The Girl in a Coma (8 page)

Timbers crashed onto the stable floor, sending out waves of sparks. She could smell the fire singeing her hair. Her clothes were about to burst into flames.

A man yelled at her, almost a scream. Someone she had never seen before. He was standing off to the side, close to the burning barn. Lizzie glanced over at him. He had a huge blond mustache and deep-set eyes. He was wearing a buckskin coat with fringes and beadwork. The stranger was holding a heavy workhorse tight by its halter. She recognized it as a gelding called Fleetfire which her uncle had invited her to name when it was a foal and she was a little girl. The man tied a blue scarf around the horse's eyes. Lizzie could have sworn the man smiled. He slapped the horse hard on the rump. The horse reared. It plunged straight toward the flaming inferno. Right into Lizzie's grasp.

She seized the halter, tucked her long skirts up, and swung herself around and onto the big gelding's back. She reached forward and whipped off the scarf from his eyes. Terrified, the horse reared again. Lizzie clutched her fingers into its mane. Then she dug her right knee hard into its side. The big horse bucked and took off, wheeling around and heading straight toward the Redcoat captain who wanted her dead.

Captain Blaine dodged out of the way as Fleetfire sped by at a frenzied gallop. Lizzie was carried away from the burning barn, and from the soldiers who wanted to kill her because she had witnessed a murder.

She rode into the moonlight along the Portage Trail, guiding Fleetfire by tugging his mane since he had no bit in his mouth and she had no reins. When she approached the top of Niagara Falls, she tied the blue scarf around her face to keep off the terrible chill. The Falls flowed like liquid thunder. And even though it was only mid-October, a cover of freezing mist had settled over the landscape.

Turning up off the main road past Wilson's Hotel, she pulled the huge gelding up to the gate in front of her intended destination. Leaning forward, she rubbed Fleetfire between the ears, then slid awkwardly down to the ground and took a deep breath. She needn't tie him; he wouldn't wander away. She stepped onto the porch of the solid frame house and saw welcoming candles ablaze in the ground-floor windows.

Lizzie Erb had been nearly burned to a crisp and was almost frozen to death. She hesitated, then she knocked.

Too late, she saw a Redcoat uniform approach from the side, coming around the corner of the house.

She pressed against the thick pine door and battered it with her fists, urging whoever was inside to hurry, to save her from death impaled on a soldier's bayonet.

Fourteen

Allison

I immediately recognized the woman who opened the door, though she has been dead for two hundred years. Rebecca Haun was framed by flickering candlelight fluttering on the walls as she moved. She was not exactly a ghost, but she had aged since I saw her last in the Beacon Hill area of Boston.

When I woke up, I recalled every detail through Lizzie's eyes. It was like when I was back in Rebecca's world. Now Rebecca is older; she's someone I observe as a witness. Strangely, it doesn't confuse or frighten me, this new adventure, although I'm scared for Lizzie as the Redcoat approaches. I can hardly wait to sleep. I need to get back into her life and find out what happens.

Meanwhile, I don't think my roommate, Doris, is doing very well.

She gurgles and, unless you're a river, gurgling isn't a good thing. I've listened to her all day. It's funny, because I really feel badly for her, but the noise is annoying. I hope I don't ever gurgle.

David comes in but since school is over he doesn't have any more jokes for me. I can tell something is bugging him. He calls me Allison instead of Potato. Whatever is on his mind, it must be serious. He leans into my field of vision. I try to bring him into focus but he moves away. Still, I did see him, or a shadowy version. When he leaves, I can hear him talking to a girl. I listen carefully. I know the voice. Who is it? I know who it is!

Maddie O'Rourke.

The two of them are speaking quietly. As if they'll wake us up, for glory's sake. It's like in a funeral home—young people speak quietly there. Older people use ordinary voices. They've seen more of death. They're not so impressed by it.

David leaves and then I hear Maddie talking to Doris in a low soothing voice. I try not to listen. I don't want to be nosy. I try hard to think about Lizzie Erb, but Maddie O'Rourke's words are warm and friendly. I don't have many friends these days. It's funny. Her warmth makes me lonely.

Then she comes over to me. She touches me. I can't tell where, but it's a gentle touch. Then she says, just as if we were having a conversation:

“I love your medallion, Allison. I've always liked amber better than diamonds and pearls.”

She laughs and says:

“My only real jewels are on the models in
Vogue
.”

I know she reads
Vogue
. She lives a
Vogue
life in a strange and lovely way.

Maddie O'Rourke was two years ahead of me in high school. She works at a cosmetics counter in the People's Drug Mart on Chemong. She is small, only four feet tall, and has a twisted back. But she stands as straight as she can and she is fiercely proud. No one has ever teased her. Even when she was a kid, she could burn a hole in your heart with her eyes.

