Duelling in a New World

by Ann Birch

  “But I ask you, brother, was this not fair?”

  “Perhaps. But White’s manner of wresting this verdict from them was not. The Writ of Attaint has been obsolete since the end of the fifteenth century. So Governor Simcoe told me this afternoon. I did not know that. White has made an ass of me and the whole judicial system.”

  Mr. White speaks up. “Dear ma’am, I needed justice for my Indian, and I perhaps used a questionable means of achieving it. But in the process I surely made clear my point that all who sit on King’s Bench must be qualified. Your brother is not.”

  He pauses and takes a deep breath. Turning to dear Peter, he continues, “I have embarrassed you, sir. I did not think you would find out the truth about the Writ of Attaint. If no more is said about this case, however, it seems to me you will be safe. If the trial does evoke discussion, however, it is the jurors and I who will be deemed the greatest asses, not you.”

  Another long pause while Mr. White seems to stare into a space far beyond the confines of their small chamber. Then he says, “I was wrong to invoke an obsolete law in order to get justice for my client. I will not do it again. But I will now pledge one more thing. Until the day comes when Indians are allowed to sit on juries with white men, I will avoid all cases that deal with Indians. I cannot stay in this land otherwise.”

  “Get White another mug of rum, will you, sister?”

  Eliza does as she is bid, feeling that in a few short moments, the friendship between her brother and Mr. White has somehow been firmed up. Two fine men have settled things. She goes to the cupboard to get a dollop or two of the Indian corn flour pudding Job made earlier in the day. It will be tasty with the cream she and Mary whopped up earlier in the afternoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  March 1793

  At first, Eliza Russell was mighty pleased with the Canadian snowfall. Snow in England, if it came at all, was slush and muck. She and Mary made snowflakes from bits of paper dear Peter procured for them, and they’d hung them all over the cabin for Christmas time. But now she just wants this wretched season to be gone. It’s so cold, her fingers are almost numb, and the smoke from the chimney is intolerable.

  “I do wish you would stop your moaning and groaning, Aunt,” Mary says, between the coughs that rack her small body.

  I must have been talking out loud and not realized. “Sorry, child. Why don’t you get your book and read it?”

  “Ha. Don’t you remember, Uncle Peter snatched it from me at breakfast. Said he would not give it back until I finished eating. As if I could stomach one more mouthful of that cornmeal porridge.”

  “Now I am a-wondering who is moaning and groaning?”

  Job gets up from his chair in the corner of the room and stirs the soup on the hearth. It creates a diversion, and Eliza knows that’s what he intended. He’s a good man and a good cook, and Eliza knows not what she would do without him. Even with his help, she and Mary are housekeepers, seamstresses, and chambermaids. Thank the Lord that the slave bill, according to Peter, has been put aside until the second session of the legislature opens in May. Not that it will much change Job’s life as a slave, but it may give him ideas above his station.

  There’s a thump on the door. “It’s that horrible Jarvis woman,” Mary says, peeking through their tiny front window. “I’m not staying around to hear her call me a savage. I’ll take myself and my moccasins into the bedchamber.”

  Job retreats again to his corner. Eliza has not time to ready herself except to remove her apron, stained red from a jacket she had been dyeing in madder.

  Mrs. Jarvis holds a babe in one arm, a healthy-looking infant she calls Samuel Peters, named after their little son who died of diphtheria in the fall. She sweeps into the room, wriggles out of her mantle, throws it onto a hook in the wall, and before Eliza can say “please sit down,” moves the rocking chair so that its back is to Job. She then pulls out the linen strip that fills in her low-necked bodice, and bares her breast.

  “What a blessed relief,” she says, as the babe sucks. “He screamed the whole way here. No wonder William says he has not the same affection for him as he had for our dear departed son.”

  She looks around the room. “How do you manage, Miss Russell? William tells me your new house is in the making and you will soon be out of this hovel.”

