A Daughter Rebels

by Ann Birch

He picked up his knife again and shoved it into the remaining curry on his plate. He took a moment to lick the knife. Then he looked at me, frowned, and cleared his throat.

  I was astounded to hear Mama speak up. “I said I was proud of you.”

  Papa nodded.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  January, 1812

  Though the household was no Paradise, Annie Powell was thankful that it no longer resembled the Inferno. Her small granddaughters seemed to thrive on their days at the Home District School. She had finally scraped together enough money from her annuity to pay the school’s modest fees. Her husband was now on good terms with the new Governor, Major-General Brock, and seemed to recognize that Anne’s friendship with the man was an advantage.

  But yesterday things fell apart. Maud, the new housemaid, was taken ill with pains, could do no more work, and spent the day in bed. Annie had summoned her son Grant to have a look at the wench. He said she had dropsy. He bled her, gave her laudanum, and even washed her feet with warm water. And now today, she was screaming again with pain. How much longer could she endure the girl’s outburst?

  In the front hall, Annie met Anne, about to depart on her solitary daily walk along the lakeshore. She had decided to allow the girl this privilege, as long as she returned home within one hour. Anne was now twenty-five years of age. Perhaps she would never marry. For a time, she and William had hoped for a liaison with the new Governor, but it appeared that she and Brock were friends only, not lovers. Annie had not thought it possible for a man and a woman to be close friends without marriage, but now she was forced to consider alternatives.

  “Daughter,” she said, “I should like you to speak to the new housemaid Maud. You no doubt can hear her screams from the servants’ quarters. I must know what is wrong with the wench. I am tried beyond endurance. Yesterday your brother Grant said it was a mere swelling of the soft tissues, but if that is all that is wrong with her, why in tarnation does she keep up this abominable screeching?”

  “I shall look at her, Mama. I do not agree with my brother’s ridiculous diagnosis. I have a very good idea of what is wrong.”

  Annie and Anne went belowstairs into the room behind the kitchen that the girl shared with Cook, her aunt. It being a dark room, Annie lit the candles in order the better to see the girl. She was lying spread-eagled on her narrow bed, the covers drenched in wretched, stinking dampness and disarray. Anne took one look at her and went into the kitchen where Cook was busy preparing some squash for supper.

  “Leave what you are doing, please, and boil some water. Find some clean cloths and bring them into the bedroom immediately.”

  Annie was filled with a sudden foreboding. “What in tarnation is wrong with the girl?” she asked.

  “She is birthing.”

  “Birthing, birthing! Do not tell me such a thing! She came to me with the highest recommendation from Cook, and now, now I must endure this living proof of her misconduct? This is moral depravity, the like of which I have often heard, but never before—”

  “Go upstairs, Mama,” Anne said, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “Find yourself something to do. The girl is suffering, and your words merely add to that suffering. I will see to her care.”

  What was she to do? She could not be part of this. She went upstairs to her bedchamber where she shut the door and stuffed her ears with pieces of sponge that she cut from the scrubber beside the washbasin.

  ***

  Time passed. She must have fallen asleep. She was startled awake by a knock on the door. Looking through the window, she saw that night had fallen.

  Anne came in. “It’s all over now, Mama. Eighteen long hours that poor girl suffered. But now she has a healthy baby boy—”

  Annie put her hands over her ears. “Stop, stop! I will hear no more. It is all far beyond the bounds of decency and propriety. The slut may rest for a few hours, and then I will pack her off to her miserable father who must deal with the disgrace.”

  “And now I must ask you to stop, Mama. You condemn her, but you say nothing of the man who seduced her. Surely he, too, deserves your censure.”

  Annie backed away as her daughter moved close to her, the girl’s face flushed and suffused in sweat, her voice trembling. “I have already ordered a coach for her,” Anne said, “and I gave her the silver chain I had on my wrist. It is an insignificant piece, but it will pay for the ride to her father who lives several miles north of the town. I would have given her more, but I know that you control the contents of my jewel box.”