In her teens, Maddie discovered
Vogue
. She came from a poor family but she was smart. She had flare. She sewed and made beautiful clothes. The rest of us learned about fashion from watching her. And her hair! Good glory, no one in Peterborough has hair like Maddie O'Rourke. Jet black, tumbling in waves around her face, wild and tame, all at the same time. Perfect complexion! Pale like a china doll, flawless, and not much makeup, except lip-gloss and lots around her eyes. Her eyes! Dark blue like huge blueberries, as big as Angelina Jolie's. Better lips, though. She doesn't look like she's blowing bubbles all the time.

So, Maddie O'Rourke, the most beautiful girl in Peterborough, is my new friend.

Am I impressed? Of course. “You're looking a little tired. Tomorrow I'm going to make up your eyes. Keep track of my buddy Doris for me. Night, night, Allie.”

Allie! I drift off to sleep, almost forgetting about murder.

Lizzie

Lizzie took a step back as the woman flung open the door. She still had the blue scarf wrapped around her face. She did not want to startle her Aunt Rebecca, but Rebecca did not seem startled.

Lizzie glanced back at the Redcoat who was leading Fleetfire away by the halter.

“Well Lizzie Erb, since you've arrived on a horse in a lather and it's your uncle's gelding, at that, you must be on an important mission.”

Her aunt's gentle mockery made her feel surprisingly secure.

“Everything's important in times like these,” said Rebecca. “Come along, there's a gentleman here you'll be wanting to meet.

Rebecca led her like a military commander down the long hallway and into the kitchen.

There were nearly a dozen men sitting around the large room that had an open fireplace across the back, with a fire blazing and crackling. The low beams and the plaster ceiling glinted in the firelight. Some of the men were eating stew and bread. Others were smoking pipes and talking quietly among themselves. They were dressed in a variety of heavy cloth coats. Several Redcoats mingled among them.

Sitting hunched over a table with his back to Lizzie was a Redcoat officer in full military dress. She realized there had been a meeting that was now over. The British military wanted the support of the local people. Rebecca had provided dinner for them all.

The officer did not rise when Lizzie and her aunt approached him. He must think himself very important, Lizzie thought. The man turned his head to acknowledge her, then gazed back into the candle flame in front of him.

At least he was not Captain Blaine from the burning barn. If he had been, she would be as good as dead.

Another Redcoat came into the kitchen through the side door.

“I've put the young lady's horse in the stable,” he explained. “She's been riding it hard.”

“Thank you Mr. Breckenridge,” said the officer. There were two other men at the table. Sitting beside the speaker was another officer, in dress uniform. Peering more closely through the candle's flickering light, Lizzie recognized the other as her uncle, Matthias Haun. It seemed she was related to almost everyone in this part of Upper Canada. She nodded to Matthias.

“Lizzie. You are keeping well. Your father is healthy?”

“Uncle,” she said, her voice charged with emotion. “I have just come from your farm. These Redcoats are set to destroy you.”

“You see, Macdonell,” said the first officer. “Even this wild young woman hates us. But if we are very lucky, she will fear the Americans more. Sit, sit, young woman. Do you have a name? What have we done?”

“I have no desire to sit with you, sir. My name is Lizzie Erb and I will speak with the commander of the British Forces and no one less.”

The officer rose to his feet, although he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the low ceiling. He bowed in Lizzie's direction and then looked to her Aunt Rebecca to make introductions.

“Lizzie Erb, this is Major-General Sir Isaac Brock, Commander of the Defense of Upper Canada and a guest in my kitchen. You will treat him with respect.”

“I will treat him with what he deserves,” she snapped.

General Brock spoke firmly: “June eighteenth, eighteen hundred and twelve, Lizzie Erb. That is the day the United States of America declared war on these backwoods farms and country lanes—since that day, you will respect me, for I am all there is between chaos and order. You will respect the Crown. And I am the Crown. Sit down.”

Lizzie sat down beside her uncle, across the table from Isaac Brock. She had never seen a general before and this one was famous. He was in his early forties, exceptionally tall and very handsome, with a wildness to his dark brown eyes that matched her own, and a fierce intelligence in his solemn face that seemed to forbid the presence of a smile. He was clean-shaven and his golden hair was perfectly groomed. His high forehead and noble features picked up the firelight and gleamed with a peculiar intensity. Here was a man born for great things, a man stuck in the backwoods who understood the importance of a few acres of snow in the defense of the mightiest empire in the world.

“Now, then, Lizzie,” continued the General, “you have come from the Grand River. Good. Your father was Christian Haun. Your stepfather is also named Christian, Christian Erb. Your mother was Edwina de Vere, the sister-in-law of my good friend, Matthias, who was your late father's younger brother.” He nodded at Lizzie's uncle. “Matthias, of course is the brother of my friend, Miss Rebecca Haun.” He acknowledged Lizzie's aunt with a warm smile. “Don't let it confuse you, Miss Erb. Families are complicated things.”

