At the side of the bed, she knelt and prayed that her father would face the news of war, and that her children and James would be safe. She was thankful she had been able to see her father again. When at last she climbed into bed, she sank deep into the feather mattress and fell asleep almost at once.
Laura awakened early, as usual, to see beams of light streaming through the small open window across the foot of her bed. The morning air was much cooler than it had been the day before. She got up and dressed quickly and walked into the hall. A pitcher of fresh water was already sitting outside her door. Someone must have been up before sunrise. Feeling grateful that she did not have to go down to the pump, she took the water back to her room and washed up.
When Laura walked into the kitchen, Sally was already there, stirring porridge. She looked older now—wisps of grey hair hung loosely about her face. Laura wondered how she kept up so well at fifty-one, with five-year-old Sarah and all the work of the inn, now that her husband was too sick to help. Sally had certainly not had an easy time since they had come to Canada, but she had accepted the life here and grown to like it.
“How’s Father?” Laura asked as Sally turned to greet her.
“I believe he had a good night. I looked in on him several times. I didn’t want to disturb him. He was lying very still.”
“He says he’ll be getting up today.”
“I hope he’ll be careful if he does,” Sally said as she sliced bread on her cutting board. “Laura, please advise me. I don’t know how long I can keep the news of the war from Thomas. People come by all the time. They’ll be talking of nothing else. And Charles left early this morning. He’s been called to active duty. How can I tell your father?”
Laura felt at a loss for words. “I don’t know,” she said finally.
“Well, I need to know now,” Sally said even more anxiously. “I can make an excuse for Charles going, but if Thomas gets up today, he’s bound to hear the news. It’ll be hard on him, Laura.”
“It’ll be easier if he learns it from us. Maybe we should both tell him.”
“You’re right, Laura.”
Sally dished out two bowls of oatmeal porridge topped with maple sugar, and they ate in silence. “May I help prepare breakfast for your guests?” Laura asked when they had finished.
“No, I’ll wake Appy. She’ll take care of that. You could check on your father, though. I haven’t looked in on him since I got up quite early this morning.”
Laura slipped into the narrow hallway and walked along to her father’s room. His door was ajar and he was lying very still with his back to the door. She heard a gurgling sound just as she came into the room. She tiptoed across to the bed.
Her father’s face was very, very pale. His eyes were closed.
Laura recognized the death-like whiteness that masked his face, and she spoke to him. “Father. Father.” He did not answer.
Nor did he ever answer again.
Even in her grief, Laura was thankful that her father never had to face the news of the war.
FOURTEEN
A day after the funeral, Sally and Laura sat in silence on the back steps of the inn. As the evening shadows fell across them, Sally turned to Laura, her eyes still red from crying, and said softly, “My children are still with me, Laura, and I will manage. You must go now to yours.”
Laura knew she was right, for the fear of war hung over all of them. “I will go tomorrow,” she said, “but first I want to see Sam.”
Just then, young Thomas came by, and Laura felt a twinge of pain as he looked at his mother with his head tilted sideways. It was the way Father used to hold his head when he had something serious to say. “Sam did not pick up his food today,” he said.
“I must go to him,” Laura said. “He’ll need help.” They both knew that he must be very sick if he could not make it just outside his door for the food.
“But the smallpox!” Sally exclaimed. “Don’t take Thomas. I can’t have any more sickness just now.” She started to sob into her apron.
“I’m not afraid,” Laura said. “I’m immune, and he may need care.”
“How can you be sure that you won’t take the disease?” asked Thomas.
“I’ve had cowpox,” said Laura.
“I know they say that cowpox protects you from smallpox,” said Sally, “but I’ve known folks who’ve had cowpox and took the disease anyway.”
“Well, I won’t. I’ve cared for many in our area with the smallpox when no one would go near them. Neither I nor my family have suffered. I’m careful, of course. I use lots of soft soap and hot water.”
“You can’t be too careful around smallpox.”
“Has the doctor visited?”
“No, and I understand that he is immune, too, and goes regularly into houses with the smallpox. But Thomas asked him to visit Sam and he refused.”
“Why?”
“Because Sam’s black. The doctor was determined not to go, and Thomas was just too weak to argue.”
“Well, I’m not,” Laura said indignantly. She stood up and straightened out her long petticoat. She pushed back a few strands of loose hair behind her mob cap and left Sally and young Thomas sitting on the steps. She hastened along the pathway to the doctor’s house, not far from the inn.
She had intended to pay this visit sooner, but she knew Sally would worry about her carrying the illness to the family. So she had planned to pack everything now and visit Sam on her way back home. But this sudden news about his food left her no choice.
The doctor’s house was the largest in the small village, and Laura walked briskly up the front steps and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman servant with a white apron over her petticoats opened the door and stared out silently.
Laura pushed back the open door and stepped inside. “I’m Thomas Ingersoll’s daughter, and I’ve come to see the doctor. Please tell him I’m here.”
