Duelling in a New World Read online

  Duelling in a New World

  By Ann Birch

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9780228600466

  Kindle 9780228600473

  WEB 9780228600480

  Amazon Print 9780228600503

  BWL Publishing Print 9780228600497

  Copyright 2018 by Ann Birch

  Cover Art Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  To Frances, Claire, and Lee—with love

  Acknowledgements

  I began my long journey researching this book by looking at archival documents. Many thanks to the archivists at the Law Society of Upper Canada in Toronto and the National Archives in Ottawa who supplied me with boxes of John White’s letters and his diaries. I also thank the archivists of the Baldwin Collection at the Toronto Reference Library for facilitating my reading of the letters and journals of Elizabeth Russell, most of which were first drafts scribbled on scraps of paper.

  Many books enabled me to recreate the world that John White was part of. I am especially thankful for these historical accounts: Murder Among Gentlemen by Hugh Halliday; Muddy York: A History of Toronto Until 1834 by Richard Fiennes-Clinton; Crime and Punishment in Upper Canada by Janice Nickerson; The Colonial Century, ed. by A.J. M. Smith; Spadina by Austin Seton Thompson; The Diary of Mrs. John Graves Simcoe, ed. with notes by John Ross Robertson; The Capital Years: Niagara-on-the-Lake 1792-1796, ed. by Richard Merritt, Nancy Butler, and Michael Power; The Town of York 1793-1815 by Edith Firth; Elizabeth Postuma Simcoe 1762-1850 by Mary Beacock Fryer; A Cooking Legacy by Virginia T. Elverson and Mary Ann McLanahan; Empire Fashion by Tom Tierney; and 18th Century Clothing by Bobbie Kalman.

  I am grateful to the people who stayed with me for the many years leading to publication. Novelist Barbara Kyle offered wise advice and intensive editing. My husband Nicholas and sons John and Hugh gave support at all times. Carolyn Thompson helped with nitpicking details. She even went through the tailors’ bills for White’s fine clothes!

  Finally, I thank the amazing folk at Books We Love Publishing Ltd, especially Nancy Bell, Michelle Lee, and Judith Pittman. They moved me through the process of publishing this book with skill, speed, and wisdom.

  Chapter One

  Near London, England, September 1791

  John White’s boots pinch, but the stink of London bothered him more. On his long trek north through the city, he hopped over clumps of shit, and he could not avoid the piss. He stopped several times to let herds of cattle and sheep find their way across the street to the stench of slaughterhouses and tanneries. An hour ago, in the thick of London traffic, he narrowly missed having the contents of a chamberpot dumped on his head from the second storey of a row house.

  Now the countryside opens before him, green fields and the occasional flock of sheep, tended by shepherds sitting nearby. How he envies them, as he plods onwards. Looming before him now is a steep hill. There’s a pub just ahead, thank God, and he’s tempted to have a pint and an hour’s rest with his boots off. But will it make him late for his appointment with the pastor? He reaches the pub and stands by the door, mulling it over. Then he hears the clatter of a cart.

  Salvation, though perhaps of a temporary nature, not the eternal sort the pastor might pray for. He gestures to the driver.

  “Give ye a ride, matey?”

  “Know the way to Bunhill Fields?”

  “Bone Hill, I calls it,” the man replies. He’s a red-faced yokel with a twist of chewing tobacco between his teeth and a filthy cap slung low over his forehead. “It’ll cost ye a shilling, matey.”

  White fumbles in his vest pocket. Only a few coins left, and he has to consider the return trip to his rented house on the Embankment. He pulls out his pocket watch. A pint or the appointment?

  “It’d cost ye lots more in one of them fine hearses that goes up there regular.” The man laughs. “But I guess ye wouldn’t mind if ye was in the coffin, like.”

  “Just get me there, please.” And shut up while you’re at it. He hops up beside the yokel. A touch of the reins and the cart horse plods into the road, lifting its tail and discharging a clump of dung as it moves forward.

