Duelling in a New World Page 10

  “You are in pain, sir,” she says. “What can I do to help you?”

  “Nothing, alas, ma’am. My gout has got the better of me these days. But I must persevere.” He takes his napkin and mops at the front of his white waistcoat.

  What am I to do about this yelping at the table and coughing in the bedchamber. Oh Lord, may this meal soon end.

  She hears her brother speak up. Thank the Lord.

  “Now that Osgoode is leaving us, Excellency, perhaps you can give us a hint about who may succeed him as Chief Justice? We are all hoping, of course, for our friend here.” Dear Peter smiles at Mr. White.

  “I have, of course, recommended our Attorney-General for the post,” Simcoe says, “But it is a matter for the Colonial Office.” He has stopped rubbing his waistcoat and now drains the wine from the glass Job has refilled.

  Eliza notices Mr. White’s hand is trembling. He has set down his knife and fork with a clatter. “Do you anticipate a problem with your kind reference, sir?” he asks.

  “No. You have done an admirable job as Attorney-General. You and I accomplished the passing of the anti-slavery bill which the Colonial Office recognizes as a sterling achievement. Why would they not give you the post?”

  Well, that be one good tidbit to liven this wretched afternoon. She signals to Job who serves up slices of his pie, made from the pumpkins they stored in the cold cellar over the winter. It’s a delicious concoction underpinned with a pie shell of ginger biscuit crumbs and topped with the cream she whopped. But only Mr. White and Mrs. Simcoe have appetite to eat it. Mrs. Simcoe is determined to be a good guest and Eliza is thankful to her. And she is also mighty pleased that her friend seems hopeful of a fine promotion.

  * * *

  Early in the evening, after the guests have left, she goes into Mary’s bedchamber. The girl is at last asleep, her face still streaked with tears. There’s a bloody handkerchief on the pillow.

  She tiptoes towards the door, but Mary stirs, sees her, and sits up. She sweeps the square of bloody linen under her pillow. “Oh Aunt, I am sorry. Did I ruin your party?”

  “No, child. It was a disaster from the start. But you provided one good moment.”

  “I, Aunt?”

  “You, dear Mary. You came out with those words from Matthew just when your uncle was at a loss for a quotation. For a moment I thought he was going to pull out the Bible and empty my pressed wildflowers all over the carpet. You saved me from a good tongue-lashing.”

  Mary smiles. Eliza leans over to the small figure on the bed and hugs her. It’s not the moment to talk to the girl about that bloody handkerchief.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  August 1795

  John White sits with the Gov at Navy Hall. After three years of occupancy it still smells of mould and ten minutes ago, when they opened the door of the room they use as an office, there was the sound of tiny scurrying feet. Rats, maybe, or mice. White’s head throbs from the stink, and he holds his left hand to his face and hopes that the Gov will not notice his surreptitious pinching of his nostril.

  “Nosebleeds again, White? Did not my wife give you some dried pigeon gizzards? She recommends them for these problems.”

  “Not too efficacious, sir. But I’m grateful for her concern.” I hope the groundhog in my backyard has benefited from the vile concoction.

  “Well, let us get to business. Our fourth session of Parliament will be a good one, now that the invasion of Mad Dog Wayne and his barking spaniels has been averted. No thanks to that bloody idiot of a Governor-General who put us all into peril by forcing me to rebuild that damned garrison on the Yankee side. Major Campbell saved the day. Bloody Wayne and his men came right to the gates of the fort and shouted insults at him. Wanted to get the Brits to open fire. But Campbell stayed cool. Bloody bless him.”

  White has a feeling that all these swear words indicate a resurgence of the Gov’s gout. So he’s not surprised when the Gov reaches down, tugs off his right riding boot, and throws it into a corner of the room. Then he yanks off his stocking and places his foot carefully on the seat of an empty chair. White sees the red swollen toe and hears the Gov’s repeated “damn, bloody damn.”

  The sooner we get through this, the better. “What do you think, sir, of an encomium to Major Campbell in the Assembly?”

