On the Head of a Pin

by Janet Kellough

  Many of these failed settlers clamoured for government appointments to rescue them from hard labour in the backwoods. The government was only too happy to oblige; after all, they were of good British stock and nearly all Anglicans, and The Family Compact had entrenched itself by pandering to them. This elitist group wanted an aristocracy — with themselves at the head of it, of course — and anyone with any ambition was wise to act in a way that befitted the station he aspired to. Unfortunately, this was an attitude that was mirrored by ordinary citizens, as well, for no one wanted to admit that they were on the low end of the class ladder.

  “Sometimes I wonder if Mackenzie didn’t have it right,” Simms said. “This whole colony runs on a pack of nonsense. We’re all on the road to ruin, if you ask me, but it’s beyond me what to do about it.”

  He was still grumbling as they parted company on Milford’s main street. The peddler would transact whatever business he could find and set off for his next destination. He had no need to stay. When night fell, he would simply pull the wagon over to the side of whichever road he was on, climb into the back, and go to sleep.

  To Lewis’s eye, Milford appeared to be every bit as busy as Demorestville. Surely Simms was being pessimistic about the state of economic affairs, for he saw cartloads of grain being hauled to the mill, huge timbers being drawn to the ship-building yard, prosperous-looking matrons carrying baskets of goods. Crops had been poor in the last few seasons, particularly this last year, but Milford appeared not to have noticed, and if ever the rewards of industry and hard work were evident, it had to be in this village.

  It also turned out to be another of the places where he could be sure of a warm welcome. The mill owner was a confirmed Methodist. His father had been one of the subscribers who had built the first Canadian Methodist meeting house in Hay Bay, just across the water on the mainland, and the man had carried his convictions to the place where he ultimately decided to settle. The son had donated land for the building of a small meeting house, and there were several class meetings scheduled here for both men and women in addition to a regular service open to all. It would be necessary to spend the night in order to accommodate such a number of gatherings, but his board was easily arranged — in fact, there was a rivalry to claim the honour of having the preacher stay.

  He was offered an excellent supper at the home of a local carpenter. Here, too, the talk was of Mackenzie and The Caroline, and what would happen if the Americans invaded. Lewis repeated whatever news he knew was fact and left out any of the rampant speculation that had reached his ears. Just as Simms had reported, two of the rebels who had the misfortune to be caught, Matthews and Lount, had been hanged at Toronto Gaol. Governor Arthur had been quick to brand them leaders of the uprising, and had exacted the ultimate penalty. The execution, by all accounts, was a grisly affair. Instead of hauling them up on a rope, as was usual, they had been dropped through a trap door. A miscalculation as to the depth of the drop needed had apparently resulted in Lount’s head parting from his body in a bloody and spectacular manner.

  “There was a petition going around,” the carpenter said, “asking the governor not to hang the rebels. They say Matthews’s wife delivered it personally to Governor Arthur, went right down on her knees and begged, but it did no good. I didn’t know what to do when they asked me to sign it. I don’t agree with rebellion, but I don’t agree with what the government is doing, either. But who’s to say they won’t come after the petitioners next?”

  Who indeed? Lewis thought, but it was a sad statement on the affair that a show of clemency could be construed as treason.

  Not all of those who had joined the rebel band were in jail, though, not by any means. Some of them had melted away when it became apparent that the uprising was doomed; still others had never reached the colony’s capital in time to join the fiery little Mackenzie.

  Many of those strongly associated with the rebel cause had slipped across the border to the United States and vanished into the bustling anonymous cities, while others had joined with the Patriot groups who were eager to invade Canada again.

  “You can’t help but worry a bit, you know, us being so close to the States. Why, they could sail right across the lake and capture us all.”

  “I doubt it will come to that,” Lewis said, but the carpenter had a point. Milford lay in the southern part of the peninsular Prince Edward District, which jutted well out into Lake Ontario. Milford-built ships crossed the water to New York State with regularity, island-hopping across the eastern end. And if ships could go one way, they could certainly come the other.

