Sophie's Rebellion. Beverley Boissery

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

       J. Kirk Howard, President

      Printed and bound in Canada.

      Printed on recycled paper.

       www.dundurn.com

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Thanks to the following for their criticisms and support:

      Melanie Anastasiou

      Keith Cooper

      Kirk Howard

      Susan Pieters

      Paul O’Rourke

      Bronwyn Short

      Cathy Wilson

      A special thanks, as well, goes to Grace Wilson, whose insightful criticism I especially valued, seeing the book was written for her age group.

       A HISTORICAL NOTE

      The Rebellion of 1838 actually happened. The real history can be found in my own book, A Deep Sense of Wrong, published by The Dundurn Group in 1995, and you’ll find many of the people in Sophie’s Rebellion there. Jane Ellice, for example, is even more out-of-touch in real life than she is in this book, and if you doubt me read the November 4 entry of her diary (Patricia Godsell, editor, The Diary of Jane Ellice). Luc is entirely fictional but Marc Morriset is based on a real person, Leon Ducharme, who wrote his own book, Journal of a Political Exile in Australia. While the Mallorys and Lady Theo are products of my imagination, the model for Sophie’s father was Benjamin Mott, an American, also from Vermont.

      Although almost everything on the 1838 rebels’ list of wrongs has been righted, the viciousness of the rebellion’s aftermath has never truly been forgotten. Even today it plays a part in the larger picture of Canadian politics. The crushing defeat of the rebels, both in 1837 and 1838, however, did bring responsible government to Canada and pave the way towards Confederation. Whether or not it will play a part in the separation of Quebec is a question for the future.

      Beverley Boissery

      August 2005

       PROLOGUE

      He was a boy with many names.

      On a Saturday morning in late October 1838, he stood at the base of Mount Donne in northern Vermont, staring at a ledge about three-quarters of the way up. He couldn’t see any way to reach it but, as he knew there had to be one, he began climbing.

      At first it was easy. The underbrush helped and he made good time, but when he reached sheer rock about an hour later he said every bad word he knew. His fingers scraped and clawed for every inch, his fingernails tore, and he slowed almost to a stop.

      When he fell for the second time, he thought about admitting defeat. Surely Marc, his brother, hadn’t intended him to risk his life on something impossible. Yet, Marc had set this job as a test. If he succeeded, there would be better, more important jobs. So, taking a deep breath, he carefully mapped out the route again in his mind. He could reach the ledge, he decided, but only if he could somehow get across a crevice about four feet wide. Ordinarily, jumping four feet wouldn’t be a problem. But his feet had slipped several times that morning on the frost-covered rock, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to run before jumping.

      Although he knew it would be useless, he took some seconds to search around for a branch, for anything, really, that could help him cross the crevice, and only when he’d satisfied himself there was nothing did he begin to prepare for this, the most dangerous part of his climb. He untied his long scarf and wrapped it tightly around his waist so that when he jumped his coat wouldn’t fly open. He blew on his fingers to warm them so that they would give him a better grip on the rock.

      He walked towards the cliff’s edge and stared at the chasm below. If he slipped, or missed, he’d have no chance. There would be nothing between him and bedrock, five hundred feet below. Once again, he calculated the distance to the ledge, and before he could talk sanity into himself, he jumped.

      The landing on all fours was sheer agony. The rock tore pieces of flesh from his fingers and he wondered if he’d shattered his kneecap. Worse, he was out in the open, in plain view of anyone stupid enough to be on the mountain on that frigid morning. So, almost sobbing with pain, he dragged himself back against the cliff, then collapsed. As his breathing slowed and feeling returned to his toes in biting shards of agony, he began tending to his raw fingers, bandaging them as best he could, and gradually, very gradually, as the sun added a little warmth to the air, he began feeling better. He’d passed his brother’s test. The first part of it, anyway.

      When he looked around, he could see for miles in almost every direction. Montpelier, the capital of Vermont, was south. The city of Burlington was southwest and he could see the shimmering water of Lake Champlain in the distance. Fifty miles or so to the north was Montreal, the biggest city in Lower Canada, and for a moment he imagined magically focussing the lens of his spyglass so that he’d