He had never truly understood the story of Judas and the forty pieces of silver until then. It had always been presented to him as a venal act, an example of the power of money over men’s souls. But he knew now that the silver had nothing to do with the disciple’s treachery. He had agreed to the transaction in order to save himself. He had to marvel at the Lord’s ironical ways. Here he had been praying, begging Him for salvation, and his prayers had been answered, but at a terrible cost. He no longer had even his anger to sustain him. That had been purged by his plunge into the cold, sobering water. The choice was clear — justice for Sarah or life for himself. He had always thought of himself as a man of principle; strange how easy it was to stand on principle until it was tested. Then he realized that there really was no choice at all: he could agree or he could perish — Renwell would walk away no matter what he did.
“Why did you do it, Francis? Just answer me that. Whatever you decide here, just give an answer to that one question, and then you’ll have to let your conscience be your guide. Provided you still have one, of course.”
“Why did I do it? Because of the promise that things might change. We put our trust in Mackenzie; we mistook his ranting as a blueprint for action. And now we know how sadly that trust was misplaced. All of us.” Renwell stood with his head down, lost in the misery of past action.
What nonsense was this? Lewis shook his head, thinking that he had misheard. Why was this man speaking of Mackenzie and trust and things that had no bearing on the matter? Lewis began to doubt himself, to think that he was dreaming the conversation, that the cold had befuddled him into some strange hallucination, and that Renwell had not turned around and come back toward him, but had even now reached the shore and disappeared. He continued speaking anyway. Whether Renwell was actually there or not, it was his only hope. There were no other options.
“I don’t care about Mackenzie. I’m talking about Sarah — and the others. What happens when the bloodlust takes you, Francis?”
“Others? Bloodlust? What are you talking about, Thaddeus?” It was Renwell’s turn to shake his head and look confused.
“Rachel. Rachel Jessup in Demorestville. A woman in a cabin near Prescott. I know it was you. I saw you in Milford, and again when I left Fort Wellington to look for a bed.”
“Fort Wellington? Prescott? I’ve never in my life been in either place. I know you saw me in Milford, for I saw you as well. Demorestville? I’m not even sure where that is.”
Lewis went on. “You did it, didn’t you Francis? You murdered them all — Sarah, Rachel, and the other — there’ll be another and another after that, won’t there?”
A look of anguish crossed the young man’s face. “I didn’t know until days afterward that Sarah was dead. If you knew how many times I wanted to somehow go back in time and take back my actions, to stay with her. How many times I’ve wished I’d never heard the name Mackenzie. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have died. I know that. And when I saw you that day in Milford, with your accusing looks, I was sure that you blamed me and that you’d take your revenge by turning me in, having me hunted down with the other rebels.”
“I wouldn’t turn you in as a rebel. No, I wouldn’t do that. But as a murderer, yes, I would.”
“A murderer? You think I murdered Sarah? I lost everything that meant anything to me that day. And for what? Foolish politics and a lost cause.”
“And what about the other days? What about the other women? Were they all foolish too?”
“What other women? You think I was with other women?”
“They were all the same, Francis. They all died the same way as Sarah. What else am I to think?”
With a wail of torment, Francis dropped to his knees. “Oh, Thaddeus, are things at such a pass between us that you would think that of me … that I would take pleasure in murder? Oh, my Lord, forgive us both, for we are poor wretched sinners in Your eyes. And I know not which sin is the greatest — my callous actions or your unfounded suspicions. Oh, Thaddeus. Is that what you’ve thought all these months?”
“It is.”
“You are wrong.”
Lewis started to think that he was indeed wrong, and this belief was confirmed in his mind as Renwell pulled the long green scarf from his neck and wound one end around one hand. Stretching himself out as flat as he could, he slowly slithered forward until the other end of the scarf was within Lewis’s reach.
As Lewis tried to grasp the scarf, he realized why he had not been sucked into the water by the river’s current — his woollen mitten and the right sleeve of his coat were frozen to the ice. With an effort that threatened to force his mouth under the water he heaved his left arm up and over the edge, and managed to touch the end of the scarf before he fell back again. Renwell wriggled forward another foot and threw the scarf once more. This time Lewis was able to grab it. Renwell started pulling slowly and steadily, and Lewis felt his body slide a little farther onto the ice. Winding a loop of the scarf around his arm as he inched forward, he was drawn gradually out of the water until he was close enough that Francis could reach his hand. Renwell slid backward gingerly until he was once again on solid ice. With a sharp jerk Lewis freed his frozen coat sleeve, but the mitten was left behind. He could not stand up. He had no feeling in his feet or legs and was so short of breath that attempting to inhale had become a trial. Renwell hunkered beside him, sharing body heat by wrapping his arms around him.
“You have to try to get up, Thaddeus. You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze.”
Lewis tried to get his feet under him, but his legs slid sideways and he collapsed. Then he felt himself being lifted, an arm around him, his body dragged toward the island shore. As he began to put one foot in front of the other a little feeling returned and they made better progress, but he felt a strange lethargy wash over him and he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ice and sleep for a time.
“Keep going, keep going,” Renwell said when he realized what Lewis was trying to do. “You can’t stop. You have to keep going.”
Lewis tried to focus his numbed mind on the act of walking: One foot down. One foot down, the other foot down. One foot up, one foot down. Keep going. One foot, then the other.
They staggered toward the shore, Lewis at times nearly taking the other man down with him when his strength failed and his knees buckled. Each time he was lifted and urged forward.
When they at last reached the shore that had seemed a million miles distant, Renwell stopped.
“Look, there’s a house just here with a light in the window. They’ll let you in, I’m sure.”
“Where are you going?” He had clung to Renwell, to life, for what had felt like forever, and now he panicked at the thought that he would be alone. He wouldn’t make it to the house on his own, though it was only a few steps farther, he knew he wouldn’t.
“I’m a wanted man, Thaddeus. The reason I disappeared on the night of Sarah’s death was to join Mackenzie and his pathetic little army. She begged me not to go, but I laughed at her fears and off I went. And then, when things went so horribly wrong that night on Yonge Street, when Mackenzie’s pitchfork army was routed, I couldn’t go back. I’d been seen. I was a known rebel. And then I discovered that there was little to go back to anyway. I can’t stay in this country anymore. I’m not sure I’m welcome in any country, but if I can slip into the States I stand at least a chance of starting some kind of new life without the fear of being found out and arrested. It’s either that or Botany Bay. You won’t ever see me again, Thaddeus. I promise you that.”
“Francis …” Lewis wanted to speak so badly, to say that was precisely what he was most afraid of at that moment, of not ever seeing him again, and that he knew now how mistaken he had been and that he was sorry for it, yet he knew he needed all of his breath for the last few feet of his journey.
Renwell