Duelling in a New World Page 8

  He takes the box down the back stoop to the place where a trap door leads down into a pit. Opening the door, he descends the rough wooden steps which the carpenter has planted into the earth. It’s cool here in the dark. On the shelves facing the steps are the carrots, squash, and potatoes which Yvette got from one of her Indian neighbours. There’s an empty corner on the top shelf. There he places the box, its lid jammed against the earth ceiling. No one will ever see it there.

  Some more words come to him now in the quiet darkness of this earth tomb. In a loud voice he addresses the devils that lurk outside this hole, the Tickells of the world especially: “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

  He stumbles up the steps to the open air and closes the trap door. Back in the kitchen, he says to Yvette who is weeping in her chair, “This must be a quiet day for the both of us. Do not cook any meals for me. Rest here on your pallet by the hearth fire, keep it stocked with wood, and keep warm. I will stay upstairs in the loft.”

  In his bedchamber he pulls his morning gown over his clothes, slides his feet out of his boots and into his slippers, and takes up a book from the pile he so recently emptied upon the floor. But the pain in his head defeats him. He seeks oblivion in the bottle of whisky which he has stashed in the drawer of the wash-stand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  April 1794

  Spring has finally come to Niagara, and as John White looks out his back door one morning, he sees violets in bloom in his yard. Interspersed among them in patches are the three-petalled white flowers with yellow centres that the settlers call trilliums and the Indians call wakerobins. White prefers the Indian name. There’s a fat robin among them now yanking a worm from the earth.

  “Come,” he calls to Yvette who is stirring something on the hearth, “it’s time for the burial.”

  No more words are necessary. She goes down into the root cellar while he takes the shovel that is propped up against the back wall of the house. He selects a spot in the midst of the violets and starts his digging. Yvette emerges from the root cellar and sits on the ground near him holding the small casket. The smell he feared is scarcely discernible. The lid of the box has kept that terror inside.

  For a few minutes, the only sounds are birdsong, Yvette’s soft crying, and the thump of the earth he tosses on the ground. Soon he’s achieved a small, deep hole. He takes the box from her, sets it carefully into the pit, and throws the pile of earth back on top.

  “Is there something you would like to say, Yvette?” he asks, pointing to the new grave.

  She shakes her head. They stand in silence looking down at the piled-up earth. Then, without a word, she starts to sing. It’s one of Isaac Watts’s most famous hymns, “Joy to the World,” and for a minute White wonders where she learned it. Perhaps from one of the itinerant Methodist preachers who travel about the countryside?

  Yvette’s voice quavers and breaks, but White knows all the words and starts to sing with her. They are just starting the third verse—”No more let sin and sorrow grow”—when out of the woods just beyond a patch of wakerobins, Eliza Russell appears. Her scrawny form is covered in a faded brown dress, and she’s carrying a bucket that is filled with spring flowers.

  She spends only an instant observing the burial scene, then she sets the pail down and moves to Yvette’s side, so that Yvette is now between her and White. She takes Yvette’s hand and joins in their singing.

  He rules the world with truth and grace,

  And makes the nations prove

  The glories of his righteousness

  And wonders of his love

  And wonders of his love

  And wonders and wonders of his love.

  “I am mighty happy to be part of your ceremony,” Eliza says in her gentle voice when they have finished the last verse. “I was in the woods collecting some flowers that I intend to press, and I heard your singing. I shall go now and leave you to your sorrow.” She picks up her pail and starts down the garden path. Then she turns and says, “‘The wonders of God’s love,’ I need sometimes to be reminded of those wonders. Thank you.”

  White and Yvette watch Eliza disappear behind the trees. “Madame?” Yvette says, pointing towards the woods and looking worried.

  “Miss Russell is a good woman,” White replies, “you do not need to fear her. She knows how to keep a secret.”

  He’s still humming Watts’s words as he sets off for Navy Hall to finish up some work that the Gov has sent to him by the first packet boat from York. He remembers singing another hymn with Pastor Rippon in another life, another world. Would he have been happier staying in England? All things considered, perhaps not.