  “Absolutely. What do you suggest?”

  “Let us word it this way. ‘Resolved that the thanks of this House be given to Major Campbell of His Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot for his temperate forbearance and otherwise exemplary and meritorious conduct at Fort Miamis during his command in the past year.’”

  “Good.”

  “I shall write it down now, sir.”

  “And I shall have a drink of bitters.” The Gov rings for a servant, one of the lads from his Queen’s Rangers, who puts before him a bottle of distilled alcohol (it looks like brandy) with bits of watercress floating in it. No doubt the greenery was Mrs. Simcoe’s inspiration. While the Gov downs a copious glass of the potion, White takes his quill and inscribes the resolution on paper.

  The Gov seems calmer now, perhaps because of the alcohol he has imbibed. He looks over the resolution and seems satisfied with it.

  “Good work, White.”

  Now I can ask my question. “Have you heard yet, sir, who is to take Osgoode’s place as second Chief Justice of Upper Canada?”

  “No word, alas.” He puts the stocking back on his foot and stands up, bracing himself against the table. “Go home, White, and look after that nosebleed. We have finished our work for this morning.”

  * * *

  Two nights later, White dons his best dress coat for supper at the Freemasons’ Lodge with the Simcoes, the civil servants and administrators of the province, members of the Assembly, the Queen’s Rangers, and the women of the town. The Freemasons’ Lodge serves many purposes in this forsaken world besides being the favourite place of William Jarvis and his Masonic followers. It was the site of the First Parliament. It’s now the place for the Church of England worshippers, and lately, since the Yankee scare, its upstairs space has provided room for the Simcoes’ parties.

  He finds himself looking forward to the supper. Perhaps the Gov will have news about his appointment as Chief Justice. He feels hopeful. Simcoe and he have got on well, and he knows the Gov has backed him solidly for the position. And one thousand pounds a year in wages! I’ll be able to pay off my debts and make a new start.

  He has arranged to walk along the River Road with Peter Russell and his sister. He has become closer to Russell since Osgoode’s departure for Montreal, but he still misses his friend’s laughter. Russell can never see the funny side of anything.

  The knock on the door alerts him to the Russells’ arrival. He picks up a package Yvette has left on the table by the hearth, and soon the three of them are swinging along the road towards town. They walk into the setting sun, but the air is pleasant. There’s a soft breeze from the river, and a gentle scent of roasting venison wafts from the woods to their left where the Indians have made a bonfire.

  They have to pass Field’s Tavern, and White imagines the spectacle they must present to the hangers-on around the front stoop: Miss Russell in a high-waisted white gown with a rather dirty hem (no plumes today, thank God), her brother in his unfashionable frock coat, roll-up stockings, and a pigtail wig at least forty years out of date, and himself, overdressed from top to bottom. Why on earth did I choose a waistcoat with gold buttons?

  There’s a good deal of rough laughter among the men about some joke or other, and for a moment, he hopes they may slip by without comment. Then a lout in a filthy smock spots them and starts in, “Uppity Brits! Uppity Brits!” Soon they’re all in chorus, “Uppity Brits! Uppity Brits!”

  “Bastards,” Russell yells, waving his walking stick at them. “Didn’t ‘uppity Brits’ give you land grants?”

  “Please, brother,” Miss Russell whimpers, “let us just pass on.”

  White offers his arm and he and Mi
ss Russell move on, leaving Russell to berate the hecklers. The lady is trembling, and White distracts her by giving her the package he brought along. “For Mary,” he says, “but you may look at it. Yvette’s mother made it.”

  It’s a small round birch bark container with a lid decorated with a pretty wakerobin made from porcupine quills.

  “Mary can put her hairpins in it,” Miss Russell says. “It’s so pretty.” Then she starts to cry.

  “Don’t let those damnable fools upset you, ma’am,” White says. “Look behind, your brother is coming along now. He’s out of harm’s way.”