  “It is scarce ready, ma’am, and I will not be a-going from this place for many a month.”

  “A pity indeed. William and I now have the most comfortable cottage in the province. Why, our very cellar is larger than this room. You should see it. William has stocked it with wine, apples, butter, maple sugar—one hundred and fifty pounds of it—flour, cheese, coffee, and loaf sugar.”

  “That must be dear, ma’am.”

  “William thinks only of the comforts of his family, Miss Russell. He spares no expense.” She frowns. “And you do not get out and about much, do you? I have not seen you at our subscription balls over at the Fort.”

  I’m not a-going to tell her I have no money for clothes for dining out. My brother has spent more than a thousand pounds on the new house, all out of his own pocket. “I have been ill with the ague, ma’am.”

  “Let me send you some castor oil. It is a panacea for all ailments, I have found.”

  She pops out her other breast and transfers the babe to it. “Have you heard that the Lady Simcoe is searching for a wet nurse for her new infant?” She makes a noise that’s more a snort than a laugh. “I’m thinking of seeking the job myself. The woman has too much money to throw around. That’s why her husband married her. She’s got him right under her thumb. Petticoat rule, that’s what it is.”

  She does like that expression, I’ve heard it a hundred times. “Tea, ma’am? Mr. Hamilton procured some for us from Montreal before the lake froze.”

  Mrs. Jarvis watches while Job puts some tea leaves into a pot and pours boiling water from the copper cauldron over it. “You have only one servant, Miss Russell. He seems efficient. My kitchen maid Fanny was a perfect Devil incarnate. She ran off with a sergeant at the Fort, and yesterday William told me the man shot himself through the head one month into their marriage. Now I have a Scotch girl, a nasty, sulky, ill-tempered creature. Richard, our manservant, has turned out to be a perfect sot. Rum, dear rum, is his idol . . .”

  While her guest rambles on, Eliza catches Job’s eye. He stands behind the visitor’s chair and makes a gesture that reminds her of a fiddler playing a reel. His gesture is amusing, but it puts her to the blush.

  “How red you are, Miss Russell. Perhaps I should not discuss the servants in front of your man. I must now find some slaves, though they may all run away on me this summer when our Bachelor-at-Large and the Governor pass that piece of chicanery that frees all negroes.”

  “The slave bill, my brother says, forbids the import of more slaves, but for certain does not force us to give up the ones we have now. So you would be the better for getting your slaves now, ma’am.” I’m mighty pleased to set the . . . bitch . . . straight on that one . . .

  “Well only God knows what the Simcoes are up to. Or our Bachelor-at-Large either, for that matter.” She puts the babe against her shoulder and administers a slap to its back. It gives a loud burp.

  Time to pretend ignorance. “Bachelor-at-Large, Mrs Jarvis?

  “Your dear friend, Attorney-General John White, and lately thief of large chunks of my husband’s salary.”

  Eliza is now genuinely at a loss. “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  “The Governor has done nothing but complain about William’s supposed slowness in administering land grants. He has now allowed that man, who is nothing but a sycophant and a liar, the right to collect half of the fees on land patents. And William must still pay all the expenses of his office. You can have no idea of the cost of parchment which must be imported.” She slaps the babe’s back again.

  “Parchment, ma’am? Why does Mr. Jarvis have the expense of parchment? My brother told me Mr. Jarvis issues his land gran
ts on paper, so he should not have to charge for parchment.” Now I have undone things. Not that I care. The sooner she is a-going from my kitchen, the better.

  “I have no more to say, Miss Russell. I can see that you know little about the affairs of this godforsaken world. Though I might pity you for your ignorance, perhaps it is best to be ignorant. Then you have none of the cares and worries that beset me.”

  Mrs. Jarvis hands the babe to Eliza while she tucks the linen strip back into her bosom. Eliza has not held a babe for many years, and as she looks down at the toothless smile the child bestows on her, she remembers . . . “No,” Mary’s first word, the bunch of dandelions the wee lass picked for me and arranged in a pickle jar, the . . .

