Jambe was silent. Finally he swore, irritably. “Why not? I’ll come along, John Daniel, if that is what you call yourself, for I’ve a thought we’ll be safer together.”
We came up to Macklem then, standing in the road with three others of the past night, the snake-eyed man among them.
“Come along,” he said cheerfully, “there’s safety in numbers, and I hear the Indians can still be dangerous at times, to say nothing of thieving white men.”
So we went along together, Macklem and myself in the lead, and Jambe-de-Bois falling back to bring up the rear—but in such a position that if any attempt was made upon me he would be first to see a false move and not only warn but aid me. Yet there was a rankling doubt in me, for what did I know of him? I was among enemies, yet there was a youthful foolishness and confidence in me that made me believe I could win out even if it came to blows with the lot of them.
I was stronger than they realized, and a better shot. Still, there was enough good sense in me—despite my vanity—to realize I might get no chance to shoot, nor even to use my strength.
Gradually, the trees thinned out, farms appeared. Toward evening we saw boys and girls driving cattle home from the pasture. People stopped to watch us go by, and some answered our friendly hails and some did not, yet all stared.
When we came to an inn, it was not like the hovel where we had stopped before. It was a spacious place, with two floors, glass windows, and a common room where drinks and food were served.
The proprietor here was a man of dignity, who spoke of politics in a manner that suggested he knew of what he spoke. But I was not sure. Perhaps he was no more than a fat windbag. There were aplenty of them about in that year of 1821.
Yet the linens were fresh, the floors swept, the food excellently prepared.
Alone in my room, with the doors locked and the hot water that had been brought for me in the tub, I bathed—the first time since leaving Quebec, and only the second since leaving my home in the Gaspe. The open papers I’d taken from the pocket of Captain Foulsham were almost illegible. One was a letter, apparently from a brother. I could make out but little of it, as water had blurred the ink and made it run. The brother lived in London and was urging Captain Foulsham to return. And I found his address.
Seated in my room, I wrote to the address of the brother in England. Carefully, I stated just what I had found, and how I had come upon the body of Captain Foulsham. I also related how I had gone through the pockets and retrieved what was there, and the money would be forwarded to him.
Moreover, I informed him I was quite sure the murderer was either one of the party that had come along from that time to this, or that the murderer at least was known to one or more of them.
Each I described with care, adding such fragments as might be useful, then I took it upon myself to open the oilskin packet.
In the packet was an order for the arrest of one Baron Richard Torville, a deserter from the British army, a traitor. There was also information to the effect that Torville had been an agent for certain forces in France against Bonaparte, but that he’d committed a murder and absconded with money that did not belong to him.
It was a long bill, listing a half-dozen crimes. A picture emerged of a man shrewd, unprincipled, and dangerous, but one with powerful connections. The title by which he was known was itself borrowed without right … there was even doubt about his name. The past of the man was shrouded in mystery.
There was no physical description.
Foulsham, an agent for His Majesty’s government, had somehow tracked down and located this man— and Foulsham had been murdered.
Now I was myself in possession of information that could lead to my death.
Putting all the papers in the packet, I returned them to my shirt and went down to the common room. It was empty.
In a small study opening off the common room, I found Simon Tate, the proprietor.
“Sir.” I closed the door. “I have a matter of urgency and secrecy.”
He picked up his glasses and stared at me, putting down his pen. That he was doubtful was obvious, but taking from my pocket the small stack of gold coins, I placed them on the table. “I would like a draft for those, and a receipt.” He eyed the money and then me. Briefly, giving only the barest details, I told him of the body, that Captain Robert Foulsham was a man of importance, and that the money was to be returned to his family and the papers likewise.
That Tate was a man of affairs was obvious. His questions were few and to the point, and in a matter of minutes I was leaving the study with my receipt tucked away in my wallet and the packet left to go back to England by the next post.
Yet at the door Tate stopped me. Windbag he might seem when talking at large in the common room, but he was serious now. “This man of whom you speak,” he said quietly, “is a dangerous man. Once a man engages in political intrigue, it can become a way of life. You must ask yourself now, as I am asking, why is he here, in America? Such a man does not only think of escape. You can be sure he has other ideas.”
He paused, “Mr. Talon, I must speak of this to a friend of mine.”
This I did not like. Yet I hesitated. “What sort of friend?”
“You might say that he has the ear of those who matter, Mr. Talon. He is a man who seems of no importance, yet when he speaks, those in power listen.”
“Very well then.”
“A moment, Mr. Talon. You have chosen to confide in me, and you have acted … you have acted correctly, I believe. So let us talk, just for a minute.
“I know too little of affairs in your country, Mr. Talon, but I would assume they are similar to ours. Let us simply say that here the people rule—but to rule is not enough. The people must also be watchful, they must care for their country and its future.
“There are many self-seekers amongst us, yet many of those are sincere patriots. Our country is growing, but there are many forces, some abroad, some within, that are dangerous to us. You know of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory?”
“I have heard of it.”
“Its borders are ill-defined. We have Spain for a neighbor on the south, and we have England on the north. I know that many of the English and most of the Canadians are our friends. But some are not.
“What we have most to fear, I believe, are those within our own borders who think less of country than of themselves, who are ambitious for money, for power, for land. Some of these men would subvert anything, anything at all, my dear sir, for their own profit. They would even twist the laws of their own country in their desire to acquire wealth or power. Such men are always prepared to listen to a smooth-talking man with a proposal.
“Are you going to stay among us, Mr. Talon?”
“I do not know,” I said frankly. “I have come to this country because there seems to be opportunity. I am looking for honest work, success. Money, perhaps. I have heard they are building boats at Pittsburgh. I am a builder.”
He nodded. “Good! Very good! We need builders, sir. We need them very much, but we need builders who build not only for themselves and for profit—and I certainly believe in profit—but for the future. Are you that kind of a builder, Mr. Talon?”
I hoped I was. Political matters of which this man spoke had never entered my life or my thinking. Nor had it ever seemed that the government of a people was any part of my consideration. Suddenly, uneasily, I began to realize that it might be … that it was.
“I hope so, Mr. Tate.”
“Exactly. You must remember, my friend, that if we leave the governing to others, then others will govern, and possibly not as we would like. In a country such as this, none of us is free of responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I am getting at, Mr. Talon, is that you have inadvertently come upon something that may be of great importance, and in which you are already involved. It might be very helpful if you would keep an eye on the situation … tactfully, of course.”