  White tries to keep a lid on his anger. He’s always smouldering these days, as he thinks of his failed legal career in Jamaica and the wife and children dependent on him. But who knows, the pastor may solve his problems. His brother-in-law Sam Shepherd got him the appointment. “I hear they need an assistant at Horsleydown Church,” he told White. “Why not apply? I’ll set you up with John Rippon. He’s usually at Bunhill in the afternoons.” Sam has been White’s staunch friend and patron since they studied law together at the Inner Temple in the seventeen eighties. And for some years, since Sam has become his brother-in-law, they’ve grown even closer together.

  Horse and cart plod on for some time. The driver chews away at his plug of tobacco and spits on the horse’s tail. There’s no need for conversation. Dead tired from his long trek, White closes his eyes.

  His head snaps forward as they come to a halt. “Here we be,” the driver says. “Where to now, matey?”

  White looks around. They seem to be at the top of the hill, and they’ve just come through a spiked gate. Two long rows of huge plane trees line the road forward. Beyond the trees on both sides of the road stretch hundreds of gravestones. How on earth is he to find Rippon in such a vast space? Perhaps there is an office somewhere?

  He alights, pays the yokel, and sets off down the road between the avenue of plane trees. He has not gone far when he hears a strong bass voice singing a familiar hymn, “O God, our help in ages past.” Without further thought, he joins in the final lines: “Be thou our guard while troubles last,/ And our eternal home!”

  “Over here,” the deep voice calls. White is lost for a moment as he looks about for the man who beckons. No one is visible. Strange. Then he sees what’s up.

  A black-clad figure is sprawled on his side between two graves. As White approaches, he notices the man has a pen and a book, and an inkhorn in his button-hole, and he appears to be copying the epitaph on one of the stones. When he sees White, he struggles to his feet.

  “Mr. White, I presume? I’m Pastor Rippon. Excuse my informal posture. The inscriptions on these gravestones fade so quickly, and before I am gathered to my fathers, I want to copy all the words on the stones and publish them in several volumes that will in future years pay tribute to the worthies buried here.”

  He’s a much younger man than White expected, having heard his friend Sam speak eloquently of his many accomplishments in the promotion of Calvinism. Indeed he’s probably not much more than forty, a decade older than White himself. He is tall and has a shock of black hair and a ruddy complexion.

  “Let’s find a bench,” he says and points towards a wooden seat a stone’s throw away. “Oops, forgot my wig,” he adds, pulling a scalp of white curls from the top of a nearby headstone.

  “You have a pleasant voice,” he says to White. “Always an asset to good preaching.”

  “It’s one of my favourite hymns.” He’s happy his meeting with Rippon is off to a good start.

  The pastor tucks his hair under the wig and points back at the headstone that was its temporary home. “Sir Isaac Watts’s memorial. What wonderful music he wrote. Too bad anyone who’s non-conformist has to be buried out here in the back-country. People like Watts and John Bunyan should be in Westm
inster Abbey.”

  “And Daniel Defoe, too?” White noticed Defoe’s memorial as he walked down the lane.

  “Defoe should be put in a charnel pit, in my view. Free up more space here for the worthies of this world, I say.” Rippon scowls.

  “You don’t like Moll Flanders then?” White knows he shouldn’t say this, but he can’t stop himself. He enjoyed the book. He loves Moll’s courage in the face of hardship.

  “Incest and whoredom? No God-fearing man could like such a book.” Rippon’s words spill from his mouth, flakes of spittle speckling the air between them.

  Well, that’s that. I should have kept my mouth shut. He’s spoiled his chances. He’ll have to go through the motions, though. So he takes a seat beside Rippon and waits for the next question.

  “I shall say no more about Daniel Defoe whom you evidently admire. Your brother-in-law assures me that you have a strong personal faith. But I must ask you: what inspired you to move from the legal world to a desire for the Calvinist ministry?”

