Duelling in a New World Page 23

  There comes the knock on the front door, that dreaded knock they have both anticipated. White holds Susannah tight and moves her carefully to the sofa where he sets her gently down and pulls her feet up on the cushions so that she is resting, he hopes, comfortably.

  The knock has become louder, more insistent. “I shall go,” White says. “Stay here and rest. I understand your pain. Perhaps in time you can understand mine.”

  Alexander Macdonnell’s round cheeks are red, whether from anger or cold, White knows not. “I shall not sully myself by crossing your threshold,” the man says, thrusting a folded, sealed note into White’s hand. “Read it, and give me an answer.”

  Meet me behind the Parliament Buildings at daybreak tomorrow. Bring a pistol and a man to act as your second. Tell no one of this meeting.

  “I love the name of honour more than I fear death.”

  John Small

  White scrunches the note in his fist. He laughs. “Those last lines, I know them. They are the words of Brutus, a traitor and a murderer.”

  “What has Brutus to do with it? What answer do I give Small?”

  Macdonnell has a walleye. White finds it difficult to know if the man is looking at him or over his shoulder into the hallway. He hopes Susannah has decided to stay in the withdrawing room.

  “I find it a strange irony that you, a magistrate of this town, a man specifically appointed to keep the peace, should be standing at my front door issuing a challenge to a duel.”

  The man’s lips purse in a muttered oath. “Shut up. Give me an answer.”

  “Very well. I answer in the words of Julius Caesar: ‘Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.’ Tell your damned friend Brutus that I accept the challenge.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Later, January 2, 1800

  From hours of sloth and torpor, White now finds himself thrust into a frenzy of activity in preparation for the morrow. His first thought is who to ask to be his second, and the answer comes fast. Baron de Hoen, of course. Has the man not bragged about his fine duelling pistols and lamented his thwarted wish for a duel with the Yankee Reesor who cheated him of a bridle for his horse? He must get a message to the Baron at once.

  But first, remember the adage: two birds with one stone. It’s one of his Canadian expressions. The farmers use it when they bring down two passenger pigeons with one missile.

  So he puts his blue velvet frock coat and lace-trimmed cravat into a portmanteau and sets forth.

  As he goes out onto the path in front of his house, he hears pistol shots from Small’s lot. Should I walk over to the man and tell him it is considered ungentlemanly to practise beforehand? Remind him of those words of Brutus that he had the effrontery to write on that note? But I don’t care, really.

  He walks first to the tavern on Queen Street where he hopes to find one of Berczy’s German immigrant friends on his usual stool quaffing back a cup of whisky punch. The man knows the Baron—they live in the settlement called Markham—and he will carry a message in return for a shilling or two. But when White arrives at the tavern, the man is not there.

  But Abner Miles’s shop is close by, and he takes his portmanteau there and dumps its contents onto the counter.

  “What’s this all about?” Miles asks him, a sneer on his face as he looks over the frock coat and cravat.

  “What will you give me for it?”

  Miles runs this thick, grimy fingers over the material. “You owe me plenty, you know. So I’ll give you four pounds for the lot here, take half of it back for that bill, and give you two pounds for your binge at the garrison.”

  And how does the bugger know about my nights at the garrison? Not that I’m exactly surprised.

  “Highway robbery, man. I’ve worn this frock coat and lace cravat twice. Is that the best you can do?”

  “You nobs think the working classes must bow down before you? Take it or leave it. It’s of no matter to me.”

  White ponders a moment, thinking of what a fine figure he cut in that velvet coat with the lace cravat. He remembers how he stood in front of his pier glass admiring himself and how Susannah came in, unannounced, how they had laughed together, how they had danced . . . It had been the first moment of a new romance.

  But into his mind now come unbidden some lines that make him smile:

  The grave’s a fine and private place

  But none, I think, do there wear lace.

  So he takes the money and leaves the store. On the path outside, he meets Dr. Baldwin. The young man is wearing leather breeches like a common labourer, and his knee-length woollen topcoat is shabby.

  “A two-pound payment down on the money I owe you, sir,” White says, pushing the coins towards Baldwin. “I apologize for the delay. I will ever be grateful to you for saving my boy’s life.” And it is possible that I may never be able to give you the full amount that you so richly deserve.

  “Thank you, White.” Baldwin tucks the coins into one of his worn leather gloves as if he must hold them close and feel the comfort of the metal against his skin.

  What to do next? There’s a chance that the Baron may be at the garrison. It’s his favourite place. But this early in the day?

  He goes back home then to put on the stock that dear Ellen knitted for him and the fur hat with ear flaps that the explorer Mackenzie gave him. Fortified against the chill of the west wind, he sets off then along the margin of the lake to the garrison.

  He takes the familiar route to the Officers’ Mess, and lo, there is the Baron sitting at his favourite table. Fortunately, he is alone, his only adjuncts being the bowl of rum punch in front of him and the ceremonial sword laid across the oak boards of the table. In a minute, White has made his request, and the Baron has accepted.

  “I shall arrive in plenty of time so that we may have a little target practice before Small and his man arrive. Not that target practice exactly complies with the rules.”

