by Ann Birch
As a consequence of the move, she was forced to put aside her translations, etchings and writing. “If I have to undertake the stitching of one more set of curtains or the measurement and placement of one more carpet, I will do something quite unbefitting my role as Chancellor’s Lady,” she said to Mrs. Hawkins.
“Oh, ma’am, there be two more sets of curtains to hem, but before you and me both go barmy, I have a suggestion.”
“Out with it.”
“Why do we not try Mrs. Sykes?”
“Mrs. Sykes? What a splendid idea. She has improved so much with good food and the comforts we provide on our visits. But how would we arrange—”
“Easy, ma’am. We take the goods to her along with the needles and thread, and we arrange for a body, perhaps her sister, to keep an eye on her so that she not be harming herself with the needles. And we bribe the jailer to let her upstairs to sit on a chair and stitch—”
“And we pay her for her work, if she can do it. Perfect. And can you set it up, Mrs. Hawkins?”
In two days, Mrs. Hawkins came back from the jail with the curtains. Mrs. Sykes had hemmed them with tiny perfect stitches, and though they were a trifle dirty from the dirt on the floors in the jail, all in all, the plan had worked well. “And now, ma’am,” Mrs. Hawkins said, “I be getting to work with that herbal bath I made up from the soapwort, good for delicate fabrics it is, and all will be well.”
Though Anna liked the house on the whole, its size bothered her. Robert had made no arrangements for friends. The dining room was small, and there was no space for dancing or for musical evenings. She thought of the Jarvis establishment with its conservatory, spacious reception areas, library, and—so Mrs. Powell had told her more than once—six bedchambers.
As she and Robert ate their supper, she tried to draw him out on the subject of space. He had been in a foul mood before their meal. The front of the house was so completely blockaded by ice and mud that to reach the door was a matter of some difficulty. A stone walk would be laid in the spring, but for now Hawkins had put down planks to give access to the front door. This evening Robert had slipped off a plank into the snow and mud. His boots and fine striped pants were as filthy as his humour. He had stamped his boots all over the new carpet. Now, however, Mrs. Hawkins’s excellent meal of pork chops and roast potatoes, completed by her maple sugar pie, brought a rare look of contentment to his face.
“Where will we put visitors who might stray this way?” Anna asked. “You have built only two bedchambers.”
“There are hotels, my dear. I understand the Black Bull &Drovers’ Arms is quite a respectable establishment.” Robert put down his napkin.
“Oh, very respectable, no doubt.” Anna had seen the place, a frame building with a creaking sign showing a black bull. In front was a wooden horse trough. “All the best farmers from the north and west stay there. I am quite certain that our friends would enjoy the stink of cow manure and the ale spilled upon the floor. And I understand there is always room for one more in the place. Colonel Fitzgibbon told me that one of his military friends stayed there—”
“Well then, my dear, if one of the Colonel’s friends recommended it, I am sure you can have no higher accolade—”
“Let me finish, Robert. You don’t understand much about Toronto hotels. The man was sound asleep when he was awakened by two young girls who appeared in the room. ‘Please, sir,’ they said, ‘we be the innkeeper’s daughters, and Papa has lent you our room, the inn being so full up this day. So you must make a place for us, sir.’ So how were the three of them to sleep in one bed? According to the Colonel’s friend, they had to position themselves crosswise along the length of the mattress in order to have enough room for three bodies.”
“Well, there’s the solution to our problems, don’t you see? If your dear friends—let us say Ottilie von Goethe and Henry Burlowe—should arrive at the same time, could they not lie crosswise with you in your bedchamber?”
She had a sudden vision of Sam Jarvis and Jacob lying crosswise with her on her bed. She laughed out loud.
“I’m glad you enjoy my small joke, Anna. Now, how about some music?”
She played the piano and sang “Casta diva” from Norma, which she and Robert had seen together at Haymarket, London, in 1833. She turned the pages of her music and watched her husband drain the dregs from his wineglass. Mrs. Hawkins was right. Songs soothed—not only insanity, but her own sorrow.