The woman nodded with a look of recognition and respect, and motioned Laura to follow her down the hall to an open door. Laura entered and saw that the doctor was seated before his desk and was busy writing. He did not look up until he had finished the line. Then he started to speak even before his eyes left the page. “I am sorry about Thomas,” he said. “He was a fine man, but I did all I could.”
“I know that, thank you. I am not here about my father.”
“Are you not well? I could give you some powders for sleep.”
“It is not myself. I’m here about Sam. I understand that you are immune and do not hesitate to visit those with smallpox.”
The doctor’s face hardened. “I was too busy to visit him when your father mentioned it. I’ll drop by there tomorrow sometime.”
“I fear that may be too late, for he did not pick up his food today,” Laura continued. “Obviously he is too sick to go those few steps. He may even be unconscious.”
The doctor laid his pen onto his writing paper and looked up impatiently. “Oh, very well. If I must, I’ll go tonight.”
Laura walked back to the inn, uneasy still about the doctor’s tone. She would have to go to Sam’s herself, to make sure the doctor kept his promise. She would pack now, and her bags would be ready for Thomas to pick up, so she would not need to return to the inn.
Half an hour later, with only one small bag, she hurried in the moonlight along the grassy pathway to Sam’s. She had changed into an old petticoat and jacket, which she would leave behind so that she would not carry the disease. Inside her small bag, she carried a complete change of clothing for her return trip, and a bar of Sally’s soft soap, heavy with lye.
As Laura reached the back of Sam’s house, she recognized the doctor’s horse and buggy tied to the back post. “Good!” she thought. “At least he’s come promptly. His bark must be worse t
han his bite.” With a sigh of relief, she quietly set down her bag on the stone stoop, lifted the latch on the back door and stepped inside.
She stood staring in silence at the sight before her. Across the room, the doctor was bent over Sam’s small cot, holding a large feather pillow over Sam’s face.
“Stop!” screamed Laura, rushing to the doctor.
The doctor turned in surprise and jerked the pillow away.
“What good is he?” he snarled at Laura. “He’s not of much account anyway and will only spread the disease. Not too many people are immune as we are. I’ll finish him off now while he’s unconscious and get someone here to bury him and his sores. Look! He’s a mass of infestation.”
Laura knew she did not have the physical strength to stop the doctor, but she would use the talent she did have, her sharp tongue. “As sure as you do, I will have you indicted for murder,” she answered hotly.
The doctor looked up at her as she stood there, unflinching. His eyes were beady lights in the dimness of the room. They stared at each other, with the sound of Sam’s heavy breathing between them. Finally, the doctor put the pillow down beside Sam. Turning from the bed, he said, “Well, if we must save him, we’ll have a heavy night ahead, for without help, he’ll suffocate from the pneumonia before morning. First, we need fresh water.”
With relief, Laura lit a candle and placed it on the small table beside the bed. Then she ran out to the well, which was only about ten feet away from the back door, and let down the empty pail until she heard the splash as it hit the bottom. She lost no time rolling it up and pulling it out of the well. Would the doctor change his mind while she was gone and attack Sam again? In her hurry, as she ran along the pathway, the water splashed out of the pail against her petticoat, and she was breathless when she stepped inside. She was glad to see the doctor busy mixing powders. He must have taken her threat seriously.
Laura started a small fire in the fireplace in the front room of the cabin, then filled two pans with water to boil. Peering under the mat in front of the hearth, she saw the trap door. In a moment, she had lit a candle from beside the fireplace, pulled up the door, and slipped down the ladder into the darkness. When she reached the dirt floor, she could see the piles of vegetables that Sam had stored there the fall before. When she came to the onions, she filled a large pan, and was about to climb up the ladder when she heard footsteps just above her. She heard the horses neighing outside and the doctor shouting. Was he leaving? Had he closed the door over the hole to the cellar? She stuck the candle into her pan of onions and hurried up the ladder, clutching the side with her free hand and hoping that her head would not bump against the dropped trap-door.
The entrance was the same as she had left it. Hurrying into Sam’s room, she saw he was alone, his eyes still closed. She set the onions on the table and went to the door. The doctor was coming back inside.
“I’ve left more powders on the table,” he said. “Mix them for him every few hours. If he regains consciousness, put them in his tea. They’ll help the fever and pain. And get some rest yourself.” He motioned to the other cot across the room. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He turned then and left without further explanation.
Laura went out on the back step to peel the onions. She was making a pack for Sam’s chest to help relieve the congestion. She thought back to the days in Great Barrington when Sam and Bett had always been there when Mother and Mercy had been sick and Father was away. She was glad she could be here now, but she felt so alone and longed for her children. What if the fighting started and she could not reach them?
After she finished her peeling, she rummaged around Sam’s room for an old stocking, filled it with steaming onions, and placed it on Sam’s chest. Then she went out to the back stoop to get some fresh air.
As she leaned against the corner post, she prayed that Sam would soon be well enough to manage. And that they would be kept safe back home.
