Duelling in a New World

by Ann Birch

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to mention Lord Dorchester to the Gov,” White says. “According to the rumour mill, they don’t see eye to eye on anything.”

  Just then there’s a burst of cannon fire from the wharf. The Governor and his lady have arrived, thank God. He turns away from Jarvis and heads with the crowd to the dining hall to welcome their hosts.

  “Good evening, Mr. White. I’m happy to see you again.”

  White turns. Just behind him in the line-up is Eliza Russell. She’s dressed in the same drab black garment she generally wears, but she has put a rather wilted bouquet of violets on her bodice and daubed some paint on her sallow cheeks. “Miss Russell,” he says, “I wanted so much to talk to you this evening. I have a gift for Mary.” He hands over the small package he’s been holding during his interminable conversation with Jarvis. “I had only a newspaper to wrap it in, my apologies.”

  She opens it quickly as the line to the dining hall moves forward, pulling out the little buckskin moccasins with a beaded daisy on each toe. “Lovely,” she says. “Mary needs new shoes so bad. Her feet have grown a size since we left home, and I had no idea where to procure some. They are so pretty with the beading. Moccasins, are they called?”

  “That’s the word. I bought them from an Indian woman on the wharf today. I noticed Mary limping, and I thought at first she had some sort of paralysis. But then I thought of my own daughter Ellen, how she limps when her shoes pinch.”

  “I’m mighty pleased with them, Mr. White. And with you, too.” She smiles broadly at him, and folds the moccasins into her reticule.

  The dining hall is a large room dominated by a long pine table pitted with marks from a thousand nights of spilled beer and ringed by at least two dozen wooden chairs, plain in structure, with stretchers holding the legs together. The sole picture on the walls is a portrait of Simcoe in the full dress regalia of the Queen’s Rangers. White is reminded that the Governor is a military man who will know little of legal parlance and governance. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps he and Osgoode will have more freedom to set up the judiciary and establish policy. From what he hears, anyone who barks can be a lawyer.

  He is happy to find himself seated midway down the long table, in a position to observe and hear both the Governor and his lady. The great man is tall with plump, flushed cheeks, and he controls the conversation in a deep, loud voice. He directs one of his first comments to White himself.

  “So you are now a member of the Legislative Assembly for these counties, Mr. Attorney-General?”

  “Thanks to your good offices, sir. You put my name forward and supported me throughout.” He does not bother to say he spent a week on horseback canvassing the back concessions about Kingston and has only this day got his walking legs back. The settlers are an ignorant bunch, concerned chiefly with the establishment of non-conformist churches and the problem of the Indians encroaching on their clearings. He wanted to tell them that the case was probably the reverse. Were they not building their miserable huts on Indian territory? But he remembered to keep his mouth shut. His stabbing back pains this evening serve to remind him of the day of his victory, when the settlers dragged him about on a chair to the diversion of the crowd and his own inconvenience. The physical pain also brought to his mind the pain of the expense he incurred to get elected: two barrels of porter and quantities of bread and cheese. But to be an elected member of Upper Canada’s First Parliament, surely that is an accomplishment to be proud of.

  A serving-wench has just dumped two carcasses onto his plate. He cannot identify them. Too small to be rabbits. He pokes at them with his fork. My God, can they be rats?

  “Black squirrels,” Mrs. Simcoe says from the bottom of the table, no doubt observing the horror on his face. “As good to eat as a young hare, especially with lots of mint sauce.” White reaches into the centre of the table and dumps half the pitcher of sauce onto the corpses. He begins to understand Marianne’s longing for a meal of sucking-pig. When he gets back to the small room at the inn which he shares with Osgoode, he must remember to take a strong emetic.

  Mrs. Simcoe is tiny with a sharp nose and thin lips, not at all his idea of feminine beauty. She appears to be a woman of great—though strange—enthusiasms. During the serving of a blueberry tart, which proves an excellent antidote to the squirrels, she rises and goes to a corner of the room. There, in a slatted wooden box he had not at first noticed, is a large grey snake with white markings. She picks up a stick beside the box and pokes at the reptile which shows a pair of long fangs and issues forth a sinister rattle.