For the next two weeks, the ice in the Bay of Toronto stayed four to five feet in thickness, though the snow had begun to disappear and the flocks of snowbirds with it.
“Perhaps spring will come,” she said to Mrs. Hawkins one morning, “and this long winter’s imprisonment will end.”
“Sure, it will come. There be a large sky this day.” Her housekeeper pointed out the front window at the expanse of blue which made the white-covered lake so dazzling that Anna had to cover her eyes and turn away.
“And the savages—beg pardon, ma’am, the Indians—come this morning to swap a brace of quails for a pound of butter. A sure sign of spring. And I be plucking them birds now for your dinner.”
“And I see that Hawkins has just finished laying the oak planks in the dining room. Truly, without his help, the joiner would have taken at least two more days to do the room. Now, the house being ready, I shall be able to get to my etchings.”
It was a profitable day, and she had one etching finished by the time Robert came home from his office. “You must entertain yourself after dinner,” she told him. “My apologies, but I must have a good night’s sleep.”
But as she lay in bed, fearful sounds roused her from slumber. Creakings and howlings. What on earth...? She lit her candle and saw that the mantel clock said two o’clock. She got out of bed and looked out of the window but could see nothing in the darkness. She tugged on the bell pull beside her bed. In a minute or two, Mrs. Hawkins appeared in the doorway, her grey hair askew, hands clutching a shawl which covered the top of her nightdress. She rushed to Anna’s side.
“What is that infernal noise, Mrs. Hawkins? It sounds as if the house foundations are breaking up.”
Mrs. Hawkins laughed. “Oh ma’am, not the house, the ice.”
“The ice? What do you mean?”
“The ice in the lake breaking, ma’am. Sure, it happens every spring. Go back to sleep. You scairt me. I thought you was taken with the ague.”
Unable to rest, Anna lay awake and listened to the moan and the crack of the ice. She simply could not imagine this Canadian world without winter. Soon, to the sound of the breaking ice was added the roar of a tremendous gale from the east. In the early morning light she rushed to the drawing room window and saw that the ice had indeed disappeared just as her housekeeper—admirable woman!—had predicted.
“Spring here is so different from England,” she said to Mrs. Hawkins mid-morning. “I have given some thought to the contrast and written what I call ‘a set piece’ for my new book.”
“And what do you say, ma’am?”
“‘In England, Nature is a sluggard. When she wakes from her long winter, she opens one eye and then another, shivers and draws her snow coverlet over her face and sleeps again. At last, slow and lazy, she drags herself up from her winter slumber.’ Do you like it?”
Mrs. Hawkins considered and gave a nod of approval. “And what about Canada?”
“‘Here in Canada, no sooner has the sun peeped through her curtains than up she springs, like a huntress for the chase. She puts on her kirtle of green and walks out of her winter chamber in full-blown life and beauty. And everyone basks in her smiles.’ What do you think, Mrs. Hawkins?”
“Hmm, a bit fanciful, that one. ‘Kirtle’, no one wears them things these days. Why not ‘apron’?” She put her finger to her chin, and said, “‘She puts on her apron of green.’ But then, ma’am, there be no green aprons. Maybe just ‘She puts on her apron.’ Yes, I think that be best.”
Well, I asked, didn’t I, thought
Anna. The English servant would bob a curtsy and say something agreeable, even if it wasn’t what she thought. I suppose, on the whole, I prefer the truth. “I shall get my pencils, Mrs. Hawkins. Drawings, not words, must describe this moment.”
She sat the rest of the morning at the window sketching. Every moment the lake changed its hues. Shades of purple and green passed over the water. Then a streak of silver light divided the colours. Clouds tumbled over the horizon; and graceful little schooners came curtseying into the bay. And then there were the wild geese, and great black loons, skimming, diving and sporting over the water. A dinghy ventured as far as the King’s Wharf. She put down her pencils and sat enjoying it all. Aloud she said, though there was no one around to hear her, “Today, in spite of myself, I begin to be in love with this beautiful lake, and look on it as mine.”