  “My time in Jamaica, sir.” And saying this, White gathers strength to make his case. “I went there as a lawyer two years ago. But I was not able to work with the clients who came to me for legal advice. Every one of the devils was the owner of a sugar-cane plantation, and they wanted me to help them with land disputes and contracts with British and African entrepreneurs for buying and selling slaves. And I could not. I could not . . .”

  Long pause. Rippon says, “Ah yes, the slave trade. Deplorable in many ways.”

  “In all ways, surely.”

  “We must not judge. It is for God to judge. He saves some; he allows others to go their own way along the path of sin to eternal damnation. It is possible that some of these slave owners will achieve salvation if they are predestined to do so. It is the same with the slaves. Some will be saved; some damned.”

  “If you could have seen what I saw in Jamaica, you would not talk about salvation for slave owners. Every one of them should face eternal damnation. While I was there, the slaves revolted against their tyranny. All they wanted was a small wage for their labour. They burned a few warehouses filled with sugar-cane. They did not kill anyone. But for their transgressions, hundreds of them were hanged in the public square. Others had their limbs mutilated. Some were broken on a wheel, their bodies pulled apart and their bones broken. There were cages in which they were . . .” Remembering the skeletal face of a young boy in one of those cages, White wipes his eyes with his fist.

  Rippon reaches over and puts an arm round White’s shoulder. “My dear man, you are upsetting yourself. All is God’s will. He has a purpose. It is not for us to question it.” With his free arm he pats White’s knee. “But you have not yet explained why you have embraced Calvinism.”

  “It was a Baptist minister who made me see the light, sir. A brave black man who, from the pulpit of a chapel that welcomed slave congregations, exhorted them to rebel. And when they did, those ‘God-fearing’ plantation owners killed him and burned the chapel.” White stands up suddenly, breaking free of Rippon’s embrace. “I would choose hell rather than give legal advice to such people. Or . . . now that I think of it, preach to such scoundrels. I fear that you and I have differing views on slavery, Pastor. I have wasted your time. Good day, sir.”

  He strides down the pathway towards the spiked gate. The cart driver has long departed, but White no longer needs him. He is charged with fresh energy. He must get free of this place, this sanctimonious pastor, his wretched smug certainties.

  He breaks into a run down the long hill, past the pub which no longer tempts him. Farther along the road back into London, he collapses with the fatigue of his hike. Seated on a rock by the wayside, he counts the money in his pocket; there is some left. He’ll go to his club in the heart of London. There he’ll seek oblivion. Tomorrow will be soon enough to reconsider his future.

  Chapter Two

  John White’s head bumps against something hard and he jolts awake. Where the hell is he? It takes him a moment to realize he’s slumped on the top step of his rented house on the Embankment and his head has hit the iron balustrade by the front door.

  He wipes the drool from his chin and crawls to his feet. In the moonlight he squints at his pocket watch. Midnight. Earlier than usual. He has no memory of how he got home. But his aching skull and the shouting from the revellers on the river force him to remember the bowl of rum punch he drank. And the money he lost at the gaming-tables and the notes of promise he signed.

  If he can sneak into his house without his wife hearing him, all will be well. With trembling fingers, he takes the latch-key from his pocket-book. The door opens with the squeak his wife never gets around to oiling. All is quiet inside. The dining-room door on his left is ajar, and he sees the maidservant asleep, her head on the table. He tiptoes past her. Let her sleep. She is not a slave, but she works hard for her pittance.

  He fumbles up the staircase, pitching forward on the top step. The door of the first bedchamber on his right is slightly ajar. He peeks in, expecting to see Marianne’s head on the pillow, her mouth open in a soft snore. But the bed is empty, the coverlet still in place, and the bolsters undisturbed. He stumbles into the room and takes the lid off the pisspot. Nothing in it. So she hasn’t been in her room all evening?

  Maybe one of the children is ill . . . ? He goes down the hall into the nursery, the carpet cushioning the sound of his footsteps. All is quiet there, too. Ellen asleep in the big bed, Charles dreaming peacefully in the trundle bed beside it, and baby William in a pullout drawer in the walnut chest, so quiet that he puts his hand on the tiny back just to feel the gentle exhalation of breath.

