Sophie's Treason. Beverley Boissery
“Well, tomorrow we’ll know more. We’ll take the bandages off just before noon. We’ll give you a mirror, Monsieur La Lune. And then, you’ll see.”
As she bustled from the room, he crashed back against his pillows, utterly defeated. If two faces appeared in the mirror, he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell which belonged to him. He had no idea what colour his hair was, or his eyes. He didn’t know if his nose was straight or crooked, if his Adam’s apple jutted out like the highest peak in a mountain range or if he had a dimple in his chin. All he knew was when he looked in that mirror tomorrow, he’d see a stranger.
However, he’d found something out to add to his meagre collection of facts. For the first time the implication of his name had registered. He’d somehow always heard “Loon” when the sisters talked to him. Sister Marie-Josephte, though, had clearly said, “Monsieur La Lune.”
He wondered why they had called him that. Because he was crazy, a lunatic? Or, maybe, because he had come to them on a moonlit night? Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, he’d ask.
CHAPTER FOUR
Luc’s optimism was contagious. For the first time in a couple of weeks, Sophie didn’t cry herself to sleep. The next morning Lady Theo was as good as her word. She assigned not only John Coachman to go to court with Luc and Sophie, but Thomas, one of the new footmen she’d hired, as well.
“I’ll come as soon as I can,” she assured them before leaving for the city herself. “I’m hoping for some definite news at long last about your papa, Sophie. Then, I have a meeting with your trustees, Luc. Don’t worry about luncheon. I’ve told the men they are to escort you to Orr’s.” She smiled a little at Sophie’s reaction to the name of the hotel. “Don’t pout, child,” she went on. “No one will remember you from that incident.”
Luc shook his head vigorously. “Begging your pardon, my lady. You’re wrong. People wouldn’t forget anyone who threw manure at people in a Montreal street. They certainly haven’t forgotten a pretty girl doing it. Particularly in front of the second best hotel in the city.”
Sophie blushed and slid a little lower in her chair. “I don’t want to go there. Not so soon. Can’t we go to Rasco’s?” She had nothing but fond memories of Montreal’s best hotel.
“Orr’s is closer to the courthouse,” Lady Theo answered. “Just hold your head high, Sophie, and don’t show your embarrassment. I’ve reserved a private parlour. It’s the best I can do.”
Sophie pouted for another moment, then realised that her problems were minor compared with those of Luc and Lady Theo. She smiled in apology. Before she could say anything, Luc got up and walked around the table to Lady Theo. “Thank you for what you’re doing for us, my lady,” he said gruffly. “Lunch in a private parlour, even one in Orr’s, will be more than welcome.” Then, to Sophie’s great astonishment, he raised Lady Theo’s hand and kissed it in a very formal, very French way.
“Oh, be off with you,” Lady Theo said, albeit with a smile. “You’d better hurry if you want to get a seat. And remember, keep your mouths shut. Both of you. You saw what people were like yesterday. If they even suspect someone’s a rebel, they won’t care whether they’re guilty or innocent. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Not with what you know.”
When they entered the courtroom about half an hour later, Sophie found it less intimidating. For one thing, Mr. Christie had managed to save a couple of places for them, and for another, she realized that she could ignore Alf and his friends at the back of the room. Luc’s obvious confidence in his brother’s defence gave her a sense of hope.
Her optimism faltered a little after the officer-judges marched in and the court martial recommenced. Almost immediately she saw that several prisoners looked angry and frustrated. A couple seemed to object to what was happening, but Sophie couldn’t understand what they were saying until Mr. Christie translated their objections for her. To that point all the testimony and bickering back and forth between the lawyers had been in English. She’d thought that natural. Mr. Christie, though, wondered how many of the men actually spoke or understood English. Sophie asked Luc.
“Probably only four,” he answered angrily but softly. “I don’t see why they can’t have interpreters.”
Mr. Christie shrugged. “That’s only one of many things I don’t understand,” he answered dryly. “These men are farmers, not soldiers. If this were a criminal court, their lawyers could speak for them. Instead, as we’ll see today, they have to be their own lawyers while the government uses two of the best in the entire province. It’s madness,” he finished, shaking his head in disgust.
Sophie immediately thought of her papa. She knew that, even as clever as he was, he’d find it difficult to act as his own lawyer in front of this court martial. She turned to Luc, wondering if he’d known exactly what handicaps Marc faced. To her amazement, he didn’t look perturbed. “Don’t worry, Sophie,” he told her a little smugly. “Marc can take care of himself. You’ll see.”
Although the testimony that morning had little to do with Marc, it was still fascinating. Most of the defendants had been involved in a curious incident the Saturday night before the rebellion began. In Châteauguay, a neighbouring village of Beauharnois, the rebels had been led by Joseph-Narcisse Cardinal, a lawyer. Like Marc, Cardinal wasn’t one of the top leaders, although, again like Marc, he appeared to know their plans. What he hadn’t known, however, was the part he and his men should play in the rebellion.
By listening to the testimony, Sophie pieced together their story. When they met the Saturday night of 3 November, they dithered and dilly-dallied about what they’d do. Some wanted to be part of the attack on Edward and Jane Ellice’s manor house in Beauharnois, others wanted to go off to join the main rebel group in Napierville. Eventually they decided to get some extra weapons from the Mohawks on the nearby reserve of Caughnawaga.
And so they set off, about eighty of them, in the dark. As they stumbled their way through the woods, they lost track of each other and were heard by a native woman searching for a lost cow. She ran back to her village and told the elders about the large number of men in the woods. About dawn the Mohawks challenged some of Cardinal’s men. As the rebels prepared to fight, one of their leaders, Maurice Lepailleur, stepped forward. “Don’t shoot,” he told the men. “We’ve come to get guns, not hurt anyone.”
The Mohawks quickly rounded them up and took them at gunpoint across the frigid St. Lawrence to Montreal in their canoes. Thus, these would-be rebels were in jail before the rebellion even broke out. After the Mohawks finished testifying, a local magistrate named John McDonald corroborated the story, adding his reason for the whole fiasco: rebellion against the queen.
Sophie thought that was ridiculous. How could an attempt to borrow guns be rebellion? Obviously, though, the officer-judges thought it was if the captain closest to Sophie was any indication. She’d never seen anyone sit at attention before. She hadn’t thought it possible until she’d seen him. He stared at the prisoners with a supercilious look on his face and not once did she see him blink. His folded arms were held slightly in front of his medalled chest and he sat so rigidly that he might well have been a statue.
Once the prisoners began cross-examining the witnesses against them, Sophie wondered if, secretly, he might have found the goings-on as silly as she did. It was like a three-ring circus. The accused asked their questions in French. These were first translated into English for the officer-judges, then into Mohawk for the witnesses. The answers were translated into English only.
After realizing this, Sophie turned to Luc. “It doesn’t seem fair. No one tells them the answers. What’s more, I can’t see what Marc had to do with any of it. None of them have even mentioned him.”
She’d no sooner got the words out of her mouth than Magistrate McDonald was recalled to the stand for the sole purpose of implicating Marc. A tall, very thin man, he swaggered to the witness stand with mincing, self-important steps. Once there