Two days later, as she came into the dining room for breakfast, she found Mrs. Hawkins at the window, staring at the horizon. “Look, ma’am, do look!” She pointed towards the lighthouse. A huge steamboat had just rounded the spit and come into the bay. Black smoke belched from its twin stacks.
Anna tugged at the strings of her housekeeper’s apron. “Let’s get rid of this kirtle. No work this morning. This is a day worth a king’s ransom. We shall go to the pier and watch it come in.”
They arrived at the wharf in time to see the boat sweep into the bay, flags and streamers flying. There were already a hundred people assembled to cheer it on. Among the crowd, Anna spotted Colonel Fitzgibbon, in full dress uniform, with his portmanteau. With him was Sam Jarvis, whom she had not seen since her visit to the sugarbush.
“Good day, Mrs. Jameson,” the Colonel called out to her, and Sam waved a hand in greeting. She ran up to them. “Oh, gentlemen,” she said, laughing, “what a wonderful, wonderful morning.”
“Indeed it is, ma’am,” the Colonel said, “and Jarvis and I sail this day to Queenston for an important awards ceremony with the Indian troops from the War of 1812.”
“May I go with you?” She felt so light-hearted, she could not stop herself from being ridiculous. “If I have a few minutes before the steamer departs, I shall run back home and get my portmanteau and my Spanish guitar and entertain you on the way.”
The men laughed. “Come along, ma’am,” the Colonel said, and he seemed to mean it. “We shall do a flamenco that will pound the ship’s boards into the hold.”
“I fear my knees will collapse long before the ship’s boards,” Sam added, “but my scarf will be a nice accessory for the occasion.” He took it from his neck and made a feint or two with it in the manner of a toreador confronting a bull.
The Colonel pulled out his pocket watch. “You have an hour. If you can’t make it by then, I fear you will have to swim.”
Hoist with her own petard. And she was aware that their laughter had attracted the notice of several onlookers, including a young man from her husband’s office who would no doubt report everything to him. She didn’t care. “If we run, Mrs. Hawkins, I think we can find a carriage, get home, pack and be back here in time. If you will help me.”
“Oh, ma’am, sure I’m glad you be going, but what will I say to the master?”
“You’ll think of something. Tell him it’s research. But right now, let’s save our breath for running.”
TWENTY-ONE
Colonel Fitzgibbon had led the Indians to victory against the Americans at Beaver Dams in August of 1813. He had often told Sam that without his Caughnawaga warriors, the battle would have been lost. Sam was glad to have the Colonel along for this first major official engagement. Not only did he welcome his friend’s knowledge of the Niagara Indians, he was relieved just to have someone to talk to on the long steamer trip to Niagara.
Of course, now he had Anna as well. Sam made a mental note to call her Mrs. Jameson in front of the Colonel. She was standing at the stern of the steamer, waving goodbye to her housekeeper. She had indeed brought her Spanish guitar and a very small portmanteau, so it would all be manageable—at least, the luggage part of it. As for the rest of what might unfold in the next two days, well, he’d have to see.
“Your knowledge of the Indian bands will be an asset, Colonel,” he said as Fitzgibbon poured whiskey from the silver flask he always had with him. “Mohawk, Chippewa, Mississauga, Caughnawaga, it sounds almost like the first line of a children’s rhyme, doesn’t it? I know something of the Chippewa people. Jacob Snake has told me about them and introduced me to his relations, but I have to sort the rest of them.”
“Especially now you Big Indian Chief.” They both laughed.
Anna joined them. “How long will it take to get there?”
“Four hours, I expect,” the Colonel said.
“Then I can surely provide some fun en route. Apparently there is an Irish American troupe on board who are making the circuit around the Great Lakes.”
“They have just come from the Theatre Royal,” Sam said. “They did some comic songs and dances there this week. I heard a good deal about it, and I wanted so much to go, but...there just didn’t seem enough time to take it in.” He remembered Mary’s comment that there would be too many of the serving classes there, and he had caved in to her disapproval.