***
A week later, Sam had recovered enough to care for himself, and Laura returned to Queenston. She had not had much time to think of her father. Her grief was still fresh. Back in Queenston, though, she was comforted by her own children and by James, all active and healthy.
The summer days of 1812 were warm and mellow and the crops flourished, but Laura and James and everyone else who lived near Queenston thought of nothing but war. They wondered, at the beginning of each new day, whether it would be the one to bring disaster. James spent all his time at the Queenston barracks now, training local men for an emergency. Most of the locals were farmers, however, and were reluctant to leave their farms at this busy time of the year. James felt they were not taking the war seriously enough.
Then the unbelievable news began to arrive. An American brigadier-general, William Hull, had led troops across the Detroit River into Upper Canada. By the middle of July, he had sent men out to plunder the countryside, but he never did manage to attack Amherstburg’s Fort Malden. British scouting parties took his supply trains, and a British schooner seized even his camping plans. In mid-August, he retreated across the Detroit River.
Everyone gave the credit to the commander of the Upper Canada troops, Isaac Brock, who, with great daring, had chased the Americans to Fort Detroit and demanded their surrender. His boldness was rewarded, and he obtained a generous supply of much needed weapons and stores for Canada. The news was not all good, however. It seemed obvious now that the next attack would occur farther east. Would it be at Queenston?
“The local fellows are taking this war more seriously now,” James told Laura one day in September. Then he added thoughtfully, “We all are.”
Laura stocked their cold cellar well. During the fall, she stored twice as many supplies of root vegetables and fruits. As usual, she stored turnips, potatoes, russet apples, sugar pears, dried peaches, cherries, and berries—and the plums—Blue, Damson, Green Gage, and Egg.
James had insisted that they keep Fan and Bob, the black servants he had hired while Laura had gone to see her father. They were a great help putting up the extra preserves. James had dug out an additional hidden back room behind and under the regular fruit cellar, disguising the entrance with a trap door hidden under the sod. Food could be scarce in war time, and he didn’t want any of their supplies stolen.
In early October, James returned from military duty one day with the news that Brock was expecting an attack along the Niagara River. Queenston seemed a likely place, since it was so close to the American side. Newark and Fort George, where Isaac Brock had stationed his men, were also on the alert.
James, a sergeant in the First Lincoln Militia, kept watch with his volunteers around the clock. Laura watched him leave with some anxiety and prayed for strength to face whatever lay ahead.
FIFTEEN
Laura woke up with a start. She was almost certain she had heard the sound of a cannon firing. So, it had begun. The war they had all dreaded had come to Queenston and Niagara.
Laura jumped from her bed and hurried to the window to look out. She could see nothing but rain pelting against the window in the jet blackness of the October night.
James, where are you? she asked herself. Are you at the Landing to meet the enemy or have you gone to Fort George? Or maybe you’re with General Brock. She prayed aloud, “Please, God, protect him wherever he is.”
“Mama, mama.” The cry came from the cradle beside the bed as her son, Charles, woke up in fear.
Harriet and Charlotte stumbled into the room, almost tripping on their long flannel nightgowns. “Is that gunfire, Mama?” asked Harriet, still rubbing her eyes.
Charlotte was fully awake and asked anxiously, “Is it a bad thunderstorm? Do you want us to go downstairs?” But Laura could see the fear in her eyes and realized that her oldest daughter was well aware of the danger ahead.
“You go back to sleep now—all of
you,” Laura said. “I’m keeping watch and, if I need to, I’ll call you.” Reassured, they returned to their beds.
Laura sank to her knees and leaned against the bed until the thumping of her heart had eased. After a short time, she got to her feet and dressed quietly, putting on her old short gown and petticoats. She lay back on the bed, fully dressed, and listened to the heavy rain.
It was still dark when Laura roused herself from a half-sleep. She looked down at Charles, who had kicked away his covering. His chubby pink toes lay bare on the quilt. Laura got up and pulled the blanket back over him, for the chill of the storm had penetrated the house. The clock on the dresser struck five a.m. It was time to get the girls ready to leave the house.
In the girls’ room across the hall, Charlotte was lying with her eyes wide open, but Harriet was sleeping soundly in her bunk opposite the bedstead. Laura cautioned Charlotte with a finger to her lips and pointed to the clothes on the bedpost, then she walked out of the room and went downstairs.
When Laura entered the kitchen, she was surprised to see Bob and Fan already moving around. Bob had a crackling fire going in the fireplace, and Laura stood by the hearth to warm herself. Fan was shaking as she stirred the porridge in the iron pot over the hearth. “Why can’t them Americans just stay home, anyway? We don’t want their laws here.”
Bob and Fan had come from the settlement of former slaves on the southwest side of St. David’s. They, and many others who lived there, had been freed under a law passed by Governor Simcoe in 1793. The new legislation forbade the import of slaves into the province and freed the children of slaves when they reached the age of twenty-five. It was no wonder that Fan feared an American takeover. It could mean she and her husband would be sent back to slavery.
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