  But no Marianne. Where on earth . . . ? He suddenly feels completely sober. He lights a candle and stands at the top of the staircase listening to the clocks sounding the half hour. Then he hears a soft tap on the front door, the servant’s footsteps, and the familiar squeak of the hinges. A whispered greeting, then the click of his wife’s dress pumps on the staircase. He moves forward, candle in hand.

  “Marianne, what the devil—”

  “John, my God, I thought . . .”

  “Thought I wouldn’t be home so soon? Is that it? Where have you been?”

  In the shadows, her face seems ashen beneath the white powder that covers it, her lips, a scarlet gash. Her hand trembles as she pulls at the heart-shaped patch that covers the smallpox scar on her forehead.

  “Look at you!” He gestures at her breasts bulging from the tight corset which encircles the tiny waist he once encompassed with lustful fingers. “Where have you been?”

  “Brother and I, we went to the theatre. But we didn’t spend money there. Only tuppence to the orange girl. It was Macbeth and I wanted to see the murder. But Haymarket doesn’t charge if you only stay for the first act, so we walked out and—”

  “If you walked out after the first act, woman, where have you been?” He grabs her wrist and twists it. She whimpers.

  He can hear the servant girl at the bottom of the staircase. “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

  He pushes his wife into her bedchamber and slams the door. “Where? Where?”

  “We went to supper in Drury Lane. Oh, it was lovely. And it didn’t cost you a penny. Brother paid. Sucking-pig and gooseberry pasty.” A smile creases the white mask of her face. And now, as he leans over her, he can smell the opium and brandy on her breath, the stench of that vile laudanum she buys at the greengrocer’s on the next block. For her toothache, she has told him, though it’s a lie. Her perfect teeth shine through the rouged lips that grimace up at him.

  He pushes her onto the bed and raises his fist. She starts to cry, and he moves away, appalled by the hot rush of blood that has pounded into his cheeks and forehead. Leaving her snuffling against the bolster, he runs into his own bedchamber and douses his face with cold water from the washbasin opposite his bed.

  To hit a woman was the most contemptible of acts. And he came so close to it. If he has now sunk so low, what will come n
ext? Marianne is intolerable: he cannot be sure anything she says is true. Knowing her brother’s stinginess, he can scarcely believe the man paid for supper. But what of his own actions, the boozing and gaming that consume him nightly? He has not a penny in his pocket at the moment to pay the rent. I am as bad as she is, truth be told.

  Throwing his wig onto the chiffonier, he climbs into bed where he stares at the canopy long into the night.

  By next morning, when the servant girl pulls back the bed curtains and lays his tea on the table beside him, he knows what he must do. He’ll have to throw himself on his brother-in-law’s goodwill once more.

  Chapter Three

  Samuel Shepherd practises law at Lincoln’s Inn in the tree-lined inner sanctum of the Inns of Court. As John White climbs the wide walnut staircase to the second floor where Shepherd has his offices, he is forced to contrast his brother-in-law’s success as a barrister with his own abysmal failure. Damnit, my marks at law school were as good as Sam’s. He remembers being lauded for his “elegant and precise” writing.

  But Sam has been blessed with good fortune. For one thing, he made a sensible marriage. He didn’t allow himself to be smitten by a beautiful face and a bounteous bosom. And then, too, he has been fortunate in having captured the praise of Lord Mansfield, former Lord Speaker of the House of Commons. Sometimes it’s who you know that makes the difference between success and failure in this world.

  Sam’s secretary, a pompous old gent named Wilkins who rules the roost in the outer office, makes White sit and wait. It’s a comfortable chair, yes, but it faces six engraved copperplate prints of Hogarth’s “Marriage-à-la-mode” on the walnut-panelled wall opposite. While the pictures do not exactly reflect the specific messes of his and Marianne’s marriage, they sum up its unhappiness all too well. White feels his head begin to pound.