  Annie could hear no more of this. She slapped Anne across her face and pushed her towards the door. “Get out, get out.”

  Then she slammed the door and ran to her bureau where she pulled out the bottle she kept hidden there, and drank two mouthfuls of its contents straight away. Am I becoming too dependent on laudanum? Perhaps. But how can I face the truth about this slut who brought her depravity into our midst? And how can I deal with this daughter who challenges me at every hour of every day? William used to describe her as “the wretch that poisons all our existence,” but since our new Governor expresses his admiration of her, he has of late been more tolerant of her shenanigans. But wait until I tell him of this day’s fiasco.

  But will he want to discharge Cook who recommended the slut? How can I manage this household without Cook?

  Better I should keep my mouth shut. A married woman is, alas, always the victim of her husband’s whims. Sometimes I wish that I were a spinster, back in Boston with my dear aunt.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  September and October, 1812

  After enduring those long months at home, I finally found a reason for my existence, though I was ashamed to admit to myself that it was war that at first gave me hope and purpose. The Yankees had declared war on Canada, and anxiety grew apace.

  Though I had always hated stitchery, I found myself rather enjoying it since it now had a purpose. It was no longer merely mending gowns for balls that Mama decided we should not attend. Now I met three times a week with some of the other women of York to sew a standard for the Third Regiment of York. We assembled in St. James Church. It was a rather grim, plain building of frame construction—no steeple or stained-glass windows, of course—and we sat there for several hours each time that we met.

  There were two reasons—or should I say two people—who helped to make the experience a pleasure. One was our new rector, Mr. John Strachan, who was also the chaplain of the garrison. An outspoken Scotsman, he once ran a school in Cornwall and was now a staunch supporter of the Canadian militia and regulars in our battle with the Yankee thugs. He could talk about the world we lived in and not merely spout pious nothings.

  The second person whom I found myself admiring greatly was John Beverley Robinson. He had been away at Mr. Strachan’s school for several years, but now seemed to be settled in York. Papa had taken a liking to him, too, and was helping him to finish his last year of articling in the office of John Macdonell, my sister Mary’s former would-be lover. Macdonell was now Attorney-General of Upper Canada, a prestigious position, and Papa naturally started harassing Mary again over her rejection of him. His focus was now on her rather than me.

  Mr. Robinson was a handsome man with a Grecian nose and twinkling blue eyes. Though he was four years younger than I, he seemed attracted to me, and his charm was palpable. He appeared at our stitchery group whenever we met, and he read to us while we worked.

  This day he began with Shakespeare’s satirical love sonnet, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” I confess to laughing out loud as he read through the lines that mocked the traditional concepts of female beauty. “If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,” he intoned at one point. Mrs. Jarvis laughed with me, too, but there was a distinct intake of breath from Mama and my sister Eliza.

  “Really, dear sir,” Mama said, “surely it is unseemly to mention that portion of the female anatomy to the ladies gathered here.”

  “Oh, Mama,” I said, “plea
se . . .”

  Mr. Robinson smiled at me. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, turning to my mother. “Perhaps it would be more seemly for me to talk about the victorious battle that we lately enacted at Detroit.”

  Well, he made a good story out of that event. Without dwelling on his own part in the fighting, he told of my friend Isaac Brock’s brilliance in deceiving General Hull, the old fool in charge of Fort Detroit. I had already heard part of the story from Papa, but I liked Mr. Robinson’s version better.

  “Hull had over twenty-five hundred men,” he said, “while our side had a few trained regulars, four hundred poorly prepared militia, and some Native warriors. But our brave leader had a perfect plan.”

  Mr. Robinson paused at this point. His timing was perfect. “Do please continue, sir,” Mama said. “We are agog to hear more.” And it was true. All the women had paused in their stitching to hear the tale.

