on doing them harm.
It didn’t take long before the British were using the powers Bowen gave them to an extreme: beating stragglers unconscious without warning; grabbing women and children out of their homes for the crime of looking out a window; marching captives through the streets, smacking them with the butts of their guns without warning, to make it clear who was in charge.
And every time they did, the eyes at the windows got a little bit angrier, and Aylen’s control became a little less important.
Four fingers. Béatrice stared down at her four fingers.
“Battle lines will be drawn,” she said. “Every soldier, an invader. Every man, suspicious. Neither side will give ground, and no one will even remember the real reason they’re there in the first place. The masked vigilante will be lost in the shuffle.”
Ada smiled, proud of Béatrice’s masterful orchestration. But then her smile faded as she looked around. “Where is Liam, anyway?”
Béatrice looked away.
Colleen gasped a horrible gasp as he was shaken out of her sleep. She tried to break free of Liam’s grip, but he wasn’t letting go. His eyes were wide with panic and worry.
“We have to go,” he said. “Colleen, it’s time to go.”
Her eyes were having a hard time focusing, and her tongue was numb, and the room kept spinning in a slow and wonderful way. She blinked a few times, hard, trying to make it stop.
“I’m not ready to—”
He threw the covers off her and pulled her upright, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. He had her boots ready, and knelt down to put them on her.
“If we don’t move fast, we’ll be caught,” he said.
“Caught how?” she asked, tipping over sideways.
“It’s too much to explain,” he said, pulling the laces on the one side tight. He struggled to get her other foot into the boot, but didn’t slow down one bit. “I can’t carry you. Can you walk?”
“I’m lovely,” she slurred, closing her eyes and letting the colours pull her away again.
He jerked her to a sitting position again, holding her head steading in his hand. “Colleen,” he said. “Colleen, listen to me. You need to walk. I need you to walk.”
She laughed at that. Hysterically, but devolving into tears and fitful sobs. “He’ll kill me if I go.”
“Don’t worry,” said Liam, hands under her armpits to hoist her up. “He’ll never find you. We’ll keep you safe.”
“Where?” she asked. “Corkstown? Because—”
“Corkstown is gone, Colleen,” he said, and she frowned at a memory half-forgotten. “We’re going to Ada’s. You remember Ada?”
She smiled a wide smile and nodded. “Yes I do,” she said. “I told him all about how much you adore her, and he is so excited to meet her.”
Ada looked out the window, up toward Lowertown. She could see one of the soldiers standing there, rifle in hand, pacing back and forth to keep himself occupied. It would be a long and boring shift, but at least he’d come out of it unscathed. She worried about the other young men under Bowen’s command who would have an entirely different kind of day, all because of them. All because of Béatrice’s plan. The plan she’d helped put into motion.
“Just a spark,” she said, more to herself than anything. “One little spark, and the whole town will burn.”
“It needs to burn,” said Béatrice, still on the steps. “It needs to be cleansed by fire.”
Ada nodded, faintly. “God help Liam. I hope he has the sense to stay hidden.”
“He’s gotten smarter, these last months.”
“In my experience,” said Ada, “there is an upper limit to how smart men can be.” She checked the clock on the wall and straightened herself out. “I should prepare tea for our good friends in uniform.”
Béatrice stood, too. “And I should get into the cellar, in case they take you up on the offer. Just give me a minute to rouse Sophie. She’s been asleep all afternoon, poor thing.”
Ada went into the kitchen, setting the kettle over the fire and looking out the window at another of the soldiers doing his duty, but without so much pacing. All that moved was his head, back and forth, back and forth, keeping a perfect rhythm. She doubted he would accept any tea, but her English blood demanded she make the offer anyway. Besides, she might glean some more gossip if he—
Someone grabbed her arm and she spun around, about to shriek when a hand clapped over his mouth. Béatrice stood close, speaking in a hushed tone: “She’s gone. Sophie’s gone.”
Montferrand’s escort broke off as he reached his house, hurrying back to Bowen like they were glad to be done shadowing a mountain. Montferrand might have called out with a quip under better circumstances, but he’d seen enough danger and trauma on the way to know things were about to get very bad in Lowertown, and he would have very little control, locked up in his house.
It was strange, not having his minders about for a change. It was like riding the river, in a way. The silence and solitude were a welcome change, even if they were only being granted under unfortunate circumstances. He stood there, eyes closed, listening to the sound of the wind blowing past, the creak of the wood beneath his feet, distant sounds he couldn’t quite make out, and didn’t to try.
And then he heard the sound of breathing behind him, and turned with a start.
It was a girl in a blue dress, stained with dried blood. Her eyes were red from crying, her hands squeezed together like she was in prayer. She dropped to her knees the second he saw her.
“Please, Mr Montferrand,” she said in French, and suddenly it clicked.
“Sophie?” he asked, kneeling down before her. “Goodness, child, are you alright?”
He checked her face, her hair, her arms…anything for a sign of where the blood came from. But she caught his hand, held it still, and caught her breath again.
“They’re killing people,” she said, voice almost a whisper.
“I know, child,” he said. “But the Shiners can’t hurt you anymore, so long as—”
“No, sir, not them,” she said, and he frowned. “They’re trying to start a war. And I’m afraid…I’m so afraid if we can’t stop them, it won’t just be my life they leave ruined in their wake.”
He put a hand to her cheek, anger building inside him until it was impossible to deny any longer, and there was only one question left to ask:
“Show me where.”