by Cecily Ross
Next, we lingered outside the much-vaunted church—little more than a chapel, really—prettily constructed of rough boards painted white with an absurdly handsome tipped spire that gleamed optimistically in the September sunshine. The sight of it immediately gave me hope. When I suggested we enter, Tom demurred, citing his rough appearance and a complete lack of faith, the result, he says, of his conviction that he has already endured a living hell. It being a Sunday, I knelt briefly in the back, ignoring as best I could the curious stares of my fellow worshippers, and listened as the Reverend Mr. McAuley delivered his sermon in an accent as plummy as any that ever reverberated through the cloisters of my beloved Suffolk. And sitting there on that splintered pew, I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength and patience to meet and overcome whatever lies ahead.
When Moodie returned to our rooms this afternoon, I described my day and began beseeching him to consider postponing our departure for the backwoods. As much as I long to be reunited with my sister and brother, I believe that Cobourg, for all its limitations, is a better situation for us at present.
“Please, Moodie, you must see by now that it will take us years to clear even the small amount of land necessary to sustain ourselves. I have little Kate to care for, and I fear Hannah will never agree to accompany us into the bush when she could easily find a more comfortable position in the town.” I placed the flat of my hands against his shirt and began stroking his chest as though he were an excitable horse. “And anyway, it is fall already, too late to begin a homestead now.”
I was trying to maintain my dignity, but I was prepared to beg if necessary. To my surprise, I looked up to see he was nodding his head in agreement.
“Susie, I have been thinking the very same thing. I feel certain we are better off spending some of our capital and buying cleared land here, even if it means forgoing our free land farther north, at least temporarily. I have been introduced to a land agent called Charles Clark, and he assures me there are working farms to be had at very good prices.” Moodie’s voice was rising as his excitement grew, and I had to hush him for fear of waking little Kate. “Mr. Clark is eager to welcome settlers such as ourselves to the area. There is an element of Yankee riff-raff, he says, unruly squatters on some of his properties, whom he would dearly love to be rid of. He assures me that if we are patient, our money will be well invested.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, grinning, and began taking his boots off. “What of that, my little chick? Married to a gentleman farmer after all. Are you surprised?”
Surprised and relieved in equal measure. I fell into his arms and, pulling him down beside me, tried to demonstrate the full extent of my gratitude, which I admit has been wanting these last few terrible weeks. Tomorrow, Moodie and Mr. Clark will investigate several suitable properties.
In the meantime, I will take Mr. Chatterton at his word and send over some of my previously published poems for publication in his rustic little newspaper. It is no La Belle Assemblée—that is certain. But as my dear absent sister Kate would say, “We must make do.”
SEPTEMBER 19, 1832
Moodie has purchased a farm! A farm, yes, two hundred acres of cleared land, a barn and a house in Hamilton Township. It is about eight miles west of here and four miles north of the fancifully named village of Port Hope. I struggle to keep my imagination in check, knowing full well that the term “house” in this wild country is open to interpretation. Still, I can hardly quell visions of rolling green meadows and at least a few of the meagre comforts of home. Oh, how I long to leave this filthy, crawling community of low-bred Yankees for more peaceful pastures and perhaps the more congenial society of respectable landowners.
Moodie was cagey at first but finally confessed he paid three hundred pounds, nearly all our capital, for the farm (which he has christened Melsetter after his Orkney birthplace). He assures me it is a very good price, given the rapid influx of settlers and the resulting high demand for property in the region. So great is my relief in knowing we will not be proceeding into the bush that I did not protest. But three hundred pounds!