The next minute, it seemed, Anna had found a bench near the pilot’s cabin, taken out her guitar and begun twanging away with some Spanish music. The theatre troupe improvised a flamenco, and the deck cleared so that people could stand at the sides and watch. It was a comical performance—Irish step-dancing overlaid with Spanish hand-clapping and twirls, and Sam did a few feints with his scarf, hoping he didn’t look too ridiculous.
“Your toreador skills are sadly wasted in this part of the world,” Anna said as the audience clapped in appreciation of the impromptu performance.
“Not really. I intend to try them on the next bull moose I meet.”
“I have not had a chance to ask you about Job Crimshaw. But I’m sure by now you have things well in hand.”
“It’s not that simple. You, coming from Europe, cannot understand how dependent all of us are on Crimshaw’s merchandise. If I upset the man, where am I to get what I need? I intend to do something, but not now.”
He turned away. Would she bring up the subject again? To escape further questioning, he found a quiet spot below deck to look over the notes for his speech.
In Niagara, they rented a carriage to take them to Queenston Heights, where they alighted at a spot not far from where General Brock had died. There they were to receive the Indians in front of his monument, a massive column that towered one hundred and twenty-six feet into the sky. In the vault below were the bodies of Brock and his aide-de-camp.
Sam could see the birchbark canoes down in the river. Two hundred Indian veterans of the battles of 1812 and 1813 had already climbed to the Heights and were waiting on the knoll. As Sam looked over the assembly, he thought, “How aged they are, though surely they cannot be much older than I.” Some were dressed in filthy trousers and ragged double-breasted frock coats. Perhaps they, like Elijah White Deer, had suffered the abuse of the white trader. Others wore eagle feathers in their braids, deerskin leggings, and shirts decorated with strings of wampum.
He and the Colonel moved to the folding table flanked by two chairs, which had been placed at the head of the crowd. He fumbled in the left-hand pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out his watch. Time to get on with it. He cleared his throat, and the gabble of native dialects ceased.
“Please sit down.” He gestured towards the grass, which on this sunny day seemed dry enough for sitting. When he looked down at the assembly, he could see no one he recognized except Anna. She sat in the front row near an old chieftain with plumes in his headband. He and Fitzgibbon had provided a chair for her, but she had elected to sit on the grass with the Indians. When he caught her eye, she smiled and made a clapping motion with her small white fingers.
He waited while they settled, then continued. “All of you fought along with me and my friend here in the war
against the Yankees. The Great Father across the sea recognizes your contribution to his new nation.” A Mississauga Indian named Blackbird translated his words. As the translation spun out into the open air, Sam heard a murmur from the crowd.
“What’s the matter?” he asked Blackbird.
“That phrase ‘his new nation’, your Honour. Your Honour forgets that we Indians consider this land our land. Did we not fight to keep it from the hands of the Yankee scoundrels?”
Not an auspicious start. Best to rush on, skip most of it, and get to the point. “The Great Father has medals for you this day, but he will reward your loyalty further at a grand ceremony on the Island of Manitou this summer. I hope to see you all there where there will be gifts of blankets, pots, cloth and tobacco for everyone.”
Applause was polite but subdued. No one seemed to remember him. He had been a young man in 1812, scarcely twenty years old, and dressed in the uniform of the Third Regiment. Now he was forty-five and fitted out in a frock coat and striped trousers.
His next duty was to give each of the veterans a medal. He reached towards the box on the table. “Good lord, man,” Fitzgibbon whispered, “let me put some heart in it.” He rose from the chair where he had sat during Sam’s little speech. As soon as he stood up, applause broke out. He’d had the foresight to wear his battle uniform from those long-ago days: white pants with a sash, a sword attached to his belt, and a red jacket with epaulets. This was someone they remembered
“My brothers, you were responsible for the important victory at Beaver Dams.” His voice rang clear across the Heights. “Though you were greatly outnumbered by the American troops, you scared the breeches off them.” There was much laughter as Blackbird translated. “You beat the Yankees into a state of terror; and the only share I claim in the victory is that I took advantage of a favourable moment to offer them protection from your tomahawks and scalping knives. They threw down their weapons and surrendered. I and the Great Father will ever be indebted to you.” He laid his hand on his heart. “We will never forget your bravery.”