  “It’s not Peter I worry about at this moment,” she says. “It is Mary. For certain, she is mighty sick. I saw the bloody handkerchiefs she hides from me. Job told me this morning that for near eight weeks she has washed them out herself every day. She takes them to a tree in a clearing in the bush where she lets them dry. I had no idea. I think she is soon a-going to die.”

  Her news is no surprise. White doesn’t know what to say. He has suspected for weeks that little Mary has consumption. He pats Miss Russell’s hand, and they move forward along the road.

  “Do you think I should get Dr. Kerr to come and bleed her?”

  He thinks of the child, her pale face growing even paler as the blood drips from her into a basin. “No, ma’am, no. Do not torture her with that abominable procedure. Keep her as much in the sunshine as possible.” She will go down soon enough into darkness.

  * * *

  The Gov meets them at the front door of the Lodge. His face is flushed and he’s twisting his hands together. “Take Miss Russell inside and go upstairs,” he says to Russell. “I must speak to White alone.”

  “Bad news,” the Gov says. “I’ll get right to it. I heard it this morning. John Elmsley is to be our new Chief Justice.” He puts his hand on White’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You would have been the perfect choice.”

  For a moment, White feels that he may drop to the floor in a faint. Then he steadies himself by putting one hand against the door frame. But he cannot steady his indignation. “Elmsley! I know him. He was called to the bar at the Inner Temple years after I was. The man is totally inexperienced. How could this happen?”

  “He has connections with the Home Secretary, the Duke of Portland. Wisdom and strategy may win on the battlefield, but patronage conquers in these wars for promotion.”

  The Gov turns away and starts to climb the stairs. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s damnable, White. Damnable.”

  Well I’m not going to get any help from him, that’s obvious. But after all, what can I do? Got to keep from crying. Get through the evening somehow. He stumbles after the Gov.

  One of the Queen’s Rangers is passing shrub in the second-storey meeting place. White grabs a glass from the tray. Vile stuff, but under the sickly sweetness of sugar and lemon, he tastes the brandy that will take the edge off his anguish. He drains the glass at a gulp and stumbles forward to get another one. Nonetheless, he knows his feelings must be evident when he is accosted by David Smith, who moves in so close to him that he cannot escape.

  “Your eyes are bloodshot, White. Something bothering you?”

  Never give the man any information he can chew over, that’s the rule in this backwater. White attempts to move to one side. But Smith blocks his path. Along with his position as acting deputy surveyor-general, the man is now studying law with him. He appears to assume that their association entitles him to ask impertinent questions.

  “Out with it, man. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Just . . . just . . .” But now White feels the tears spilling down his cheeks, and he’s forced to rub his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “It’s something His Excellency told you. That’s obvious. I saw the two of you speaking together a minute ago.”

  “John Elmsley . . . he’s . . .”

  “The new Chief Justice. I know, I overheard the Governor talking to his lady about it just before you came in with the Russells. Elmsley’s a fractious bastard. But he’s a friend of the Duke of Portland, and that seems to be what counts. I’m not dismissing his wife’s connections, of course.” Smith moves even closer, evidently hoping to impart another tidbit. White can smell his tobacco breath.

  “Excuse me, Smith. I need another glass.”

  But the man has planted himself firmly between him and the drinks, and White is forced to listen.

  “Wife was the daughter of the Commissioner of Customs for the Port of Boston, time of the Boston Tea Party, you know. The old boy defended His Majesty’s interests well, and those damned Yankees, two hundred of them, chased him on horseback one night, threatening to kill him. That’s got to count for something with the bigwigs in London.”

  A wife with connections, that’s just what I need to hear. Too bad Marianne’s connections are that parsimonious bastard of a brother and the local opium sellers.

  His misery is sidetracked by the call to supper. There’s a stampede toward the dining table. He’s relieved to find a place between Miss Russell and her brother, though on the other side of the table sits William Jarvis in full Masonic rig which seems to include a ridiculous little white apron with gold spangles on it. Beside him is Mrs. Jarvis who makes a point of keeping her attention focused on Smith who’s seated beside her. White knows it will be only a matter of time before she will be able to rejoice in the news of his humiliation.