To celebrate, I gathered together a picnic of cold sausage, brown bread, apples and beer (again throwing frugality to the four winds), and Moodie and I, carrying little Katie, walked along Cobourg’s sandy beach out to the edge of the marshlands beyond the town. It was a beautiful day, warm as summer under a hazy blue sky, so warm that I sorely regretted the heavy woollens that are the extent of my Canadian wardrobe. As we walked along and the seething hive of coarse humanity receded behind us, for the first time since leaving England I felt something like contentment. We sat on a great tree trunk that had washed ashore and looked out at the shimmering waters of the Ontario, a lake so vast it might as well be the great ocean. The sound of gulls crying as they balanced themselves on the wind above the harbour triggered memories of home. Everything else, though—the tall grasses and low-growing flowers that I could not name, the texture of the sand, the crouching rocky shoreline, even the weight of the air I breathed—was as strange to me as a foreign tongue. My husband, who has seen far more of the world than I, seemed not to notice and rattled on excitedly about our new farm. He is full of plans for a fall planting so that we may have wheat to harvest come spring. I cannot imagine how this will come about, as we have neither seed nor equipment, let alone the capital necessary to acquire either. I kept silent, however, and listened happily while Katie crawled about on the stony beach, examining every pebble and clamshell with grave intensity. It came to me all at once that to my little daughter, these will always be the sights and sensations of home, as sustaining to her as the meadows and rivers of Suffolk are to me.
My reverie was interrupted by loud honking sounds in the distant sky. Moodie and I watched as strings of long-necked wild geese, thousands of them, wove their way toward us over the water, finally landing near the shore in a cascade of flailing spray and noisy greetings. We laughed out loud at the spectacle and Katie burst into a babyish imitation of their raucous cries. A few of the handsome birds with their black-and-white plumage waddled ashore, oblivious to our presence, and haggled noisily over the crusts of bread I tossed them.
“The locals call them Canadian geese,” said Moodie, waving his arms to see them scatter. “I’m told they make a tasty stew, and if you’re very nimble, it’s possible to catch one with your bare hands.”
He grabbed me by the waist and twirled me in a gleeful dance, round and round on the stony beach, his head thrown back in joyous laughter.
“You see, my darling girl. I told you it would all be wonderful. I told you, didn’t I?”
Thanks to my brother Sam, “Lines Written amidst the Ruins of a Church on the Coast of Suffolk,” one of my favourite Enthusiasm poems, appeared in the Star today. Seeing the glorious lines, upon which I lavished such craft and emotion, published in this rough-and-tumble rag is, I confess, a little like handing my first-born over to the devil. But Chatterton has asked for more and is even promising payment! I have also sent him samples of Moodie’s work, including a sketch called “The Elephant Hunt.”
SEPTEMBER 20, 1832
Moodie returned from his daily dealings yesterday to report that the house we have purchased is still occupied by the previous owner, a Mr. Joe Harris, and his wife and eight children, who are refusing to leave. It seems the unfortunate Harrises are bankrupt, and so Mr. Clark repossessed their farm and sold it to Moodie. However, Mr. Clark neglected to inform my dear husband that while his three hundred pounds has purchased title to the property, occupancy is another matter. Are we to remain homeless, with what little cash we have left going to cover food and lodging in this den of filth, the Steamboat Hotel?
Tom Wales, who is to stay with us on our farm until his fortunes improve, laughed so hard when he heard this news that I feared he would become hysterical. I did not share his amusement. Indeed, it was all I could do not to burst into tears of rage. But Moodie dismissed my anger.
“Susie, Mr. Clark warned us we must be patien
t. This is a very fine farm at a very low price. You have to expect a few inconveniences . . .”
“A few inconveniences! Mr. Clark is using you to finance his efforts to evict a nest of Yankee vermin. You must go back to him at once. Where are we to live, Moodie?”
Then, as carefully as he could in the face of my anger, Moodie explained that Mr. Clark had arranged for us to rent a small house on an adjacent farm (also owned by him) for four dollars a month. He exhorted me to have some sympathy for the poor Harrises. It seems old Joe Harris’s wife is with child and not fit to travel until after the snow falls and roads north into the bush are negotiable by horse and sled. Later, after Moodie had left to make arrangements for our move, Tom told me he has met Clark’s sort before, and that he and others like him are getting rich preying on the misfortunes and naïveté of settlers such as ourselves.
