Duelling in a New World

by Ann Birch

  “The old fool knows nothing about the law,” she told him, her face flushed with joy at imparting bad news, “except what he learned when he was sentenced to Fleet prison.”

  White had protested against this slur, of course, but she’d whacked him down. “Surely, sir, you’ve heard of his gambling losses and the ten months he spent in the Netherlands before atoning for his debts like a proper gentleman.”

  Well, yes, Osgoode told him about Russell’s time in debtors’ prison, but this is the first inkling he has had about the man sitting on King’s Bench.

  If the woman is right, I’ll have to face Russell and try to talk him out of getting into the courts as a judge. Russell is a friend, and he dreads the moment of confrontation. Even now, Russell’s horse is tethered to the railing on White’s stoop. “It’s yours when you need it,” his friend has told him many times.

  His worries have made him restless, bringing on the headaches and nosebleeds that plague him. He made the mistake of mentioning his woes to David Smith, inveterate teller of tales, who passed on his information to virtually everyone in the community. Mrs. Jarvis sent along a bottle of castor oil, and Mrs. Simcoe, a package of pigeons’ gizzards dried and ground to a fine powder. He’ll send the ladies thank-you notes, not mentioning that he dumped both concoctions down the groundhog’s hole.

  It’s a fine fall day, Indian summer they call it here, so he’s decided to allay his worries with a change of scenery. He mounts Russell’s black horse and sets out for his first visit to the Falls of Niagara.

  On the road he passes Major Small and his wife in a calash pulled by two fine steeds. Small must have a private income, White surmises. Either that or he’s living well beyond his means. The man is aptly named. Though he’s tall and well-built, he has but a small status in the Legislative Council. He’s a mere clerk, a recorder of minutes, a position well below White’s own exalted one. But in this gossipy settlement, niceties must be preserved, so as he canters up behind them, he waves a greeting.

  “May I present my wife?” Small calls, pulling on the reins.

  Mrs. Small is a petite, attractive woman with an ample bosom which the current fashions show off to advantage. Her eyes match her hair—dark and lustrous brown, like chestnuts. He’s seen her from time to time at Fort Niagara, but like the bear, never up close. She’s wearing a soft fur tippet, and her cheeks are flushed with the nip of the autumn air.

  “We’re on our way to the Falls. And where are you going?”

  “Just out to enjoy the day.” He finds it presumptuous that Small should be questioning him. Best to put him in his place and perhaps make an impression on the lady at the same time. He adds, “After I have breakfast with the Hamiltons.”

  Small has nothing more to say. So White tips his round hat, lately bought at Hamilton’s large emporium, and turns his horse towards the huge stone house visible from the well-travelled road on which they have stopped.

  Hamilton is a wealthy merchant, the sole provisioner of the garrison. The Gov has tried to break his monopoly, but has had to recognize the realities of life in the wilderness. “A Scotch pedlar and a damn republican,” the Gov calls him, though White knows Mrs. Simcoe is a great friend of Mrs. Hamilton, whom she calls “Catherine.”

  The Hamiltons live in a Georgian two-storey mansion with side wings, located high above the river at the Landing or Queen’s Town, though since Hamilton has started to drop the “w” from his mercantile papers, people are calling the place Queenston. This new appellation is one of the grievances which the Gov holds against the man.

  Hamilton’s abode is exactly the sort of house that White once dreamed of owning, though he has been forced to realize his dreams are unrealistic. He’s been in this country almost five months and has not yet received a penny of the salary owed him from England. He has been forced to open a private law practice in order to pay the rent. Perhaps the Gov’s letter to the Colonial Office will bring results.

  White and his hosts eat breakfast in a covered gallery—which the Yankee settlers call a “veranda”—overlooking the Niagara River and the dark woods on the American side. There’s some excellent porridge with cream and the maple sugar he’s come to love, along with good bread from a bake oven, an asset owned only by the rich.

