“And destroys the internal organs and the body.”

“That too, I am sure. But we must enjoy life as well as we can.”

Phillipe squeezed water from his thin, dark beard, and looked at the squat, strong body of his older brother. Just like their father. While he took after their mother, everyone said. He had never known her: she had died when he had been born.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Phillipe said. “It is dangerous — and some day we will be caught.”

“No we won’t. No one knows these hills as I do. Our good father, may he rest in peace with the angels, worked the stones of our farm until he died. I am sure that the endless toil killed him. Like the other farmers. But we have a choice, do we not? We can do this wonderful work to aid our neighbors. Remember — if you don’t do this — what will you do? You are like me, like the rest of us — an uneducated Quebecois. I can barely sign my name — I cannot read nor write.”

“But I can. You left school, the chance was there.”

“For you perhaps, I for one have no patience with the schoolroom. And if you remember our father was ill then. Someone had to work the farm. So you stayed in school and were educated. To what end? No one will hire you in the city, you have no skills — and you don’t even speak the filthy language of the English.”

“There is no need for English. Since the Act of Union Lower Canada has been recognized, our language is French — ”

“And our freedom is zero. We are a colony of the English, ruled by an English governor. Our legislature may sit in Montreal but it is the English Queen who has the power. So you can read, dear brother, and write as well. Where is the one who will hire you for these skills? It is your destiny that you must stay in Coaticook where there is nothing to do except farm the tired land — and drink strong whiskey to numb the pain of existence. Let the rest stay with the farming — and we will take care of the supplying of the other.”

He looked at the four barrels the horses were carrying and smiled his broken smile. Good Yankee whiskey, untaxed and purchased with gold. When they crossed back into Canada its value would double, so greedy were the English with their endless taxes. Oh yes, Her Majesty’s Customs men were active and eager enough, but they would never be woodsmen enough to catch a Dieumegard who had spent his life in these hills. He pressed his hand against the large outer pocket of his leather coat, felt the welcome outline of his pistol.

“Phillipe — ” he called out. “You have kept your powder dry?”

“Yes, of course, the gun is wrapped in oilskin. But I don’t like it…”

“You have to like it,” Jacques snarled. “It’s our lives that depend upon this whiskey — they shall not take it from us. That is why we need these guns. Nor shall they take me either. I would rather die here in the forest than rot in some English jail. We did not ask for this life or to be born in our miserable village. We have no choice so we must make the best of it.”

After this they were silent as day darkened slowly into night. The rain still fell, but not as heavily as earlier in the day.

“Time to go,” Jacques said, climbing stiffly to his feet. “One more hour and we will be across the border and in the hut. Nice and dry. Come on.”

He pulled on the horse’s reins and led the way. Phillipe leading the other horse, following their shapes barely visible in the darkness ahead.

There was no physical boundary between Canada and the United States here in the hills, no fence or marking. In daylight surveyors’ markers might be found, but not too easily. This track was used only by the animals, deer for the most part. And smugglers.

They crossed the low ridge and went slowly down the other side. The border was somewhere around here, no one was quite sure. Jacques stopped suddenly and cocked his head. Phillipe came up beside him.

“What is it?”

“Be quiet!” his brother whispered hoarsely. “There is something out there — I heard a noise.”

“Deer — ”

“Deer don’t rattle, crétin. There again, a clinking.”

Phillipe heard it too, but before he could speak dark forms loomed up before them. Mounted men.

“Merde! Customs — a patrol!”

Jacques cursed under his breath as he struggled his revolver from his pocket. His much-treasured Lefaucheaux caliber.41 pin-fire. He pointed it at the group ahead and pulled the trigger.

Again and again.

Stabs of flame in the darkness. One, two, three, four shots — before the inevitable misfire. He jammed the gun into his pocket, turned and ran, pulling the horse after him.

“Don’t stand there, you idiot. Back, we go back! They cannot follow us across the border. Even if they do we can get away from them. Then later get around them, use the other trail. It’s longer — but it will get us there.”

Slipping and tugging at the horses they made their way down the hill and vanished into the safety of the forest.

There was panic in the cavalry patrol. None of them had ventured into this part of the mountains before and the track was ill-marked. Heads down to escape the rain, no one had noticed when the corporal had missed the turning. By the time it grew dark they knew that they were lost. When they stopped to rest the horses, and stretch their legs, Jean-Louis approached the corporal who commanded the patrol.

“Marcel — are we lost?”

“Corporal Durand, that is what you must say.”

“Marcel, I have known you since you peed yourself in bed at night. Where are we?”

Durand’s shrug went unseen in the darkness. “I don’t know.”

“Then we must turn about and return the way we came. If we go on like this who knows where we will end up.”

After much shouted argument, name-calling and insults, they were all from the same village, the decision was made.

“Unless anyone knows a better route, we go back,” Corporal Durand said. “Mount up.”

They were milling about in the darkness when the firing began. The sudden flashes of fire unmanned them. Someone screamed and the panic grew worse. Their guns were wrapped about to keep them dry; there was no time to do anything.

“Ambush!”

“I am shot! Mother of God, they have shot me!”

This was too much. Uphill they fled, away from the gunfire. Corporal Durand could not stop them, rally them, not until the tired horses stumbled to a halt. He finally assembled most of them in the darkness, shouted loudly so the stragglers would find them.

“Who was shot?”

“It was Pierre who got it.”

“Pierre — where are you?”

“Here. My leg. A pain like fire.”

“We must bandage it. Get you to a doctor.”

The rain was ending and the moon could be seen dimly through the clouds. They were all countrymen and this was the only clue they needed to find their way back to camp. Exhausted and frightened they made their way down from the hills. Pierre’s dramatic moaning hurrying them on their way.

“Lieutenant, wake up sir. I’m sorry — but you must wake up.”

Lieutenant Saxby Athelstane did not like being disturbed. He was a heavy sleeper and difficult to waken at the best of times. At the worst of times, sodden with drink like this, it was next to impossible to stir him. But it had to be done. Sergeant Sleat was getting desperate. He pulled the officer into a sitting position, the blanket fell to the ground, and with a heave he swung him about so that the lieutenant’s feet were on the cold ground.

“Wha… what?” Athelstane said in a blurred voice. Shuddered and came awake and realized what was happening. “Take your sodding paws off of me! I’ll have you hung for this…”

Sleat stepped back, desperate, the words stumbling from his mouth as he rushed to explain.

“It’s them, sir, the Canadian militia patrol, they’re back…”

“What are you babbling about? Why in Hades should I care at this time of night?”