  “Is it not amusing?” She laughs, turning to her guests. “A Mississauga Indian came this morning to our lodgings and presented me with it.” She takes one of the squirrel corpses from a platter on the sideboard and throws it into the box.

  The Governor smiles indulgently. “Give it a little mint sauce as well, my dear.” Then he turns to Osgoode who is seated next to him. “We go in three days’ time to Newark,” he says.

  Osgoode looks bewildered. “Newark, Governor?”

  “Yes, I have renamed Niagara after a town I love in England. You undoubtedly know it, Mr. Chief Justice, Newark-on-Trent. I intend to give English names to replace all these strange Indian appellations. Indeed, my entire mission here is to establish a bit of old England in this young land.”

  White looks down at the last crumbs of his tart. Did this young land and its native inhabitants not provide the blueberries for the tasty dessert? Even the squirrels for the main course? And the reptile that provides such fun for the lady? Well, those are paltry things. But what of the judiciary? Does the Gov envisage planting the entire legal system of England in this land without pruning? Does he not realize that Indians, if they are to act as jurors, may not wish to swear on the Christian Bible?

  His thoughts are diverted by the shrill voice of Mrs. Simcoe, deep into one of her strange enthusiasms. “Last evening, I walked in a wood set alight by some bonfires left unextinguished in an encampment. You may have no idea of the pleasure of walking in a burning bush. The smoke keeps the mosquitoes at a distance and when the fire catches in the hollow of a tall tree, the flame makes a fine leap into the sky.” She throws up her hands to illustrate. “And where there are only small sparks, they look like the stars in the heavens. It is all so beautiful. Tomorrow I think I shall have some woods set on fire for my evening walk.”

  While most of the invited guests make their sycophantic murmurs of approval, White watches the dismay on the face of the serving-wench who, across the table, is just removing a plate from in front of Eliza Russell. Perhaps the girl lives in one of the pitiful log cabins close to that wood Mrs. Simcoe intends to set afire.

  * * *

  Back at the inn, he hopes to engage his friend Osgoode in a discussion of the evening. But by the time he has a tankard of beer with the friendly innkeeper and climbs up to the small rented room, Osgoode has settled himself to read in the only comfortable chair. A candle flickers on the rough-carved table beside him, and he is deep into an ancient tome, Coke’s Reports, and looks up only when White moves to the washstand.

  “You at last, White. Pack your baggage. The Governor told me that we are to s..s..sail with them on the Onandaga to Niagara tomorrow morning.”

  “Newark, man, Newark.”

  Osgoode snorts. “The bloodiest boring place I’ve ever been. King John died of dysentery there. Doesn’t that s..s..say it all?”

  “Why now? I thought he said in three days’ time.”

  “I think we must accustom ourselves to the man’s whims.”

  Well, no time for the emetic. He’ll just have to hope he hasn’t contracted a terminal disease from those damned squirrels.

  Chapter Seven

  Niagara (renamed Newark by Governor John Graves Simcoe)

  White stands on the deck of the Onandaga as it leaves Kingston and heads into the open water of Lake Ontario. It’s a fine square-rigged, two-masted schooner. It sails briskly in th
e light breeze, and he loves the feel of the wind pushing his hair back. He looks around him. No one in sight. He does a leap into the air.

  “Ah, Mr. S..S..Satyr,” says Osgoode, appearing suddenly from the stern of the ship. “Enjoy yourself while you can. One of the s..s..sailors has just told me the winds are changeable on this lake.”

  And Osgoode is right. About seven miles from Kingston, the wind calms, and the ship stops. Osgoode pulls a book from his portmanteau and goes below deck. White stares into the bottom of the lake. It’s so transparent he can see schools of fish swirling around in the depths.