  Most of all, he enjoys the coffee, not the vile chicory that Mrs. Jarvis serves up, but the real thing. “Ordered in special, and just arrived yesterday,” Hamilton tells him, pointing down to the batteaux unloading casks of rum and scotch at the wharves. The man is a self-satisfied lout who gives himself the airs of a gentleman, but his wife is pleasant enough. She’s a thin woman with a lined face that suggests hard work and the burden of a large family.

  It’s almost noon when he gets back on Russell’s horse and sets out again for the Falls. He’s drunk a tankard of beer along with the coffee, so he dismounts from time to time to void by the wayside. No need for pisspots in the forests of Upper Canada!

  When he gets to the Falls, he finds the Smalls already there. He can see their calash parked along the row of trees that fringe the top of the steep heights leading down to the cataracts. Mrs. Small waves at him, and he joins them. They stand for a few minutes taking in the view that almost matches the praise heaped upon it a hundred times by Mrs. Simcoe.

  “A vast and prodigious cadence,” White shouts above the roar. He does not bother to attribute this statement to its author, Father Louis Hennepin, whose seventeenth-century account of the Falls he read before leaving London. His sole motive after all is to put Small at a disadvantage and to impress the beautiful Mrs. Small.

  “Vast and prodigious, indeed,” she says to her husband. “I must descend. That big flat rock down there will be a perfect spot from which to get a better view.”

  “My dear, you must not. It is not safe. And there will be rattlesnakes.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, throwing her muff at Small and stepping towards the edge, ready to make the descent. In a second, they can see only the top of her head.

  “Oh my, oh my, whatever possesses the woman?” Small whimpers, wringing his hands. “I cannot follow her. I’m . . . I’m . . . Whatever am I to do?”

  Opportunity knocks. “Don’t worry, man,” White says. “I’ll go down with her and keep her safe.” He’s less confident than he sounds, but he scrambles after her.

  Down, down they go, laughing and grabbing at tree branches to slow their precipitous descent. He catches her hand from time to time to keep her from plunging too quickly, and at every jump, the lady’s fine ankles and slender legs are on display. As they slide from branch to branch, he forgets his fear in the exhilaration of conquest. By the time they reach Table Rock, they are breathless and exuberant.

  “Oh, Mr. White, what fun,” she says. “Thank you for saving me from certain death.”

  Yes, she is the one I’ve been looking for. Next step: find out her first name.

  Chapter Eleven

  White receives a note three days later, delivered by one of the little Indian boys he often sees skipping along the narrow path that links the log houses set into the forest. He reads it while the lad waits for an answer: Come to dinner tomorrow at noon, do, Mr. White. My husband and I will be alone and will welcome company. Betsy Small.

  Halleluiah, just what I wanted.

  So he borrows Peter Russell’s horse again, and trots two miles or so south along the river to the Smalls’ house near the Landing at Queenston. He wears his blue Bath coat with gilt buttons. It seems somewhat ridiculous to get dandified for dinner in a log house, but he wants to impress the lady.

  Mrs. Small’s cook sets before them an excellent meal of grilled pork with apple compote.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve had a cutlet,” he says.

  It’s served up on pretty white-and-green porcelain tableware, and he can’t help but notice the walnut dining table and the gilded clock on the rough wood of the mantel. Small’s salary is much less than his. How can the man afford this display of wealth?


  They’ve just settled into plates of gingerbread with rum sauce when Small pulls out his pocket-watch. “Oh Lord, Betsy, I am late for my council meeting with the Governor.” He removes the napkin tucked under his chin and sets it down by his plate. “I have the calash and can drive you to your lodgings, White. Russell’s horse can be tied behind the cart.”

  “No, no, my dear, Mr. White must stay and take time to finish his gingerbread.”

  Small departs. White enjoys his gingerbread, and Mrs. Small pours him another glass of wine.

  “Do have a cigar, sir,” she says, taking one from a pretty brass jar on the sideboard.

  “You have none of the usual prejudices, then, about a gentleman smoking in your presence?”

