A Daughter Rebels Read online

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The same day

  Nearing my destination, I clasped my handkerchief over my nose to filter the stench of smoke. I could do nothing, however, to close out the shouts and cries of anguish from the militia and the servants who tended to the garrison. I managed to scramble aside as a piece of timber smashed to the ground near me. At the gate I met our Idiot-General Sheaffe on his horse, flanked by the leader of the militia, Major Allan. In the distance, through the haze, I could see Mr. John Beverley Robinson and the Reverend Mr. Strachan pottering about through the chaos.

  “Welcome, Miss Powell,” Sheaffe shouted, as his steed wheeled round and round, evidently terrified by the stones smashing thick as hail, some of the large ones sinking deep into the earth. “I did not expect to see a member of the gentle sex here, but your presence will undoubtedly be welcome. Dr. Baldwin will be happy to have your assistance. You are just in time to wish me Godspeed.”

  “You are leaving us in this mess?” No doubt, I—“a member of the gentle sex”—should not have made this indignant remark.

  “I will not oppose the invasion,” he replied. “We are outnumbered. I have done my part in giving orders for the destruction of the powder magazine. The Yankees shall not gain control of our explosives and in the process of their destruction, I have even been able to kill one of their commanders.”

  I looked around at the bodies that lay everywhere, and at that moment, one hundred yards from us, I saw a horse blown to bits under its rider.

  I could not hold back my anger. “You have also killed dozens of our own men, sir!”

  The general turned his shoulder to me and spoke to Major Allan. “I’m off to Kingston with the regulars. Surrender the militia and the town.”

  With this comment, he began poking into his pocket, from which he finally extracted that infernal musical snuffbox that Mama had described to me. I could not hear the tune over the noise on the garrison field, but I did hear the man’s snort, sneeze, and snuffle. Then he shouted to his regiments to fall in, and in a moment, our Idiot-General was gone.

  “What am I do, Miss Powell?” Major Allan asked me, wringing his hands in distress. “The men of the militia are poorly trained. There is no way we can defend this town, even with the help of those Indians who are down at the waterfront. I suppose I shall have to surrender the town, as Sheaffe commanded.”

  I had nothing to say. I stood there, helpless to aid the man, hopeless in my mind as I looked around me at the charred, broken trees and the skeletons of burned bunkhouses, and inhaled the stink of smoke and blood. Then, as I breathed in the stench of the corpses lying in the garrison field, a random thought came to me.

  “We must bury the dead, Major Allan, and help the doctor administer aid to the wounded.” I moved forward. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Strachan were now nearby, seemingly interested to hear what I had just said.

  “Dear Miss Powell,” Mr. Robinson said, clasping my hand to his chest and leaning in close, “you are an angel come from Heaven. Search out Dr. Baldwin who is over by that bunkhouse and help him, if you please. Major Allan and his men will begin to dig the graves. Mr. Strachan and I must row out to the ships in the harbour and try to negotiate some sort of truce with General Dearborn, the American’s version of Jehovah.”

  “Tell the good doctor that he may use St. James as a hospital,” Mr. Strachan said to me. “When I return from negotiations with Dearborn, I shall see that there are volunteers from the congregation to assist in the care of the wounded.” He mopped a river of sweat from his face. “You will have a difficult task, Miss Powell. The Lord’s blessings upon you.”

  “I shall do what I can, sir,” I said. Then he and Mr. Robinson ran off in the direction of the harbour. I had never felt so alone. But I pushed myself forward into the mess that lay before me.

  In another moment or two, I found Dr. Baldwin. He was quite a young man, new to the town, and much more knowledgeable about medicine than my brother Grant who, of course, was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to appear only when he was not wanted or needed.

  “Let us do what we can for the living,” the doctor said to me.

  So while Major Allan and his men began to prepare graves for the dead, Dr. Baldwin and I moved across the field to the first wounded man. His screams sliced through my brain. “Oh my God, my God! Stop this pain! I don’t want to live!”

  Dr. Baldwin paused to sharpen his bloody knife on a whetstone. “What can I do but convert a bad wound to a simple one,” he said. “Be prepared, Miss Powell, for the worst. I must cut off an arm, a leg, or two arms and two legs, in order to save a life. You must be strong if you are to help me. There seems to be no one else around brave enough to assist me in this ghastly endeavour.”

  A few yards away I saw a member of the militia pushing Lieutenant Stretton towards town in a wheelbarrow. I had last seen him long ago at the Gores’ party where he had come to my aid when Papa berated me about my remarks on the oysters. He had talked so fondly of his painting, and now he was only a bloody trunk surmounted by a head and a brain that still functioned.

  He saw me and I went towards him. He began to bang his head back and forth against the barrow. I had no idea how to comfort him. All I could do was to take off my cloak, roll it up, and place it behind his neck. He who had derived such pleasure from his art would never again paint.

  I rejoined Dr. Baldwin. Hours passed. The day was warm, and the flies and mosquitoes came from the swamp in clouds, depositing their eggs in the open wounds. Maggots crawled through stinking flesh.