  He’s relieved the Simcoes have left Kingston before the lady could set fire to the woods. But he’s sorry the departure was too rushed for Eliza and Peter Russell who are taking a couple of extra days in Kingston. He would have enjoyed talking to Eliza. A sensible woman with a kind heart, she is so unlike Marianne. He likes the way she looks after her brother. Peter Russell seems to have settled into his new role. Osgoode has told him Russell once went to prison for his gambling debts. White is happy to know someone else has come to this country to make a new beginning. If only Russell could be a little less serious. His face with its folds and bags reminds him of a bloodhound’s.

  He sighs. How long will it be ‘til the wind picks up again? Hours probably. He’ll find some paper and write a letter to his daughter Ellen and one to his brother-in-law, Sam Shepherd. To Sam I can brag about being on board ship with the new Lieutenant-Governor and his lady. Quite an honour and far removed from my dead-end life in London with a thwarted career and a wife like a noose around my neck. Sam has been a friend indeed.

  But how will he get his letters to them? Is there a postal service in this new world? He asks one of the sailors who has just come on deck to check the rigging.

  “Give it to us, mate. When we gets to Niagara, we’ll carry it back with us. There be a ship sailing down the St. Lawrence to the sea in a week’s time, I wager.”

  * * *

  Two days later, he’s back on deck in the same spot, but now they are far from Kingston. Beside him are Osgoode and a smart-looking young officer called Lieutenant Talbot who is the Governor’s private secretary. The Simcoes are several feet away, sitting on chairs the sailors have placed for them. The lady is sketching, probably trying to capture the view of Burlington Bay into which they have just sailed.

  Lieutenant Talbot shouts. “The spray, I can see the spray!” Sure enough, when White follows the direction of Talbot’s outstretched arm, he sees the mist rising from the great Falls of Niagara.

  A mere hour later, as the schooner turns south into the Niagara River, they catch a glimpse of the garrison of Niagara on the east side and a few minutes later, they see a half dozen log houses on the land rising to the west of the river.

  “Can this be it?” he asks Osgoode.

  “Let’s hope not,” Osgoode says. “It’s most likely just a cluster of those s..s..settlers the Governor was talking about yesterday. Butler’s Rangers, I think he s..s..said.”

  But the schooner is now tacking towards shore. In front of them at the water’s edge is a forlorn-looking wooden building. Members of the Queen’s Rangers in their green uniforms stand at attention on the wharf, waiting for their commander’s arrival. “My God,” White says to Osgoode, “this is it.”

  “Navy Hall,” Lieutenant Talbot explains. “It’s the barracks where seamen used to bunk during the winter months. And now, so we’re told, it’s been thoroughly renewed as a home for Governor Simcoe and Mrs. Simcoe and for government offices.”

  But White can hear the doubt in his voice. If the outside looks this bad, what can the inside be like?

  Moments after they make their landing, the Gov sweeps into Navy Hall accompanied by Talbot and the Queen’s Rangers while the rest of the Onandaga’s passengers remain on the wharf and the low land in front of the Hall. They hear muffled, barked commands, and then the Gov is outside again.

  “A damn miserable place,” White hears him say to his lady. “I have given instructions for an extensive renovation. But it will always be an old hovel. Even if it’s properly decorated and ornamented, it will still look exactly like an ale-house in the slums of London.”

  The lady remains calm. “Well then, my dear, we must live in the tents you brought along.”

  The Governor turns to the Queen’s Rangers. “Set up the three marquees on the hilltop behind this place.” The soldiers rush towards the schooner. He turns to White and Osgoode. “I have bad news for you, gentlemen. I understand from the Rangers there are no rented rooms to be had in the settlement. But do not worry. You will live in one of the tents at our expense until we can find you a place. A second tent will accommodate our children and the servants. The third one will be designated for me and Mrs. Simcoe. It will all work out.”

  * * *

  And it does. White soon becomes accustomed to the wailing children—a girl of three and a boy who’s little more than a baby—and the marital discourses which at times are all too audible. He loves to open the flap of his marquee in the morning while Osgoode is still snoring and look down at the light glinting from the river. On hot summer evenings, everyone sits outside their canvas tents to catch the breezes. The only routine of the day that he cannot stand is the litany of long-winded prayers that the Gov conducts every morning in the oak bower.

