Four days before Queen Victoria and Prince Consort Killian arrived in Canada—
A group of armed men slipped quietly across the border under cover of darkness, moving toward a settlement in Ontario.
They carried rifles, ropes, and handcuffs.
"Pretty sure this is the place, right?" one of them asked.
"That's what I heard," another replied. "Word is the place is crawling with black runaways."
"But are they really the ones who escaped from Virginia?" someone else asked skeptically. "You're telling me those slaves made it all the way to Canada without anyone catching them?"
"If they manage to reach the North successfully, the chances of being captured drop drastically," another man said. "Let's be honest—no one can tell the difference between a runaway slave and some free black wandering the streets."
That was true enough.
Even Metz, the leader of the bounty-hunting group known as the Hounds, sometimes struggled to distinguish them.
If he gathered a group of black men together, even he occasionally had trouble figuring out who was who.
Ordinary people stood no chance.
"Damn it," Metz muttered. "All the way from Virginia to Canada. What a miserable job."
"Still," someone chuckled, "there are supposed to be dozens of them. The reward should be pretty nice."
"Yeah. Once this job is done, I'm drinking for a month straight."
"Next time though," another man added, "no more jobs that require crossing the border."
Slave Hunters
Ever since the northern states abolished slavery, more and more enslaved people had been fleeing north.
But the Fugitive Slave Act remained in force.
Northern authorities were still required to return escaped slaves to their southern owners.
Because of that, bounty hunters like the Hounds remained in demand.
Their job was simple in theory.
Track down runaway slaves and return them to their owners.
In practice, it was brutal work.
The United States was enormous.
Tracking fugitives across such vast distances required both expert tracking skills and the ability to subdue desperate opponents.
Some might think using guns would make things easy.
But the slaves were valuable property.
If a hunter accidentally killed or permanently injured one, the payment would vanish.
Guns were therefore used only as threats—
or when the hunters' lives were truly in danger.
"By the way," one of the men said, "haven't you noticed more slaves escaping lately?"
Metz nodded.
"I've noticed."
"These days those lunatics in the North are shouting about black liberation. Something called the NBA or whatever."
"ABOLITIONISTS," another man corrected.
"Yeah, whatever. Politicians in the North are starting to support them."
"Maybe the slaves heard about it."
"Well," the hunter shrugged, "the more runaways there are, the more money we make."
"So shouldn't we keep working after this job?"
Metz shook his head.
"No."
"If hunters like us take a break, plantation owners will panic."
"And when they panic, they pay more."
"Besides, it's worth figuring out what's really happening."
He had captured countless runaways over the years.
Men who resisted desperately.
Men who begged for mercy.
Every single one of them ended up shackled and dragged back to their masters.
But even Metz felt something was wrong.
Too many slaves were escaping.
Perhaps someone was encouraging them.
If that were true—
Then these fugitives might be gathering in organized groups.
And if Metz stumbled into such a group carelessly…
He might lose his life.
No job was worth that.
After all, unlike those black slaves, Metz and his men were valuable people.
Irreplaceable.
The Ambush
The Hounds advanced carefully toward the settlement.
They moved through the forest, hoping to approach undetected.
Their goal was simple.
Return the runaway slaves to the masters they belonged to.
But the moment the village entrance came into view—
Everything went wrong.
BANG!
Gunfire exploded through the forest.
"AAARGH!"
"AMBUSH!"
"Where the hell are they shooting from?!"
"THE SIDE! THEY'RE IN THE TREES—!"
Trying to approach through the forest had seemed like the perfect stealth tactic.
Instead, it led them straight into hell.
"Those black bastards have lost their minds!" Metz shouted. "Return fire!"
If necessary, they would kill a few and capture the rest.
But the moment the hunters tried to retaliate—
The attackers vanished into the forest.
Gunfire stopped.
The woods fell silent.
"Boss… should we chase them?"
"Are you insane?" Metz snapped.
"We're here to make money—not die!"
"But we have to cross the forest to leave!"
"Damn it… fine. Stay alert and fall back the way we came."
After all—
This wasn't even American territory.
They had crossed into Canada.
If authorities discovered they had started a gunfight here, the consequences could be disastrous.
The Trap
But retreat proved far more difficult than expected.
"Where do you think you're running, you bastards?!"
"You came in easily—but you're not leaving so easily!"
"DIE, DIXIE SCUM!"
Gunfire erupted from every direction.
From behind bushes.
From behind rocks.
Even from the trees above.
The hunters had come expecting dozens of easy captives.