  Thirty-five limbs had been severed and dumped into a cart. The small supply of laudanum soon gave out. I found a barrel of rye whisky near one of the broken buildings, and I poured it down bloody throats.

  Then I saw Dr. Baldwin staring at the mangled head of a young corporal. He paused an instant in thought, then took from his bag a hammer and a spike.

  “Good God,” I said, “surely you cannot—”

  “Back off or help me, Miss Powell! I can’t waste time!”

  So I held the corporal’s head while the doctor whacked the spike into it with his demon hammer. Bang—bang—bang, and the boy’s howls tore my own brain asunder.

  “‘Tis the only way to relieve the pressure of a head injury,” Dr. Baldwin said. His hands were steady, but there were tears on his cheeks.

  A few people drifted into the garrison from town, too late to be of use. Night fell as we tended to the last of the wounded. The doctor had just cut off the man’s leg below the knee, and I threw the bloody remnant onto the cart, trying to shield his wife from the sight. She rocked back and forth beside her husband, moaning, “Look upon my poor man! Never, never must there be another war!” While Dr. Baldwin packed up his bag, I knelt beside her and held her hand.

  Before the doctor and I could leave, it was necessary to dispose of the carts of severed limbs. The stench was horrible. We tried to direct the burial of these parts in as discreet a manner as possible, for the garrison field was now filled with townspeople who had come to gawk.

  At last, my companion turned to me. “Go home now, Miss Powell. All of the saints in Heaven could not have done for me what you have accomplished this day.” He pulled me towards him and wrapped me in his arms.

  I headed towards the gate that separated the garrison from the town and began the trek back home. I could scarcely propel myself forward, so tired was I. I tripped over a stone and fell forward. I lay there, I don’t know how long, unable to rise, wishing for a moment that I too could die.

  Then a pair of strong arms hoisted me to my feet. In the gloom of early evening, I could scarcely see who had come to my aid. Then I heard his voice. “Miss Powell, I have my horse here. Let me lift you onto its back, and I shall get you back home safely.”

  John Beverley Robinson. Halleluiah. I pressed myself against his body and his arms shielded me from the horrors of the night. He lifted his left leg into the stirrup, threw his right leg over the back of his steed, and reached down and
pulled me up. I slouched against him, revelling in the security of his head against mine and his warm breath pouring into my ear.

  I remember nothing more about that ride, except for the moment when Mama opened the door of our house and Mr. Robinson pushed me into her arms. “God speed,” were his final words.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  June, 1813

  The army hospital at the garrison being full, the remaining sick and wounded men were sent to St. James Church where the pews were removed to make room for those needing care. Annie Powell busied herself every morning superintending Cook in the preparation of a milk broth she sent daily to the church. She had often dined upon this broth at her aunt’s home in Boston. To stifle William’s complaints about excessive spending, she ordered Cook to substitute milk for the cream in the original recipe, but not to stint on the turnips and onions and chicken stock.

  As Annie came up from belowstairs, she met Anne in the front hallway preparing to depart for her day’s volunteer work at St. James. A large and bulging satchel lay on the bench near the front door.

  “What are you taking in that satchel, daughter?”

  “Some of Papa’s whisky, Mama.”

  “Whisky! Why in tarnation would you take that when I am sending over to St. James today several buckets of my milk broth?”

  “Milk broth is all very well, Mama, but some of these men have such pain the only thing that can soothe them is a glass of whisky. It puts them to sleep, and when they awake, they feel better.”

  “And how am I to explain all this to your father? His fine imported Scotch whisky is expensive now and hard to get and since last night—”

  “Tell him he must make the supreme sacrifice for his country, Mama. Perhaps if you phrase it in this way, he will feel ennobled by his contribution.” And with those words, her daughter gave a loud laugh, gathered the satchel into her arms, and departed.

  My God, what am I to do? I cannot bring up the subject of whisky again this day. In her mind, she once more travelled the territory of last night’s debacle. She had been sound asleep and was suddenly awakened by a noise that shook the house like a clap of thunder. It took her a moment to realize that a shelf in the cellar had collapsed, undoubtedly from the weight of ten dozen bottles of whisky.

  Outside, some drunken louts, clearly on their way home from Frank’s Tavern, had started shouting, “Cannon fire! The Yankees have come again! Up and arm!” Her husband had been much put about by the noise and the shouting, and he had gone into the street in his nightshirt to admonish the revellers.

  At this juncture, she had stuck her head out the window of her bedchamber and called him to come back to bed. This morning he had been in a dreadful temper. She could not discern whether it was from the loss of the whisky or the ribald laughter her regrettable remark had prompted.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Anne returned from her work at St. James Church. Her dress was stained with blood, and she had pulled her pretty hair up from her ears and tied it at the top of her head with what looked like a piece of . . . yes, bandage.

  “What has happened, daughter? You are a mess.”

  “Yes, Mama, perhaps I am a mess, but I have two arms, two legs, no pain or trauma, and a comfortable abode to return to at the end of the day.” The girl slapped her empty satchel onto the floor and faced Annie, her arms akimbo and her countenance wreathed into a grimace. “And prepare yourself for the news. I have today offered a bedchamber in this house to four wounded men who are now lying on the floor of the church.”