  “Good heavens, no. Why, when I resided at Berkeley Castle in Gloucester, Lord Berkeley always insisted I stay with him in the dining hall while he enjoyed his port and cigar. Why should a lady be relegated to a drawing room to gossip with biddies if she can enjoy a real conversation with a gentleman?”

  White takes the cue offered him. “Lord Berkeley, ma’am?”

  “One of my dearest friends. Oh sir, I had such merry times during my long sojourns at the Castle. When I see this forest, this log dwelling in which I am. . . incarcerated . . . I think of those happy days and mourn.”

  Clearly, I am to be impressed. “Please, ma’am, I long to hear about those happy days.”

  She rattles on about the baronial hall with half-timbered ceilings, the dining hall with the magnificent family silver, the chamber with the ebony bedstead where Sir Francis Drake slept, the green where Elizabeth I bowled.

  “Edward II was murdered in Berkeley Castle,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulls from her bosom, “and dear Lord Berkeley told me that on the last day of his life, the guards shaved the king’s head and beard in cold water from a ditch. Then they stabbed him in a chamber at the top of the castle.”

  “Horrible,” White says, feeling like the Chorus in a Greek play.

  “Most horrible.” She pauses and sighs. “Often when I stayed at the castle, I would be awakened at midnight by his ghostly shrieks.” She closes her eyes for a second, giving him an opportunity to admire her long black lashes.

  I don’t believe a word of it. Her accent is common, though her grammar is good enough. She may have visited the castle on a country outing. But as a friend of this Lord Berkeley? Not bloody likely. People often embroider their past when they move to a new country. He’s done it himself. He told the Gov and his lady that Marianne stayed in England because her health was poor. He invented a touching tale about how much he missed her. Mrs. Simcoe’s eyes had clouded, and she’d reciprocated with a story of her own longing for the three little daughters she left behind at Wolford Lodge.

  No, the Small woman’s tale is mere poof, but he admires the flash of her white teeth and the tears which make her dark eyes shine as she tells it. Her corsets push her breasts into prominence, and when she dives into her bosom from time to time to retrieve her handkerchief, he feels his prick stir.

  The ormolu clock on the hearth mantel sounds. He counts. Four bongs. “Dear Mrs. Small,” he says, rising, “I have taken your afternoon. My apologies. But your account of Berkeley Castle and Lord Berkeley was so riveting that I quite lost track of time.”

  She comes close to him and puts her hand on his arm. “You must come and sup with us again soon.”

  He looks down into her cleavage. “It will be my greatest pleasure, dear Mrs . . . may I call you Betsy?”

  “And I shall call you John.”

  An afternoon well spent, for though nothing has been enacted, much has been set in motion. Quite a feat, really, in a four-room cabin with the sounds of their young son and servants in a neighbouring chamber. Betsy—oh, how the name trips off his tongue—knows how to make the most of an opportunity.

  * * *

  The Russells’ cabin is a short ride north of his own log house, and as he trots by his dwelling, he sees Osgoode hailing him from the front stoop.

  “What’s up, my friend?”

  “I’m glad to have caught you before you get that nag back to Russell. Be warned: he’s in a foul mood. But perhaps you know this already.”

  “I didn’t see him when I picked up the horse. Miss Russell came to the door, and directed Job to saddle up for me. Is he angry because I’m late returning? I had a rather good time at—”

  “Tell me later. Just get over there. I know it’s about that Writ of Attaint you dished up at court. I thought it was pretty damned funny when you told me about it last night, but Russell obviously thinks differently. Get moving, man. I’ll have Yvette make up a bowl of rum punch for us, and we’ll drain it dry before s..s..sunset.”

  White slaps the whip on the horse’s flank and the beast takes off at a trot. He can imagine what’s bothering Russell. And he’s sorry. The man and his sister are two people he can trust for friendship. But dammit, the justice system in this backwater must be righted.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eliza Russell has just lain down for an afternoon nap in the bedchamber when she hears the front door slam. Oh, oh, that means for certain that dear Peter is in a pet about something. She looks at Mary, lying beside her. The girl is snoring softly, thank the Lord.