When I pressed Moodie last night for more details on the “small house” we are to inhabit, he assured me the business with the Harrises was a minor misunderstanding and that the matter is sure to be sorted out within a few weeks. I have a bad feeling about this. How is it that we have purchased a proper home only to find it occupied by someone else? But when I questioned him again, my husband cheerily dismissed my concerns and, stroking my neck and shoulders, reminded me that he had promised to make things right and that is what he would do. But it is clear to me that he is not going to let anything, neither my fears nor Clark’s dubious integrity, puncture the bubble of his certainty. Perhaps his unassailable mood had something to do with the wine, a musty half bottle of port that the owner of the Steamboat Hotel had presented to his soon-to-depart guest that afternoon. Perhaps it was because our discussion took place in the glow of ebbing passion. (It was a fumbling operation, given the close quarters we share here with Hannah and the babe. Our muffled gropings did not wake them; however, I fear we were less than cautious in other ways. An increase in our numbers at this time would be an unwelcome consequence.) Finally, as I lay in my husband’s arms, trying to keep a lid on my festering doubts, he conceded that Mr. Clark is, indeed, always on the lookout for an opportunity. Moodie claims, however, that a bond of true friendship has grown between them during their short acquaintance.
“For all his rough ways, Mr. Clark is a good sort, and I feel we share a certain way of seeing the world, one that is not hamstrung by reticence or negativity,” he said. “I like his spirit and his head for business; they are akin to my own. Indeed, we have talked about investment opportunities we might collaborate on. Why would he hoodwink us now when our continued good relations can only prove mutually beneficial in the long term?”
Because he is a land-grabbing scoundrel, I wanted to say, but to avoid a quarrel, I once again kept quiet.
In any case, although Moodie has not seen the place, Mr. Clark has assured him that with a little ingenuity and forbearance, we will be quite comfortable in our temporary quarters.
OCTOBER 5, 1832 (GAGE’S CREEK, HAMILTON TOWNSHIP)
Ingenuity and forbearance will be about as useless as thimbles in a flood. One week after our moving in, our living conditions in this unspeakable hovel are barely suitable for livestock, never mind a respectable family. This is not a cabin; it is a cattle shed, a pigsty. And despite our ongoing efforts to make it livable, I cannot see how we are to continue in this intolerable situation.
Hannah’s incessant whining is the least of it. The silly girl has not stopped weeping since we left the Steamboat Hotel last Saturday (though I confess I have not been much better). On that day, while Moodie, our new servant, James, and Tom Wales stayed back to finish loading the two ox carts containing our belongings, Hannah and I went on ahead by wagon and hired driver. I was reluctant to leave without my husband, but he assured me he would be right behind us, indeed it was likely he and his load would soon overtake us.
The farther we bumped and rattled into the countryside on what began as a fair though breezy day, the more boisterous Hannah’s complaints became. She grumbled about everything from the gathering rain clouds to the towering trees until I was compelled to give her a firm slap on the back of her head. With that, her moaning stopped, though a noisy snivelling continued, making me wonder if she was leaving a young man behind in Cobourg. Fair young women are at a premium in these parts, though one would think Hannah’s advanced condition makes her an unlikely romantic prospect.
Fortunately, little Kate slept for most of the hour it took to reach our inauspicious destination. Despite the appalling state of the “road” (little more than a footpath), the glowering skies and the steadily falling rain, this was my first foray into the inner regions of Canada, and I was curious to compare it with my dearly missed homeland. It does not stand up well. Nothing prepared me for the rough texture of the landscape, the darkened ploughed fields lined not with tidy hedgerows, but with fences fashioned from piles of rocks and split rails, some of these arranged in ugly zigzag patterns. Blackened piles of stumps and brush smouldered in the dampness. The few houses we passed were built of logs, and all, whatever their size, had the same hastily assembled appearance. I saw not a single flower or decoration, or any exception to the unrelieved utilitarian pioneer spirit. It was a dreary, brutish scene. A few residents (our new neighbours, I suppose) stopped their toil to watch us pass, but they did not wave, nor did their impassive stares betray the slightest curiosity.
As we proceeded north and west, the land rose steadily until, looking back, we could see the great lake behind us, and before us the unending forest, a riot now of orange and scarlet and gold, which, I admit, outdoes any arboreal display I have witnessed in my entire life. At least nature remains undaunted by the prospect of what is to come. At the crest of a high hill, bare except for a low canopy of rose-coloured sumac trees, the carriage stopped to let poor old Dobbin, his sides huffing like a living bellows, catch his breath. A small herd of deer burst out of the bushes and froze in our path for only an instant, but long enough for their leader to hold my gaze with its velvet-brown eyes, before dashing off, a blizzard of white tails flying down the steep slope. Our driver, who thus far had rationed his commentary to the occasional monosyllabic grunt, raised one arm and pointed to a low structure in a small clearing, studded with stumps and surrounded by thick, dark forest.