  “No practice, thank you. I do not fear death. What will be will be.”

  “Have you fired a pistol before?”

  “No, but I think it does not require a great deal of intellect to pull a trigger. Just keep the matter to yourself, please, and I thank you for your service.”

  They part then. White makes his way back home. The wind is at his back now, and he makes good time. He has one more errand to carry out.

  Chapter Fifty

  Still later, January 2, 1800

  It is late afternoon when he arrives at the Russells’ grand house, feeling thankful he has not had to meet anyone familiar en route. The snow has fortunately kept most people indoors.

  Miss Russell answers the front door herself. “Mr. White, you be a-coming just in time to enjoy some fine brandy shrub that Job has made. Dear Peter, as you may know, is absent today in Markham firming up some land grants that be gone awry.”

  Well yes, I did know that. It’s the very reason I took this hour to call.

  As they walk through the hallway to the warmth of the kitchen, he sees the servant Peggy sitting at the head of the dining-room table, hands folded. When she catches sight of them, she grabs the feather duster in front of her and makes a swooping motion with it across the top of the table. Miss Russell observes it all and sighs.

  In the kitchen, White lets Job serve him the shrub in a glass. Its vinegar flavour is sharp but it does not overpower the cherry syrup and brandy, and he nods approval at the servant.

  Remembering then the import of his visit, he adds, “I must speak to you alone for a few minutes, Miss Russell.”

  Job leaves, closing the kitchen door that leads into the hallway. They are now safe from Peggy’s ears. White holds his drink up in front of him. “It is strange that I am enjoying this so much, Miss Russell. It may be my last glass of shrub.”

  “What in tarnation are you saying?”

  “I have agreed to fight a duel with John Small at daybreak tomorrow behind the Parliament Buildings. He has heard the gossip I spread at the subscription b
all about his wife, and he intends to teach me a lesson, a serious lesson, perhaps with a bullet lodged in my heart.”

  She, who seldom drinks liquor, now pours herself a large glass of shrub and takes it down at a gulp. “I am quite undone by this news, sir. You . . . you . . . have always spoke out against such stupidity. I know not what to do or say.” The shrub appears to come back up into her throat and she belches and wipes her face.

  “Dear Miss Russell, I beg you will listen to me and try to understand. I am struggling myself to understand my motives for this stupidity, as you rightly call it. Perhaps if I can talk to you I can sort it out. I have no one but you who will listen, no one but you who can offer solace, you surely know that.”

  She pushes the punch bowl of shrub away and folds her hands on her lap. “Forgive me, please. If you be the better for speaking, then speak.”

  He scarcely knows where to begin. He cannot remember how much his friend knows. He sits in silence, trying to find a means of unravelling it all to her. He looks down at his glass of shrub, afraid to meet her gaze.

  But her quiet voice gives him an opening. “For certain, Mr. Small knew the story of his wife’s amours long before he came to this new world. Did not the English lord pay him to take her away? For certain, it is not to defend her honour that he be issuing this challenge.”

  “You are right, of course. But why, then, did he do it?”

  “That be the question, sir.”

  “Perhaps to make himself look honourable. ‘I love the name of honour more than I fear death.’ That was what he wrote on the challenge.”

  “And all the big wigs in this place will be mighty impressed with a man who stands by his woman, no matter how much she has put him to the blush.”

  “That’s it, of course. Whatever the outcome, there will be a trial and Mrs. Small’s liaisons, far and wide, will be the principal subject of that trial, but she will not signify. It will be he who will receive the accolades of an honourable man.”

  “And you, Mr. White, you will bear the brunt of it. You will be the villain.”

  “Yes. In telling that sordid gossip to Smith, I had hoped only to get back at the bitch for the nasty things she said to my wife. Now it seems I have played into Small’s hands, given him an opportunity to show himself as an honourable man.”

  One more failure in this life of mine. One more reason to put an end to it all.

  “I can scarce understand, sir, why you be saying ‘yes’ to this fight.”

  “Because . . . because I . . . want to cross from Life into Death.” There, I’ve said the words that have been in my heart and soul for these last few hours.

  He waits for her reproof, but she says nothing. The clock above the hearth mantel punctuates the silence with its relentless ticks. He stares at the dregs in his glass.

  Then comes her gentle voice. “I understand, sir, how a body can wish for an end to this life. I too looked to cross that river after Mary died. I wanted to fly with her to a new world. But she left me behind. And gradual-like, I come to realize I must be a-staying here to look after my dear Peter.”

  “Yes, your brother needs you. But I have no one . . .”

  “Your little boys . . .”

  “Yes, I worry about them. But I have started them on their path. They must go on without me. But I intend to leave this world in the right way so that they feel no guilt about my leaving them. Last night, as I sat on the sofa drinking myself stupid, I thought how easily I might end my life: a slash of an artery; an overdose from a medicine bottle; oh, a hundred ways there are to leave this world, to cross the river as you put it. And then came Macdonnell to the door with the challenge to the duel. I believe I have often said that duellists are the worst and most worthless of men upon this earth. But many people feel that duels are an honourable way to die. I want William and Charles to think that I ended my life . . . if not honourably, at least with courage and dignity.”