  To his surprise, the carpenter also confirmed what Simms had said about the state of business in the colony. “There’s no doubt things are slowed right down. I’m not near as busy as I was. Oh, there’s still people building, and I get good hours from the shipyard, but unless things settle down real soon, everything’s going to grind right to a halt and then I don’t know what’ll become of us. Oh, well. God’ll send what he sends, won’t he? And there isn’t anything we can do but abide it.”

  Used to an early rising, his host family made motions to retire as soon as their supper dishes were cleared away, but Lewis knew that if he followed suit, the heavy fare he had just eaten would settle uncomfortably into gas.

  “I think I’ll take a stroll through the village and look at the night,” he said. “If I try to go down now, I’ll just toss and turn. I’ll let myself back in, and don’t worry, I’ll be quiet about it.”

  The carpenter offered to send his eldest boy for company. Lewis had no need for company, and besides, the eldest boy was already half-asleep in his chair at the end of the table.

  “No, I’m fine alone,” he said. “I like to look up at the sky and marvel at God’s creation. It’s a clear night. I’m in no danger of stumbling.”

  It was a pastime that he often indulged in, this watching of the skies. He wished he knew what more of the stars were called, and why they seemed to change position with the season. Although he was, by Upper Canadian standards, a reasonably well-educated man — he had been a schoolteacher before he was called to God, and had read a great deal more than most people, even many ministers — he often felt a hankering to educate himself further. With each piece of information he learned, he felt more in awe of what God had created. He promised himself that the next time he had a few pennies extra, he would look for a book about the stars and learn more of their names. Or perhaps he could see what was available at the new public reading-room that had opened in Picton.

  He walked along the street to the bridge, where he decided to lean his back up against the rail to steady himself while he tried to locate the trio of stars that formed Orion’s belt. As he turned to settle his position, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure had just appeared around the corner of the mill building that nestled by the edge of the river. He shifted himself a little, making it look as though he was merely making himself more comfortable. This allowed him to glance over to where the figure stood watching him in turn, and from that angle he could more clearly see the man’s face. It was Francis Renwell — he was sure of it!

  He felt the bile rise in his throat as he glimpsed the face of his son-in-law, the man he was convinced was responsible for his daughter’s death.

  He moved toward the figure as fast as he dared in the darkness, but by the time he reached the corner of the mill, the man had disappeared. He searched in vain, his anger growing. He wanted his say … he wanted to tell Renwell that he knew he had killed Sarah, and that he would do everything in his power to bring him to account, but he was denied the opportunity. The man had vanished into the anonymity of the night.

  Lewis trudged back to the carpenter’s house, the stars now forgotten.

  The next morning, Lewis approached his host and asked after the man, hoping he sounded casual.

  “Oh, that fellow?” said the carpenter, making it clear what he thought of laziness. “Came here a few weeks ago as a hired hand fo
r old man Scott. Not much good. Drinks too much.”

  IV

  It was Saturday night by the time Lewis returned home again, and he was there just long enough to get a dry pair of socks and cut a little firewood, which the boys had neglected to do again. Betsy was feeling better, and insisted she was well enough to pack Martha up and bring her along to his regular preaching in Demorestville.

  “If I don’t make an appearance soon, they’ll start thinking you have no wife at all,” she said. “Then you’ll be at the mercy of all the old widows and spinsters, and we can’t have that.”

  This mild banter convinced him that she was indeed feeling better, and under normal circumstances he would have welcomed her company, but he worried about what they would find in Demorestville, for Varney had warned him that trouble was brewing.

  The service was to take place in the plain chapel that Demorest had built. The building had always been shared by several denominations, but because of the church union engineered by Egerton Ryerson, the Wesleyans maintained that they now represented the only Methodist Church in Canada, and that all properties and arrangements had been transferred to them. A number of Methodist Episcopals, himself included, had repudiated this union and continued in the old ways. They saw no reason why they shouldn’t carry on using the buildings they had always worshipped in, and in some cases built with their own hands.