“I am not confused,” she said, “but I'm surprised that you know all this.”

“I am a general,” he said. “Generals must know many things. Now, then, I understand you have brought me some much needed assistance.”

“You seem to know more about me than I do about you, sir.”

“It is my business to know who is carrying a large purse for our efforts.”

“If I do have money, sir, it is to be given at my discretion.”

“At your
discretion
? I see. And do you have this money with you?”

Lizzie smiled wickedly. She had trekked for days from her family farm in the Grand River Valley, across the Beverly Swamp and through vast tracks of forest, carrying a leather saddlebag over her shoulder. It was stuffed with bank notes and gold coins. When she came to a clearing that overlooked the Niagara valley, she had hidden her treasure in a hollowed out section of a stone wall. It was less than half a day's ride away but secure until she decided what was to be done with it
.
“I am not a courier,” she declared. “I am here in my own good judgment, on behalf of my father and his friends.”

“Your own good judgment?”

“To decide whether we will support your cause.”

“What you call
my
cause is also
yours
. Without us, you would become American subjects.”

“Citizens, sir. They are subject to no one.”

“You admire the invaders, do you?”

“I do not fear them. But my people chose to remain British during their Revolution and we choose to remain British now.”

“Although your father and his friends
choose
not to fight,” he observed.

“We will not. But we are prepared to invest in our common cause.”

“Invest, indeed. Many of your neighbors have joined the militia.”

“And many who are not inclined to make war will give you funds to support them. If we think it a sound investment.”

“Good God, this is not a business transaction. Will you not give freely to your king, to his general, to fight the evils of Manifest Destiny? Do you know what
Manifest Destiny
is, girl?”

“Lizzie Erb,” Lizzie said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“My name is Miss Erb, sir. And yes. Manifest Destiny is the American belief that it is their lot to rule the entire continent.”

“Which is nonsense, of course,” said Sir Isaac Brock.

“No more nonsense, sir,” Lizzie answered, “than your own belief that the British should rule the world.”

She glowered at Major-General Sir Isaac Brock. A hint of a smile passed across his stern face.

“Here now!” exclaimed Macdonell. “You mind your manners, girl. Who do you think you are?”

“You mind yours, sir! I think I am Lizzie Erb. I was not addressing you.”

No one questioned the young woman's importance. She was from the rich Mennonite communities around Berlin. And she was carrying a lot of money to help finance the British defense of Canada—unless she felt it was a lost cause or morally corrupt. It was her decision. She was seventeen years old, but she was a powerful woman. And Brock was the most powerful man in the colony.

“It is not an accident of fate that I have found you here, General Brock. To be sure, there is a Redcoat captain wanting to kill me, but I'm here of my own free will.”

“You have a price on your head? Well, Colonel Macdonell,” General Brock seemed suddenly jovial as he turned to his friend, “we had better do something about this murderous Redcoat.”

“You may laugh, sir, but it is not amusing,” said Lizzie. “I saw your Captain Blaine murder my uncle's hired man.” She turned to Matthias Haun. “It was Whittington, Uncle. The captain and two ruffians were stealing a cow.”

“Hush, now, Lizzie Erb. One dead cow in the whole scheme of a war is not significant.”

“But Whittington, sir, Captain Blaine shot him dead.”

Her uncle said nothing. Lizzie realized he was intimidated by the Redcoat commander.

“And they burned your new barn to the ground,” she added.

The color drained from Matthias Haun's face. The loss of a hired man was one thing, the loss of his barn another.

“What about the house?” he asked. “Did they burn that, too?”

“The house is standing proud, sir.”

He had hardly finished building his new stone house by Lake Erie when the British officers moved in. General Brock himself sometimes occupied the master bedroom. The modest ballroom was set up as a command center with maps everywhere. The kitchen at ground level had been turned over to cooks to feed the officers camped with a battalion of soldiers between the house and the water.

Matthias had not yet lived in his new house. His family, including his ancient parents, Johannes and Margaret, were still living in the log cabins they had first built when they fled the Revolution.

His large Pennsylvania-style barn had been completed the previous year. It had been filled to the rafters with hay and grain to get his animals through the winter. If there was no food for his livestock, he would have to slaughter the animals rather than let them starve to death. There would be terrible wastage.

In an even voice, Matthias spoke to General Brock: “The Third Amendment to the American Constitution protects landowners from being ravaged by their own military.”

“Ah, Matthias, are you quoting the enemy's Constitution to a British General? You are fortunate we are friends or I would have you shot for treason.”