  He passes Gilbert Field’s tavern on the old Indian trail which is now a substantial path called River Road. There are several taverns in the settlement. He’s heard Field often takes advantage of his inebriated customers by seizing their land grants in payment of their bar bills. Now the man is building a large brick house. A country bumpkin who runs an ale house is a rich man while I, Attorney-General of Upper Canada, must subsist on the loans my brother-in-law doles out. Is this one of the wonders of God’s love?

  There are some of the local farmers and military men sitting outside the tavern. “Good day,” he says, nodding to them. Their response is baffling: a combination of laughter, loud applause, and scratching of their crotches. What’s going on? Four spruce beers too many is his conclusion. He tramps onwards.

  In the centre of the village, he sees some of the local bumpkins gathered around a large white sheet affixed to a fencepost. When they see his approach, they disband, sniggering as they scatter down the road.

  Something’s up. He moves closer so that he can read the sheet:

  Alas, Mr. Small has a very small prick

  And Mr. White’s, though large, is a dirty wick.

  Mr. Tickell, ‘tis true, likes to tickle his pickle,

  While the bold Mrs. Small just loves being fickle.

  These vile words are written in a fine hand, one he recognizes immediately. William Jarvis’s. So Jarvis is behind this? Unlikely. The man, incompetent and frustrated though he is, is not by nature vindictive. He’s been put up to this by someone. His wife no doubt. He remembers how she found him and Mrs. Small in flagrante delicto that day after lunch when the woman (he no longer thinks of her as Betsy) popped out of her dress for the costume ball.

  What to do? Should he go to Jarvis’s house and confront the two of them? Would that make things worse? He’s trying to make up his mind when he sees Richard Tickell approaching. The man is swinging his stick as if he’s a schoolmaster about to beat up a miscreant, and his face is red, right to the top of his bald head. He’s obviously read the screed.

  “You bastard,” he yells at White. “You connived with Jarvis over this, didn’t you? Just because I fucked that Indian squaw who cooks for you?”

  White feels his own face redden. He thinks of Yvette’s despair on the day he discovered her dead baby, of her sorrow today as they stood over that tiny grave in his back garden. But he must not show his anger. Who knows what vengeance Tickell might enact on the girl. Or on him, for that matter. Denial, let’s see if that works.

  “I do not care for the way you talk of my cook, Tickell. Her name is Yvette LaCroix. I know nothing about her private life. And even if I did, I would do nothing to hurt her. Or you either, for that matter.” He points to the sheet of paper. “I have no idea what this slander is all about. All I recognize is the handwriting.”

  “That bugger Jarvis’s. So what in hell are we going to do about it?”

  “That’s the conundrum. Perhaps just leave it alone and hope it fizzles out. You know what things are like in this place. Everyone’s focus is gossip. Gossip is the succubus that stirs the dead air and sets emotions on fire. If we don’t let ourselves get upset, there’ll be some new distraction in the next few days.”


  “It damn well better fizzle out, but meantime I’m going to see that bugger Jarvis and have it out with him. He’s not going to get away with this rot.” He turns and heads in the direction of Jarvis’s house.

  White’s head aches and his nose begins to bleed. Best to get back home and lie down. He’ll have to take another route back, though. No way he can endure the ribald comments from the drunks at Field’s Tavern.

  He clamps his handkerchief over the top of his nose, presses it hard, and starts home. Well, the news is out, thanks to Jarvis’s termagant wife. But why was Tickell’s name on that sheet? Something besides pain gnaws at his head. A random thought that’s lodged there . . .

  That’s it . . . Betsy Small’s distress when she heard about Tickell and Yvette. I wondered at the time why she cared. Why would I think that I was the only lover in her life? What a fool I’ve been.