  Lewis understood Ryerson’s reasons for promoting the uneasy alliance. It was a calculated move to counteract the ill will of Bishop Strachan and the Family Compact. The Methodist Episcopals had sprung up as an offshoot of the Methodist Church in the United States. From the earliest days of settlement in Upper Canada, its itinerant ministers had roamed the colony, preaching wherever they could find someone to listen. Eventually there were enough of them to form a separate Canadian Church, but this independence was not fully recognized by the ruling elite. Anglican to a man, and alarmed at the popularity of the Methodists, they used the Church’s origins as an excuse for continuous harassment.

  “American” was the charge usually levelled, with the implication that its adherents were somehow treasonous by virtue of their church membership alone. Lewis privately thought that the Methodist habit of speaking out against Anglican privilege was the main source of the problem, and that “too worldly and political” was a label to be worn with pride.

  The newly arrived Wesleyan Methodists, on the other hand, operated under a British-based authority, and were therefore more acceptable and probably more controllable as far as the government was concerned. But as a recently introduced denomination in Upper Canada, they had far fewer converts. So, the two churches had joined: the one in the hopes of gaining legitimacy; the other to expand its congregation. For the Episcopals, this came at the cost of adopting Wesleyan strictures and — to Lewis’s mind the chief objection — without consulting the body of Methodist Episcopal members.

  Now there were constant squabbles between the two groups, a situation Lewis found tiresome and undignified. Sometimes he wondered if he was being unnecessarily stubborn. Perhaps he should give in and support the union, help put an end to the controversy, but something in him resisted. He had been ordained in the old M.E. Church, and leaving it felt too much like an act of disloyalty.

  His stomach was in a knot as they rode up the Broadway toward the church, for he could see two distinct clusters of people flanking the wooden walkway that led to the front door. He stopped at the gate.

  “You’re not wanted here, Preacher,” one of the men on the right side of the walkway said, stepping forward and flushing a little as he spoke.

  “On the contrary,” Lewis replied. “I see a great want of the Word in this yard today.”

  Several of the people sniggered at this, but the man who had spoken turned redder. He did not like being shown up.

  “This is a Wesleyan church,” the man said. “We don’t need your ignorance here.”

  “But there’s ignorance everywhere,” Lewis said mildly. “Ignorance of the Lord. Why, if there were no ignorance, we wouldn’t need preachers at all, now would we? I must say, I’m looking forward to the day I can retire.”

  There were outright guffaws on both sides of the yard now, and Lewis knew that if the confrontation remained a war of words, he would win easily. But he could see the man clenching his fists and, fearing a brawl, was considering the best way to get Betsy and Martha away from the fracas when Mr. Varney stepped forward.

  “You’re the ignorant one, Joe Martin. You know perfectly well that Mr. Demorest intended this house of worship to be used by anyone who needed it. The Presbyterians and the Methodists have shared it amicably for years. Why is there a problem now?”

  “The problem is with these illiterate saddlebag preachers,” Martin said, pointing at Lewis. “Why, everyone knows they just memorize their sermons and deliver them up whole, they’re too uneducated to make their own.”

  “Is that a challenge, Mr. Martin? Would you like to debate me?” Lewis was on sure ground now, steering the man to dialogue rather than devilment.

  The man glared at him.

  “We could do it in English, if you like,” Lewis continued. “But perhaps it would be more entertaining if we did it in Latin.”

  There was a roar now from the crowd, and Lewis judged it was time to allow the man a reasonable retreat.

  “But not today,” he said. “Today I would simply like to share the Word of the Lord with these good folks who have come along to hear me, and I will do it plainly. We’ll leave Latin and Greek to educated men like ourselves.”

  “That’s right, Joe Martin. We came to hear this man today.”