“That be your new home,” he said, then chuckled to himself as he slapped the reins on the horse’s rump and proceeded down the hill. (It seems obvious he was fully aware, as I imagine the entire town is by now, of the swindle Mr. Clark has committed against us. Moodie is surely a laughing stock.) When our carriage pulled up beside a ramshackle shanty with a sagging roof, no door and one small, broken window, I insisted to the driver that there must be some mistake. Hannah had resumed her sobbing, the baby was crying with hunger, and a cold rain was falling. Numb with horror, I watched as a pair of brown-and-white cows ambled out through the open doorway of the cabin to welcome us.
“I can tell you were raised in the old country,” the driver said as he unloaded our bags and, after shoving the curious beasts aside, kicked our belongings in through the gaping entry. “Ye have much to learn, I’ll tell youse that.” He spat an extravagant missile of brown juices in the direction of the carriage and smiled through his matted beard, making no move to help us down into the mud. “I imagine ye’ll know a good deal more before winter is done. Now git out with youse.”
“You can’t just leave us like this,” I pleaded. “My husband will be along in a moment. Please.” And despite myself, I too began to cry. What a sorry spectacle we were, Hannah and I, sitting there in the cold rain, clinging to one another and weeping like babies.
“Git. Come on, now, git out,” the driver repeated and began prodding Hannah with the butt of his whip. I’m ashamed to admit that my servant was the first to dismount. I followed with Kate in my arms, looking round the small clearing, terrified lest the cows with their ferocious horns should return and trample or gore us to death. The fury of the weather gave us no choice but to enter, and as our eyes adjusted to
the dimness, I could hear a rustling in the back corner. Then two pairs of eyes, glowing like silver coins, emerged from the dark. They belonged to two smaller cattle that charged our way, almost knocking me down as they fled out into the yard. I began screaming so hard that Hannah had to take me by the shoulders and sit me down on an overturned trough, the only piece of furniture in the room.
An hour later, the men arrived to find us pale and speechless, perched there, shivering in the wind and rain that was gusting in through the open doorway, the broken window and the countless cracks in the walls.
“Where have you been?” I cried, but Moodie ignored me and surveyed the interior of the shed without comment. “Did you know about this? Did you?” I ran at him, fists flying, and he caught me by the wrists and held me at arm’s length. Through my tears, I could see that even he was unprepared for the scene confronting us. “We cannot live here,” I pleaded.
“We have no choice,” he said through clenched teeth. And then, as though he had just spotted a handful of magic beans, he cried, “Aha!” and, bending down, pulled the missing front door from a pile of debris and animal droppings. “Come on, James, give me a hand and we’ll have this back on its hinges in no time.”
I have worn myself out begging my husband and the good Lord to deliver us from this situation, but neither of them is listening. Tom Wales applied himself to the cleanup and unloading of our belongings without a word. But I sensed behind his silence a grim satisfaction that his predictions are proving all too true. The tension between him and Moodie is palpable. My husband continues to assure me that we will be here for only a few weeks, and then there will be snow and the Harrises will surely leave. Snow. On top of everything else, snow.
From the tiny, cracked pane of glass at the back of our hovel, I can look across a cleared field and see the house we have paid good money for and by rights should be occupying this very moment. At least Mr. Clark has arranged for us to store our trunks and furniture in the barn. Our barn. But as a bitter wind blows in through the walls and the musty odour of aged cow dung mingles with the smoke leaking from the crumbling chimney, I can’t help imagining the high ceilings and clear windows of our Melsetter homestead, a four-poster bed with a feather ticking, a fireplace and proper washtub, a privy (not a bucket, but a privy!), and I am filled with molten fury. But the Harrises, who have not even acknowledged our arrival, except to send over their rooster, which marched off with two of our laying hens one afternoon last week, continue to live in a style they have no reasonable claim to. Moodie has twice paid Old Joe a visit, and both times has met with overt hostility and demands that he “clear out before I let the dogs loose on youse.”