  Annie let out a yelp of pain. She placed one hand over her heart that had begun to beat like the drum in a warriors’ parade. “My God, my God, girl, how am I to deal with this?”

  Her daughter’s face softened. The frown disappeared. She reached out towards her mother and took her hands in a hard grip. “You have been brave, Mama, and I should have applauded your courage sooner. I should have told you how much I admired the way you stayed in town instead of fleeing to the country with the other women during that terrible day at the garrison.” The girl paused for a moment, as if she were letting these words sink into her mother’s soul. Then she said, “And I need your courageous support on this day.”

  “But your father, Anne. What will I say to him?”

  “Let me handle that, Mama. I shall make him realize that all the Brits in this place will admire him for his sacrifice. Yes, sacrifice, that’s what I’ll call it. I shall point out how Mrs. Jarvis and her husband have fallen out of favour since her brother, Mr. Peters, welcomed the invaders on the very streets of this town. I shall tell him that the powers-that-be—all of them Brits—will pay heed to his extraordinary act of selflessness. That he, a prominent member of York’s ruling class, should give over a room in his fine house to aid the courageous men who opposed the invasion . . . blah blah blah. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mama?”

  “Yes, Anne. And your idea is a good one. But what room is to be sacrificed to this ‘extraordinary act of selflessness’?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s the question. I pondered it as I walked home from the church. You know our sleeping arrangements. My two nieces are in one bedchamber. My sisters and I occupy another room. Papa has his own chamber. And you have yours . . .” Anne’s voice trailed off, but her eyes spoke the unsaid words.

  “I am to give up my room and move in with your father. That’s what you are saying?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  * * *

  Annie would never forget the supper hour that night. William’s shouts of anger at first drowned out the sobs of her daughters Mary and Eliza and her small granddaughters. Through it all, Anne stood steadfast, making her small speech about “selflessness” with dignity and conviction. In an hour it was all settled. On the morrow, she and Anne would superintend the removal of her most necessary possessions to William’s bedchamber.

  And then she alone would be left to deal with the man’s snores and farts.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  June, 1813

  This morning I watched as our four invalided soldiers stumped down the stairs to the front door where a carriage waited to deliver them to the garrison. They had made an amazing recovery in our house. Perhaps it was the fresh air that wafted in from the upstairs verandah. Or perhaps the good food Cook and her helper delivered to them. Or—I say this without humility— the round-the-clock care that I gave them daily.

  And I must admit this as well: they afforded me an amazing recovery. My black dog of depression abandoned me, perhaps not forever, but at least for the moment. I found myself no longer circumscribed by Mama’s narrow views on propriety. Instead of stitchery and fan lessons, she allowed me to have full days of nursing our house patients. She did not even deliver a lecture when I went alone to visit the men still lying in bunks in St. James Church or to get advice from Dr. Baldwin on the care of our in-house patients.

  I ardently hoped that this change in Mama had come from the broader world view she seemed to have acquired during the tumultuous days of the Yankee invasion of York when she behaved so bravely. But at the back of my mind, the spectre of blackmail hovered. Was she afraid to chastise me in her usual manner because of the secret knowledge I possessed that she feared I might divulge?

  I had made a startling discovery about Mama’s early life one day when I was preparing her bedchamber for the wounded soldiers. She and I had worked together all morning, and early in the afternoon, tired out, she decided to take a nap on the settee in the parlour. I told her I would continue with the cleanup and reorganization of the room.

  I remembered as a child how I had watched Mama press the button on the mahogany bureau in her bedchamber and how I had longed to be tall enough to press it myself. Now, all grown up and alone, this was my opportunity. I pressed the magic button. The drawer slid open immediately to reveal a bottle of laudanum. Quite the revelation indeed: Mama had always inveighed against the taking of opium.

  Then I noticed three jewel cases that she h
ad stowed away in the same drawer. She had always told my sisters and me that she kept our jewelry hidden from the rapacious eyes of our servants. She made a practice of doling out necklaces, bracelets, and earrings as we needed them for balls and dinners. Then at the end of the evening, she would collect them from us, and they would disappear again until the next social occasion. I had always suspected that Mama was keeping them from us, her daughters, so that we would have no access to them and the money we might obtain by selling the trinkets to a pawnbroker. It all seemed part of her attempts to control us.

  Since one of these hidden jewel boxes had the name “Anne” engraved in silver on its lid, I assumed it was mine, and I poured its contents onto the surface of the bureau: two cameo brooches, three pairs of pearl and sapphire earrings, three pearl necklaces of varying lengths, two gold rings, and four pretty ruby-and-gold bracelets. It was a veritable treasure trove, and I scooped all of it into a cloth sack that I had brought to the bedchamber with me. In case Mama decided to accuse our maid Lucy of theft, I signed a hasty note saying, “I’m the thief, Mama,” and put it inside the box. Then I put the box back into the drawer with the other two jewel cases. Mama probably would not notice anything missing for several days.