  “Well, Brock dressed the militia in some of the old coats of the 41st Regiment that were in storage. So when Hull looked over the walls of Fort Detroit, it seemed to him that we had far more regulars than we really possessed. Then Brock deposited the Native warriors at the edge of the forest in view of the American garrison. He told them to whoop and holler like a group of bloodthirsty savages. You see, he knew about Hull’s fear of Indians. So, while the old fool was probably pissing in his. . . whoops, prostrate with fear, Brock sent me to the fort with a note that said that he could not be responsible for the conduct of the Indians because their savagery was beyond his control.

  “By the time I got back to the ship, a white flag was waving over the Detroit garrison. All we had to do then was to remove the American cannons, guns, and supplies to our own vessel, pick up the Indians, and head back home.”

  “Brilliant!” I said, and the women stitchers echoed my praise.

  At supper that night, Mama related Mr. Robinson’s story to Papa. “I liked his modesty, too,” she said. “He made very little of his own part in the proceedings, placing the praise on the shoulders of our Governor.”

  Papa seemed pleased to hear her news. “Robinson and Brock,” he said, “are two fine men, the like of which York has seldom seen.” He turned to me. “And Mama has told me that Robinson seems to like you. Is it possible you could like him as well?”

  I knew what Papa meant by the word “like.” I had never contemplated a romantic liaison with the man. So I did not answer. In my mind, though, I was saying “yes.”

  * * *

  A month later, tragedy struck. My brave friend General Brock died, killed by the Americans at Queenston Heights. His aide-de-camp, John Macdonell, rallied the troops but was himself killed a few hours later. Mary was heartsick with guilt because Macdonell sent her a long (and bad, I must say) love poem in the days before he died. And he left her five hundred pounds in his will.

  A Brit called Sheaffe, acting on Brock’s former orders, brought soldiers from the garrison at Niagara and, with the help of a hundred Six Nations warriors, managed to defeat the Americans and turn the tide towards victory. I didn’t like or trust Sheaffe—I’d heard too many things about him from General Brock—though the victory at Queenston Heights at least exonerated him from public censure.

  But the horror of my friend’s death stayed with me for days. War that had first buoyed my spirits now defeated me. I had no stomach left for stitchery and no heart left to pursue the burgeoning friendship with Mr. Robinson. I felt such pain that I took refuge again in my bedchamber and tried to find surcease in slumber. The waking hours were intolerable. Whenever I rejoined my sisters and Mama in the parlour, Mary kept crying and asking, “Should I have consented to be John Macdonell’s wife?” Then she would read aloud that poem from the small black notebook found on Macdonnell’s body.

  Bad poem though it was, there was a certain poignancy to it. It seemed to imply that the man had known he would die at Queenston Heights. I heard Mary recite it so often that I could not get the opening lines out of my head:

  Adieu! Adieu! and is it so,

  And must I from my Mary go?

  O Mary! say “Adieu” once more,

  And I’ll repeat it o’er and o’er.

  I would listen to her until my nerves broke, and then I’d moan about my headache, and Mama would allow me to retreat to my solitude again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  April, 1813

  Annie Powell plunged up the staircase, took a deep breath, and pounded on her daughter Anne’s door. “Get up, get up,” she cried. “Did you not hear that noise? It seems to come from the garrison. What is happening?”

  “What can I do about it, Mama?” Her daughter’s voice was muffled. That meant she was probably still lying in bed, quilt pulled up over her head.

  “You must come out on the verandah and look towards the garrison. Something bad is going on. I need you to help me understand it.”

  Annie waited. At last her daughter appeared, her face grey and her hair in greasy, uncombed strands. She had put a dirty shawl around her nightdress. Annie opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. She needed the girl’s opinion. Her other daughters, Eliza and Mary, would be useless in coping with whatever was happening. Together, from the second-storey porch railing, she and Anne looked towards the garrison. Flames leapt into the air, and timber and stones seemed to fall from the sky. As they stood there, the bell of St. James Church tolled behind them. And all the while, the windows in the house rattled.

  Anne suddenly came alive. She pulled back her strands of hair and threw off the shawl. “God, I think someone must have ignited the powder magazine. People will be blown to bits. We must all go at once and see if we can help.” She grabbed Annie’s hand and pulled her away from the railing.