  It is a long speech, and his voice breaks as he finishes. Miss Russell comes around the table to sit by him. He takes the second glass of brandy shrub that she pours for him. Now she puts her hand on his arm and speaks into his ear. “I shall say nothing to Peter. For certain he would try to stop things. Your secret be safe with me, sir.”

  “I have done nothing to deserve a friend like you, Miss Russell.”

  “You be keeping secrets for me all these long days and months, thank the Lord. For your friendship, dear Mr. White, I am ever grateful.”

  He kisses her hand. Tears blind his eyes. He stumbles out the back door into the drifts of snow.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Midnight, January 2, 1800

  John White settles himself at his desk in the withdrawing room and writes a note to Peter Russell.

  My dear Russell:

  Being obliged to meet John Small tomorrow, and in the event of my demise, I implore your protection for my sons. Until the means can be found of returning William and Charles to my brother-in-law in England, may I entreat you and your sister to take them into your household and watch over them.

  I beg you also to give support to Mrs. Page and her two little girls. Mrs. Page is an admirable housekeeper who can, I hope, find employment with you. She and her daughters live at present in a cabin at the back of my park lot, and this accommodation, if given over to her, would ensure her privacy and yours.

  I can give no excuse for my part in this reprehensible affair with Small. I need merely to say that I have always nourished for you and your dear sister the deepest affection. Without your support, I should not have been able to endure these recent months. I do not fear death. It comes as a release from my woes.

  Your friend,

  John White

  He folds the page and seals it, leaving it in plain view on his desk. If by chance he does not return to this room tomorrow, someone will find the missive and deliver it.

  Darkness has swallowed the house. He takes the candle from his desk and tiptoes down the hallway to the children’s bedchamber. Since his illness, William seems to have become a much older boy. He no longer wants the trundle bed, and he has moved into Charles’s bed. It’s a narrow space, but the two of them have worked it out harmoniously. Although Charles has said nothing openly, White sees that his small brother’s near-death has awakened in the lad a tender concern for his well-being. They sleep on their sides, one body tucked into the other. He leans over them, careful not to kick the large pail of water beside the bed. It contains a fish they caught yesterday from a hole in the ice of the lake. They intend to show it to Russell and get him to explain how it breathes.

  For a moment he stands there, smiling down at their smooth faces, pink from their adventures on the bay. He has procured three hundred acres for each for them, and perhaps one day—when this wretched little town grows into a metropolis—the land will have value. May they always care for each other. May they grow up happy and prosperous and find peace in their married lives and families. And dearest Ellen . . .

  Of Marianne and Ellen, he has heard nothing since that dreadful day in Quebec. They have gone from his life. Will they care if he dies tomorrow? The question is not one he can bear to contemplate. At any rate, they have acreage here that may bring them money. When they first came to York, he acquired for Ellen two hundred acres, and for Marianne, one thousand.

  It now remains only to say goodbye to Susannah. He has waited until the dead of night, hoping that she will be asleep and that he will not have to confront her anger and tears. From the back door of his house, he follows the trail beaten through the snowdrifts to her cabin in the wooded area at the rear of his park lot. An owl hoots from a nearby pine tree.

  There is no sound as he enters the small timber structure that Berczy built for her when she and her girls joined their household. It has only one room, but it seems warm and cosy tonight, and the embers are still glowing in the hearth.

  In a shadowy corner of the room, separated from the main space by a blanket hung from the rafters, he finds,
as he had hoped, Susannah sound asleep in her bed. One small daughter sleeps with her, and the other lies in a trundle bed beside them. Their deep breathing, gentle snores, and the crackling of the embers are the only sounds he hears.

  Glad is he not to have to disturb their peaceful slumbers. On the table in the centre of the room, he places his gold pocket watch, two signet rings, and a note saying goodbye. Even that bastard Abner Miles will surely give her a few pounds for the gold, enough to keep her and her daughters for several months.

  Having heard both Peter and Eliza Russell’s complaints about their servant Peggy, and having seen the slattern’s ways himself, he is confident that his friends will welcome Susannah and offer her a position in their house.

  Back in his own bedchamber, he puts on his nightshirt and tries to settle. But he cannot sleep. It is now only a few hours until daybreak. He gets up from his bed, dons a new frock coat, walks downstairs to the withdrawing room, stirs the fire in the hearth, and sits down in an armchair to wait.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  January 3, 1800

  John White stands at his front window, anxious to intercept Baron de Hoen before he bangs on the door knocker and awakens the boys. He does not have to wait long. Striding down the pathway in the pale light of early morning comes the Baron. White opens the door and motions him in.

  He is wearing a sky-blue military greatcoat and a bearskin hat with a ridiculous red plume. He carries a fine wooden case containing no doubt the duelling pistols.

  White puts his fingers to his lips and they talk in whispers.

  “Rotten cold morning,” the Baron says. “Wear your heaviest.”

  What White has planned is not necessarily his “heaviest.” It’s what he wants to look best in, though he cannot tell the Baron this. He takes from the coat stand what his German tailor calls a carrick coat, a voluminous greatcoat in dark grey with five shoulder capes and a turned-up collar.