Free Dubious Allegiance by Don Gutteridge

flaming homes, the shouts of rage and defiance among the returning Tories, the flare of sudden conflagrations against an indifferent, indigo sky—was that this sort of chaos and self-perpetuating reprisal could very easily happen in Upper Canada. With barn burnings, secret assassinations, and the rule of law frayed by rage.
    Reluctantly, Marc hailed Sergeant Ogletree. Then he and five infantrymen followed Marc up the street towards the house indicated by Captain Riddell. Two of the men carried pitch-torches. The air was foul with acrid, greasy smoke. The spit and sizzle of flame bedazzled the eye, making the stark silhouettes of the buildings even starker.
    There was a meagre bit of light shining through one window of the log house as they came up to it: someone had been brave or naive enough to remain there.
    â€œSomebody’s at home,” Marc whispered, and held up hishand. The men halted behind him. “Sergeant, take two men and watch the rear of the place. I’m going in, carefully. We all know what happens when we corner a rat.”
    â€œWe could just fire a volley through the window and order them out,” Ogletree said. “Then set the thing ablaze.”
    â€œWe could do that,” Marc said. “But we could also kill innocent civilians.”
    Veteran cynic that he had become, Ogletree grunted as if to say that few civilians in a civil conflict could be called innocent. But he obeyed.
    Marc rapped at the stout door and called out in French: “Open up, please. No-one is going to hurt you. We require your house as a temporary billet for some of the troops. You will be paid for any food we consume.” He winced at the lie but told himself it was better than needlessly risking lives.
    There was no response from inside. Marc could hear Ogletree’s group deploying behind the house. The flickering light in the window near the door was definitely that of a candle or lantern. Was it being kept alight to aid an ambush? Surely not. The town was totally in possession of the troops: any armed resistance would be suicidal. Still . . .
    Marc pushed at the door. It was unlatched and swung open.
    â€œI’m Lieutenant Edwards. I am commandeering these premises as a billet. I have not drawn a weapon.” With that, he stepped into the room, his sabre in its scabbard and his pistol, primed and ready to fire, tucked lightly in his belt.
    The interior was more brightly lit than he had anticipated. To his right several candles were burning, illuminating akitchen area with a crude deal table and two log chairs, both occupied by women. Mother and daughter, perhaps, each with handsome Gallic features and lustrous, dark hair. But it was the eyes that caught Marc’s attention and held it: black and smouldering, with a malevolence he did not think possible in a woman.
    Marc tried to smile, touched his cap, and said hesitantly in his best French, “Good evening. I must ask you to leave. I noticed a shed out back. You could take some blankets out there for the night, or perhaps you have friends or relatives nearby.”
    The women remained as still as a pair of gargoyles. The room seemed colder than the night outside. It was the younger one, who would in any other circumstances have been thought beautiful in the first blooming of her womanhood, whose eyes moved first. It was a furtive glance only, but it brought Marc’s gaze around to its object. To his left and in among the shadows, there appeared to be a large clothes-cupboard, its thick door half open. Or opening.
    Marc reached for his pistol just as the form of a young man unfolded from the maw of the cupboard.
    â€œNo!” one of the women screamed.
    The young man’s right hand seemed to explode, and Marc felt something strike him in the thigh and spin him sideways. Just as a second pistol was being raised into the light, Marc fired. The gunman grunted, and sank slowly to his knees. Both of his weapons clattered to the