  She tiptoes into the main room. Job is making soup in a large cauldron on the pine table. She looks at Peter. He’s standing by the door, and his whole face is one mighty frown.

  “Go out now, Job,” she says, “and pick us some of those windfall apples. You can slice them outside on the back stoop and put them over the hearth later for drying.”

  Job glances at her, glances at Peter, and leaves quickly. For certain he knows there will be a to-do.

  “Peter, sit down.” Eliza pours a mugful of rum from the cask in the corner and hands it to her brother. She waits while he downs half of it.

  He slams his mug on the table. “He made a fool of me yesterday, sister, that man to whom I have always been a friend. Is he not at this moment riding the horse I let him have?”

  Oh dear. “What has he done, Peter?”

  But before he can answer, there’s a knock on the door. Eliza answers it to find the culprit himself on the front stoop. “Excuse me, Miss Russell. I must talk to your brother and make my explanations and apologies.”

  She stands aside. Mr. White enters and sits down opposite Peter.

  “A glass of whisky, sir?” she asks.

  “If rum’s good enough for me, sister, it’s good enough for this blackguard and hypocrite.”

  “Blackguard perhaps, Russell, but not hypocrite. Have I not maintained in the parliament and in private that those people concerned with administrating the laws of this country must be fully qualified?”

  “But that damned Writ of Attaint, you bugger—”

  “That is a coarse term of abuse I will not listen to. We must discuss the matter like gentlemen, or I will leave this instant.” White throws the rum in his mug into the hearth and stands up.

  “I cannot tolerate this language either, brother,” Eliza says. She hears her voice rise in a wail. “Please, please, let us be quiet.” She sits down at the head of the table.

  Peter looks contrite. “You are right, sister. I apologize. But let us now hear what this . . . this . . . man has to say for himself.”

  Mr. White turns towards her. He sits down again. It seems that he wants to talk to her directly, and she feels flattered.

  “I will summarize the matter in a few words, ma’am, and your brother must interrupt me if I represent any of the facts incorrectly. He sat upon King’s Bench yesterday—”

  What in the Lord’s name is this King’s Bench? “I do not understand, Mr. White.”

  “He was the judge at a trial yesterday. I was the legal counsel for an Indian man named Big Canoe whose brother had been murdered by a settler here in the early summer. When Big Canoe failed to attain justice in white man’s court for his brother’s murder, he took his own rough justice.
He seized a tomahawk and cut the settler to pieces. The settler’s wife found his corpse in the woods, scalped and mutilated.”

  Eliza is unable to hide her shock. “How terrible!”

  “Yes, but you must remember the Indian never willingly seeks quarrels with the white man, but once wronged he does not forget nor forgive. ‘He kill my brother, me kill him.’ Those were the seven words with which Big Canoe defended himself.”

  Eliza ponders the words she has heard. “Rough justice, for certain. But why in tarnation was the settler not punished for the murder of this Big Canoe’s brother?”

  “It is shocking, yes, but these misfirings of justice are common in this country. You must remember the jurors are always white men. In any trial, they side with the white man, always. The settler was not punished. And Big Canoe had no chance in this trial yesterday. He would have been sentenced to hanging for the murder of the settler if—”

  “If you had not brought in this bloody Writ of Attaint.”

  “Tainting Rights? What are those? What does my brother mean?”

  “A ploy by which I succeeded in getting this jury of white men to exonerate the Indian. I told them if they did not let Big Canoe go free, I would invoke the Writ of Attaint to redress the wrongness of their verdict. I said the punishment inflicted on them would be severe: they should forfeit all their goods and chattels; their lands should be seized into the government’s hands; their wives and children should be thrown out of doors; their houses and lands should be razed; their bodies should be cast into jail . . .”

  Eliza is now thoroughly confused. “Surely, sir, you were right to remind the jury to bring in a verdict that was fair.” She looks at her brother. “Was Mr. White not right, Peter?”

  Peter laughs. It’s a laugh that shows he is not mighty pleased with her question. “Sister, you must know that the jurors did bring in a verdict of not guilty for Big Canoe, and—”