  “You must go, Anne. Your sisters cannot help. They are fearful of what will happen. At the moment, they are hiding belowstairs with Cook, all of them whimpering and moaning. Totally useless they are.”

  “You will come with me, Mama?”

  “No, Anne, I must stay here and guard the house. Papa is away on the circuit for a few days. I suspect the Yankees have landed at the garrison and have caused this chaos. They may soon come to pillage the town. I must find your Papa’s pistol. Get yourself dressed, go out and find out what’s going on.”

  “The Yankees, Mama? Surely not. They would not dare—”

  “But I think they have . . . Your father told me before he left this morning that there were more than a dozen armed Yankee vessels in the harbour. They came yesterday and—”

  “Yesterday! Why did not General Sheaffe make a move then? He is out at the garrison and surely he could have—”

  “At the garrison, yes, but the man apparently did nothing to stop the invasion. Your father was at supper at Government House yesterday with eight or ten other men. They could all see the Yankee gunboats in the harbour waiting for daylight, and your father assumed that supper would be cut short so that Sheaffe could draw up battle plans with his officers.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Nothing of that sort happened. Sheaffe poured whisky for his guests and strutted around in a new scarlet coat with gold embroidery, bragging that it had cost more than two hundred pounds.”

  Annie’s daughter made a noise that sounded like a snort. “Perfect for the battlefield, Mama, especially when accompanied by a fine white horse.”

  “And your father told me that by the time they all sat down for the soup, most of the guests were tipsy, and their host was perhaps the most befuddled of all.”

  “Mama, I cannot believe the man could be such an ass.”

  “I shall not presume to chastise you about your language, my dear. The man is an ass. Besides being inebriated, he apparently kept taking snuff and passing his box around so that the others could have a pinch. Your father said that the snuffbox played a tune when the lid was raised. He did not recognize the tune, but judging from the guffaws of the supper guests, he feared it was ribald. Not once, at least in those hours before your father could
make his escape, did Sheaffe mention confronting the Yankees.”

  “I shall get dressed at once and go to the garrison. There must be wounded people there, and I can help.” Annie followed her daughter as she ran back to her bedchamber. She watched as Anne scooped up her hair into a knot at the top of her head and scrambled into a dress, boots, and a cloak. In five minutes, she was ready.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back, Mama,” she said as she ran down the staircase towards the front door. “I’ll send a message if I can find someone to deliver it.”

  The door banged shut, letting in a puff of cold air that was soon followed by a banging on the doorknocker. Annie was still in the front hall and answered the summons just as the maid Lucy came rushing up from belowstairs.

  Mrs. Strachan, wife of the new rector and chaplain of the garrison, stood on the threshold. “Quick, quick, Mrs. Powell,” she said, “gather together a few necessaries and join me and the children in our carriage there in the lane. My dear husband is sending me north of the town to a friend’s house. He says we must not stay a moment longer in this place.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I must remain here.”

  “Why, oh why? The American scoundrels may be upon us at any moment.”

  “All the more reason to remain in place. I have my daughters to think of and this house to protect.”

  “Very well, Mrs. Powell. But your ignorance of the dangers before us compels me to say that you are either stupid or foolhardy.”

  Annie closed the door in the woman’s face. Stupid? No. Foolhardy? Perhaps. No matter. Right now, she had to find her husband’s flintlock pistol. Where in tarnation was it? Where? Perhaps in his bedchamber, in the chest at the foot of the bed.

  She ran up the stairs. There at the bottom of a pile of old clothes in the trunk, she found the pistol. It was huge—about sixteen inches in length—and heavy and cumbersome in her hands. Quite a beautiful weapon of destruction, though, with its stock of polished wood and embossed silver barrel. And then she realized that she had not the remotest idea of how to work the thing. What would she do if the Yankees burst through her front door? She had spent a good many years in America, it was true, but she now considered herself a British Canadian. If necessary, she would defend her house and family here in York, but oh Lord, how was she to do it?