  Chapter Eighteen

  April 1794

  Eliza Russell places her pail of spring flowers on the broad oak table in the kitchen of their commodious new house on the commons. She’s mighty proud of this dwelling and tries not to let herself be undone by Peter’s constant complaints about how dear its construction has been. It has two storeys in the Georgian style and surrounding it are fifty acres of land, several out-buildings, and a spot near the back door where she intends to plant an extensive garden.

  Right at this minute I’m a-going to plant a flower garden between the pages of that family Bible we never look at. She takes it from the bookcase in the withdrawing room and brings it to the kitchen table. From her bucket she takes the flowers. She has good specimens of each of the ones an Indian woman pointed out to her: red wakerobins, white wakerobins, marsh marigolds, purple crocuses, and one called Indian turnip which has an odd flap-like flower at the top of its stem.

  She places a few of the flowers between two sheets of paper and inserts the papers into the centre section of the Bible, hoping the papers will keep the pages of the Bible from being stained. She has so many flowers she has to keep skipping pages so she can get them all crammed in. In five weeks, she’ll take the flowers out and put them into frames or decorate her letters to her dear English friend Lizzie with them. She may even present some to Mrs. Simcoe who shares her interest in wildflowers. And for certain, I’ll take some to Mr. White to give to that Indian who cooks for him. She will be the better for something pretty to cheer herself up with.

  She has just got all of them tucked into the Bible when Mary comes in the back door. “Aunt, what is a prick?”

  “You must remember, child, to introduce topics of conversation with a preliminary phrase or two. Surely you know what a prick is. You pricked yourself with a needle last week and the blood ran. That was a prick. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, no, Aunt, this is a different prick. It was written on a sheet of paper nailed up in the square today. Everyone tried to keep me from seeing it. It said Mr. White’s prick was a dirty wick, or something like that. They wouldn’t let me get close enough to read it all.”

  There’s something here I don’t understand. It sounds almost . . . carnal.

  “Oh, Aunt Eliza, you’re going to be in trouble if Uncle Peter finds out what you’ve done to the family Bible.” Mary points and giggles.

  “I think you’d be the better for not being so nosy, my dear,” Eliza says, happy that the child has been distracted from her interest in pricks. “Now, help me out. Have we got something we can pile on top of the Good Book to put extra pressure on these flowers?”

  Mary considers. “Why not just cram it back into the bookcase and let the books on each side of it do the pressing?”

  “Excellent.” Eliza pushes the Bible back into the row of books. Good, it’s a mighty tight squeeze.

  “But what will we do if Uncle Peter decides to read something from it?”

  “He has some new books to read. A pile came today on the packet boat from dear Lizzie in Harwich. They’re on the dining-room table.”

  Mary runs to look at them. “Goody Two-Shoes,” she says as she picks up a book from the top of the pile and leafs through it, making gagging noises. After a minute or two, though, she says, “Give me this one, will you, Aunt Eliza? It doesn’t seem to be as bad as its stupid title.” She takes the book and runs into her bedchamber. In this commodious new house, they all have separate rooms, thank the Lord.

  * * *

  Eliza awakens, the sound of the door slamming bringing her to consciousness. She has a crick in her neck, having fallen asleep in a dining-room chair, her head on the table. She looks at the clock on the sideboard. Dear Lord, eight p.m., and Peter will be wanting some supper.

  Her brother enters the dining room before she has time to ready herself. “Sleeping, sister? Surely you would be more comfortable lying in your bedchamber?”

  The crick in her neck is mighty painful, but she sits up and tries to smile. On the table in front of her is the open book she was reading when she nodded off.

  Peter picks it up. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Are you unhappy, sister, with the life you have here with me in this new world?”

  “No, dear Peter. Happy I am to be here with you. I can think of no other occupation than to be your companion and support. I am reading the book because Lizzie sent it to me. It has received much praise in England. But it put me to sleep, as you can see.”

  Peter laughs, but there is little mirth in the sound. “You got to page five. That is a start.”

  Job comes in and stirs the fire in the hearth. “I have some biscuits, cheese, and apple preserves, ma’am,” he says, laying the table with the silverware that has newly come from Mr. Hamilton’s warehouse in Queenston.