  To Lewis’s surprise, it was the small, pale woman he had seen with the chestnut-haired girl who stepped forward to say this, brushing aside the companions who tried to stop her. He was grateful for her support, but he didn’t need it. He was in control now. He turned to Martin. “That’s right. This is my day. You can speak to them tomorrow, if you like. And you can do it in any language you choose.”

  The man muttered something that Lewis didn’t quite catch, but it didn’t matter. He turned on his heel and left, and the congregation filed good-naturedly into the church. Some of those who had stood on the Wesleyan side of the yard went in with them.

  He took his time getting Betsy and Martha down from the saddle. Let the buzzing go on a little longer, he thought. Let them repeat the exchange a few times among themselves, so they can report it to their friends and neighbours later. When he did begin to preach, they would listen all the more attentively.

  He waited until Betsy had Martha settled on the front bench before he strode down the aisle and took his place in front of the plain wooden pulpit at the end. He didn’t need this, particularly. Some preachers would rest their notes on it, but he never spoke from notes, instead relying on his memory, which, thank the Lord, was excellent.

  As he spoke, one part of his mind took a mental inventory of the congregation. There were a number of older couples, probably long-time adherents, and their children with their little ones in turn, confirming what Varney had told him about the level of support in the area. He was not surprised to see several people who, from their dress, he judged were probably Quakers by nature. Although the Society of Friends was also strong in the community, their marriage policies worked against them. Quakers marry Quakers, and those who don’t are disowned. The Friends at this meeting were young and had probably “married out,” or were thinking about it.

  He looked for the girl with the chestnut hair, but she wasn’t there — only the woman who had spoken in his defence. She sat beside Betsy, helping to distract Martha at several points during the service.

  She introduced herself afterward. “I’m Minta Jessup. My sister-in-law was going to come with me, but she’s not feeling well today. She’ll be sorry that she missed all the excitement.”

  “Thank you for stepping forward,” he said. “That took real courage. The crowd could have got ugly.”

  “Oh
, that bunch,” she said scornfully. “They like the sound of their own voices, but don’t ever ask them to do anything useful. They wouldn’t know how.”

  Lewis often marvelled at the force of some of these women he met; how they could appear so meek and submissive when, in fact, their demeanour masked a determination that sometimes took their menfolk aback. Some would say this strength was unbecoming, but he approved of it. He had married one of these women himself, and wouldn’t trade her good sense for all the subservience in the world.

  “I dare say Rachel will be sure to attend every one of your meetings from now on, if only because then she’ll have something to talk about.”

  He laughed. “I sincerely hope it’s my sermon she’ll discuss with the neighbours, and not another performance in the dooryard.”

  So the girl with the chestnut hair was her sister-in-law. That explained the lack of family resemblance, although that didn’t always hold true. There was no mention of the hulking fellow who had been with them on the street and Lewis was left to wonder where he fit into the family. Husband? Brother? Sometimes these family units were so convoluted that there was little to gain in speculation. Like his own family — all those great burly boys, then little Martha, who could easily be mistaken for one of those “gifts from God” that sometimes occur late in a couple’s life.

  Just then, the man in question came out of Stickle’s Tavern and headed toward the church. He stopped just outside the gate and stood, obviously waiting for Minta.

  “Will he not come in?” Lewis asked her.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied. “He doesn’t hold much with meetings like this. He thinks it’s a waste of time.”

  The man glared at Lewis as Minta walked down the path to join him.

  Lewis usually held a class meeting after services so that those who wished to do so could study the Bible together. But he wouldn’t today. His household was still unorganized from the move, and Betsy still fragile and easily tired. Besides, Martha was an energetic child, a fact that kept Betsy on the hop most days, and now she was fussy from the long period of sitting. Lewis judged that the meeting would be better left for Varney who, as a local preacher, was perfectly capable of directing it. After all, he had been acting in this capacity before Lewis had arrived in the area, and would probably appreciate confirmation that not all of his duties were to be usurped. The authority assigned to these lay preachers was one of the points of contention with the Wesleyans, and it was as well to reinforce the Episcopal position from the start.