Instead—
Their numbers shrank rapidly.
Within minutes, fewer than ten remained.
BANG!
"Boss! They're here too!"
"HELP—!"
"GET DOWN!"
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
These former slaves fought like trained soldiers.
They used cover expertly.
They had prepared ambush points.
They knew exactly where the hunters would be.
When only five remained—
Metz finally understood.
They had no chance.
He threw down his rifle and raised his hands.
"Surrender! We surrender!"
"You can take the money, the guns—just spare our lives!"
The remaining hunters followed his lead.
The black fighters slowly emerged from the forest.
Their rifles remained trained on the hunters.
Metz opened his mouth to speak.
Perhaps they could negotiate.
Then—
BANG.
"Ghk—!"
Pain exploded through his stomach.
As he collapsed, Metz saw the hatred burning in the eyes of the men surrounding him.
"Surrender?" one of them spat.
"Did you ever spare the people begging for their lives?"
Of course they hadn't.
If they had, they would never have become the most feared slave hunters in the region.
The hunters tried to grab their weapons again.
Too late.
Gunfire tore through them.
Their bodies collapsed like discarded trash.
As Metz's vision faded, he noticed someone stepping forward behind the black fighters.
A white man.
And strangely—
One of the black fighters bowed respectfully to him.
"Thank you," he said. "Thanks to you, we were finally able to vent some of our anger."
The white man laughed warmly.
"No need to thank me."
"You are not American slaves anymore."
"You are citizens of British Canada."
"And anyone who tries to harm our citizens deserves punishment."
He then picked up one of the hunters' rifles and began firing randomly.
"We should create some evidence," he said.
"If it looks like a one-sided massacre, the Americans might complain."
"Shoot holes in the fences. Use their weapons."
"And if anyone has minor injuries, wrap them in bandages."
"We'll say the hunters attacked the village first."
"Yes, sir!"
"You fought back and killed them while they tried to escape through the forest."
Metz finally understood.
Someone had been helping slaves escape.
And that someone—
"Thank you, Mr. Pinkerton!"
Allan Pinkerton smiled faintly.
"I merely followed orders."
"Oh?"
He noticed Metz still breathing.
"Well now… looks like we have a survivor."
Metz glared at him.
"You… traitor… helping them…"
BANG.
The final gunshot echoed through the forest.
And with that—
The slave-hunting organization known as the Hounds disappeared forever in the forests of Ontario.
Dinner in Canada
"Are we certain the dead men were Americans?" asked Queen Victoria.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the governor replied. "The evidence has been verified several times."
"They crossed the border from the United States and attacked one of our settlements."
"They were killed while attempting to flee after the villagers fought back."
Victoria stirred her tea with visible irritation.
"How unfortunate."
"To arrive in Canada only to hear such news."
I turned to the governor with an expression of anger.
"How little respect does the United States have for us?"
"To cause such trouble precisely when Her Majesty arrives?"
"Do they believe themselves to be our superiors?"
"I agree entirely," the governor said. "I will summon the American ambassador immediately and demand an explanation."
"Please do."
"They certainly knew Her Majesty was visiting Canada."
"They should have taken precautions to prevent incidents like this."
"And ask them what measures they will take to ensure it never happens again."
"Of course!"
He rose to leave.
I waved a hand.
"No need to rush. Finish dinner first."
"This is a pleasant evening, after all."
"The Americans are at fault—not you."
But I continued calmly.
"And please make one thing clear."
"This was not merely slave hunters crossing the border."
"They attacked a British settlement."
"Her Majesty was deeply shocked and saddened."
The governor nodded.
"Understood."
Now then.
What else could we demand?
After all—
When an opportunity like this appears, one must press the advantage.
Victoria watched me thoughtfully.
Then she suddenly smiled.
"We can always wait to see their response first."
"Don't be so impatie—"
She suddenly covered her mouth.
"Ugh—!"
Victoria gagged violently.
The room froze.
Was the food spoiled?
Impossible.
No chef would serve spoiled food to the Queen.
Then—
The governor suddenly jumped to his feet.
"Congratulations!"
"Your Majesty! Your Royal Highness!"
"Congratulations!"
"…Congratulations?" I repeated blankly.
What was he talking about?
Servants rushed forward.
Moments later, the royal physician arrived in a hurry.
As Victoria was escorted from the room—
A realization finally struck me.
Wait.
Does this mean—
Am I about to become a father?
So suddenly?
I stared blankly as Victoria disappeared through the door with the doctor.
It seemed…
This might actually be real.