  Peter eats in silence and drinks the wine Job has poured for him. Eliza watches him, knowing from his heavy breathing and the manner in which he slaps the butter on his biscuits that he has something of import to tell her.

  At last, as he downs the last dregs from the bottle, he speaks. “Where is the girl, sister?”

  “She took her supper on a plate in her bedchamber. She is deep into a book from the package Lizzie sent.”

  “Good. For what I am to tell you is not for innocent ears.” In a low voice he tells her about the notice posted this day in the public square. Though she still does not fully understand the coarse language, she understands its import.

  “And who is responsible for these words, brother?”

  “It’s Idiot Jarvis and that wife of his. Of that I am certain. I went to his house today. It was not a pleasant visit, I tell you. The man screamed at me and denied everything. I had to stand in their kitchen and listen to his diatribe while I breathed in the stink of shit. Excuse me, Eliza, but there is no other way to describe the stench of the place—”

  “Do not apologize. The woman dispenses castor oil for all afflictions. You remember she once left some of her remedy for us, and we fed it to the groundhog?”

  “You understand, my dear sister.” He smiles at her, then continues, “But worse than the stink were the words that Jarvis uttered when I confronted him. He told me the man Tickell had already visited him, and he is now going to challenge Tickell and White to a duel. ‘My honour is at stake, and I intend to see that they pay for their slur on my reputation.’ That is what he said to me. My God, the whole town is in upheaval. Since the Governor is still away and Osgoode has not yet returned from the circuit, I must deal with the matter myself. White will give me no trouble, but Tickell is a different matter.”

  “And what about Mr. Small? Is he not part of this, too?”

  “I went to his house after I left Jarvis. Small is an amiable man. He made a pleasant little defence of his wife. He seems as certain as I am that Jarvis and his wife are behind it all, ‘stirring the pot,’ as he put it. But he shrugs it off. So he will not be a problem.”

  “Surely you are right that Mr. White will accept no challenge. He hates duels. But what about Mr. Tickell?”

  “I must sort it out tomorrow. Tickell and Jarvis
intend to meet behind the Freemasons’ Lodge at dawn, and I must be there to stop them. As for the bastard’s threat to White, I can bring in a court order for him to keep the peace.”

  “There was some line about Mrs. Small, was there not? I can’t quite remember.”

  “‘The bold Mrs. Small just loves being fickle.’”

  “You haven’t talked about her, Peter. Is she somehow the cause of this muddle?”

  “Oh, sister, you might as well hear it all now. While Jarvis was denying having anything to do with that wretched verse, his woman stood by his side and spewed out filth about Mrs. Small so foul it almost drowned the stench of shit. Perhaps she just wanted to deflect my attention from her husband. Perhaps what she said was just a nasty rumour. Yet . . . I can’t help feeling there’s no smoke without fire.”

  Eliza listens as Peter tells her a story that puts her to the blush. Oh good Lord, I must find some way to warn Mr. White.

  Chapter Nineteen

  May 1794

  John White pulls on the tight breeches that are currently fashionable, adjusts his waistcoat, and reaches for the black frock coat decorated with gold braid. Looking at himself in the pier glass he bought in Hamilton’s emporium, he is satisfied. The gold braid will distinguish him from the bumpkins whom he will undoubtedly meet on his way to Navy Hall. Since that scurrilous ditty appeared, he is anxious to seem dignified and above common scandal.

  Yvette is visiting her Chippewa family today. As he descended the ladder from his bedchamber in the loft earlier in the day, he noticed that she had left him a stew of whitefish, Indian corn, carrots, and potatoes in a pot on the hearth. It’s still warm now, and he spoons some onto a plate.

  There’s a knock at the door. He answers it to find Miss Russell on his front stoop. “Come in, ma’am,” he says, “though perhaps I should warn you that Yvette is not here now, and we may find ourselves the topic of Mrs. Jarvis’s gossip if she gets wind of this meeting. There may even be another ditty in the town square.”