  The oak bower is almost like another room. Huge oak trees stand in a semi-circle behind the three canvas tents, enclosing them within their circumference. Early breezes often stir the leaves, and pretty red-crested birds called, fittingly, cardinals whistle all the day from high in their branches. When the rains come, the heavy leaf canopy shields them from the worst of the storm.

  White often dines here with the Simcoes at the edge of the plain which they now call the commons. He notices how the lady appears to enjoy equally the companionship of her husband and Talbot. Though he has heard much from Mrs. Jarvis about Mrs. Simcoe’s wealth and position in English society, she seems happy in the relaxed informality of her new life. A huge black dog called Trojan lies panting at their feet as they dine, and he notices the lady often slips a piece of her whitefish to him.

  Supper is invariably whitefish and sturgeon or sturgeon and whitefish, occasionally enlivened with turtles from the creek cut up like oysters and served in scallop shells. At least there have been no more squirrels.

  He is happy to save money in this arrangement. The only expenses he has are his dinners at Fort Niagara across the river, and though he has not taken to gambling, he does drink too much when he’s there, out from under the close surveillance of the Simcoes. At the garrison, in the crowd of military men and their women and the noisy music and dancing, he feels free. The garrison is on Yankee territory, but will remain in British hands until 1796, so he’s heard. After that, he’ll have to find another place in which he can cut himself loose from the shackles of his narrow circle.

  The Simcoes do make an appearance at Fort Niagara from time to time, but they go in their own canoe, leaving him and Osgoode to find their own transportation. Last week, Osgoode returned across the river early with the Indian paddler they hire for these occasions, and he’d been forced to share a canoe with Mrs. Simcoe and Lieutenant Talbot. The Gov himself had stayed in the marquee, laid up with gout. The lady and Talbot seemed decidedly cosy in each other’s company, ignored him almost completely, and kept up a conversation he was incapable of following in his drunken state. Talbot did the paddling. He tied on a headscarf and faked a voyageur accent which greatly amused the lady.

  That night, inside his canvas wall, White wrote in his diary: “Very tipsy. N.B. Resolve to dine less often at the Fort.”

  “Truth is,” he says to Osgoode, telling him this story over breakfast. “I’m beginning to need a woman in my life.”

  “S..s..stay c..c..celibate. Less trouble in the long run.”

  “No uncomfortable passions, you understand. Just someone to indulge me in a little coquetry, the sort of thing Talbot and Mrs.
Simcoe seem to enjoy.”

  But he’s taken the measure of the women in his immediate circle. Who is there in this place to have fun with?

  Chapter Eight

  August 1792

  An advantage of being in close quarters with the Simcoes is that White has an opportunity to be near to the Gov and to observe his ways. As Attorney-General, one of his duties is to help the Gov draft bills for passage in the new Parliament of Upper Canada which is to be housed for this session in the squalid little Freemasons’ Lodge in the centre of the settlement.

  “I intend to abolish slavery,” the Gov says to him one morning as they sit together in a musty room at Navy Hall, damp from a recent rainstorm. “I am deeply troubled that many settlers in this community, including at least three members of my own administration, own slaves. It is an abomination and I will put an end to it.”

  “You have my heart and soul in that endeavour, sir.” He tells the Gov about the horrors of the Jamaican slave trade that drove him from the island.

  “You are the very man I need for the drafting of this bill which will set all men and women free. Let us begin now, shall we?”

  For several days they work together, from early morning until far into the night—while the candles gutter and die—and the ensuing bill gives both of them great pleasure. All slaves currently in Upper Canada are to be set free, and any further importation of slaves from anywhere is to be considered a crime that will bring dire consequences to the offender.

  “I thank God for decent, far-seeing men like yourself, sir,” White says to the Gov. “When I think of the wretched slaves in those damnable sugar plantations in Jamaica, I rejoice to be here, part of an enlightened new society.”