  The first course is one of Mrs. Simcoe’s specialties. He remembers it from the days he and Osgoode spent with the Gov and his missus in the canvas tents. Tough venison overlaid with a messy sauce of peppercorns, oil, and red wine. He pushes it away.

  Miss Russell leans over and whispers in his ear. “Try a dollop of the potato dumplings. They be quite palatable.”

  Well, he tries them, but his stomach roils and he fears he may vomit. A regimental server moves in and gives him ale in a large tankard. For a moment or two he loses himself in its consumption. He sets the tankard down and signals for more.

  Down at the end of the table where the Simcoes are seated, there is much merriment.

  “True, I assure you,” the lady is saying to all who must listen, “the animal is always well fed. My staff supplies him daily with everything his stomach could desire, but—”

  “What is she talking about?” White asks Miss Russell.

  “While she be in York these past months, that black hound of hers gobbled the maps of North America she drew and left on a table in Navy Hall. She has just told a mighty amusing tale about it.”

  And now the Governor rises and addresses the guests. “I have written a poem for the occasion,” he announces in a ponderous voice, unrolling a long piece of heavy linen paper. “It is entitled ‘Upon the Dog Trojan Eating My Lady’s Maps’.” He clears his throat.

  Several long stanzas and a plethora of odd lines ensue, of which White is unable to remember a single word. He downs another tankard of ale, then another, and another. There is much laughter, but the ale has dulled his senses and he wants merely to give himself over to sleep. His head slumps forward.

  Miss Russell rouses him with a poke in the ribs. “Dear sir, the Governor is a-going to say something,” she whispers. “Please stay awake. I fear it be important.”

  He rouses himself, wipes the drool from his mouth, and listens.

  “I have just received today confirmation . . . Jay’s Treaty. . . Fort Niagara to be handed over . . . next summer . . . Americans . . .”

  Can’t make sense of what the man is saying. Got to get out of here before I puke my guts out and spatter bloody Jarvis’s little white apron.

  He pushes back his chair and stumbles towards the door leading downstairs. The cool air of the summer night will surely clear the cloud from his head. But in a moment, just before he closes the door behind him, he hears the Gov say, “And therefore the British garrison must move from Fort Niagara, and all civil servants are to remove to the new capital—York—without delay.”

  The
deadly salvo has come. Cannon fodder, that’s what I am.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  August 1795

  A loud voice awakens White the next morning. Not Yvette’s gentle greetings. It’s the bellow of an angry man. He looks around, tries to assess his surroundings. Where is he? There’s nothing familiar about this room. He’s in a comfortable bed: surely the mattress under him is stuffed with feathers not straw. And the sun streams in through a large window. Not his house. Whose?

  His head aches . . . aches . . . the bile in his throat . . . He sees a chamberpot, scrambles out of bed, and pukes into it. But in the process of tumbling down, he wrenches his back.

  He crawls back into bed and pulls the linen coverlet over his head. He notices then that it’s monogrammed: an R is set squarely in the middle of a delicately stitched border. That’s the clue. The Russells’ house on the commons, that’s where he is. But he has no memory of how he got here. But he does remember, yes, he remembers the horrors of that supper.

  The voice he hears now, coming from a downstairs room, echoes that horror. “I’m not moving, bloody not moving,” the speaker is shouting, “I’ve spent my wife’s fortune on building that house.”

  Ah, yes. It’s David Smith. White forces himself to sit upright, plants his feet on the stool by the bedside, and steps down carefully onto the wide-planked pine floor. Someone has dressed him in a comfortable nightshirt, but where are his clothes?

  There comes a soft knock at the door of the bedchamber, and Job, the Russells’ black servant, enters carrying the breeches and dress coat he’d worn to that damnable supper. He sets them on a chair and departs without saying a word, though White can see his frown plainly. He realizes now he must have been in a sad condition if the Russells had to take him here instead of depositing him on his own doorstep, and Job may have borne the brunt of it. Looking at his clothes, he sees they’ve been newly sponged and brushed, with one dark stain still apparent. His puke?