  “What you have to smile about in this place, Miss Russell, eludes me. I shall go home now. I cannot think that all this smoke can be good for my son.” Mrs. Jarvis has donned her coat and now takes back the babe. “I shall send over the castor oil for your ague with a servant this afternoon. Thank you for the tea. Good morning.”

  The door has scarce closed when Mary comes out of the bedchamber. “Oh Aunt,” she says, “let me pour you a large glass of rum. You’ll need it to wash down that castor oil.”

  For a moment, their shared laughter warms Eliza’s hands and conquers Mary’s ever present cough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 1793

  Following the second session of Parliament and the passage of the amended slave bill, White has invited Osgoode for a meal in his cabin. The Chief Justice now has his own residence, but the two friends often share meals together. They have just finished a supper of whitefish and drunk two bottles of dandelion wine. Yvette, who has stayed on as White’s cook, brings a third bottle from the kitchen.

  “Not as vile as I imagined,” White says, filling his friend’s glass, “though I was upset, I can tell you, when those rogues from the ship dropped a case of my French claret onto the wharf and smashed every bottle. Especially as I’ll be lucky to get more before freeze-up. Fortunately, Yvette had an alternative. It was that or Hamilton’s filthy rum for which he gets a pretty sum.”

  “Here’s to the dandelion,” Osgoode says, emitting a loud belch. “And here’s to you! Let us drink to your victory in the legislature today.” He stands up, steadies himself with one hand on the table, and shouts, “Down with s..s..slavery. Long live free men!”

  “Thank you, friend. But sit down and face the facts with me. The bill was a sad compromise which will do nothing to free those already enslaved in this country. I regret that.”

  “But no new s..s..slaves can be imported. And children born to s..s..slaves here can go free at twenty-five years of age. That is a victory. Upper Canada is now the first place in the British Empire to abolish the abomination. And you drafted the bill. Rejoice, man!” Osgoode drains his glass and refills it to the accompaniment of a second belch.

  “I try to be happy, but . . . moping melancholy, that’s what I feel.”

  “Moping melancholy? That’s a good one.” Osgoode laughs. “Just a few short months ago, it seems, you were Mr. S..S..Satyr. And now you’re Mr. Moping Melancholy.” He pushes the dandelion wine towards White. “Drink up and tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Money, for one thing. This new house I’m building has drained me dry. Fancy being out of pocket for a four-room log house in a forest. I still have not received a shilling from the Colonial Office, though both the Governor and Russell have written letters. I’ve had to draw on my brother-in-law Sam Shepherd, and that hurts because he was the one who got me this position in the first place. It makes me seem ungrateful.”

  “You are getting s..s..some tin from Jarvis, are you not?”

  “That’s helps, yes. But the strain of dealing with the man wears me out. He dawdles and dithers, and I find myself making out most of the deeds. That labour entitles me to at least half of his fees, but the man disputes every penny. Lord, how my head aches each time I enter his office. But part of that may be due to the smell of bowels that pervades his whole house, thanks to Mrs. Jarvis’s belief in the powers of castor oil.” He manages a strangled laugh.

  Osgoode moves his chair closer and pats his arm. “My apologies. I have made light of your troubles. But we had a good time together on the c..c..circuit this winter, did we not?”

  Shall I tell him the truth? “On the whole, yes. It was good to get out of this place and travel. And I was grateful to you, as you know, for handling those Indian cases I wanted no part of. But — “

  “The duel in Kingston, I know, was a flea in your wig. I have chewed over our fight about that one. But out with it, man, you are not s..s..still angry?”

  “It festers in my brain. It brings on my headaches. I can’t forget the injustice of that trial. I acted as the prosecutor of the man who shot another man dead and I expected you, as the Chief Justice of Upper Canada, to support me. But instead of setting the black cap upon your head and sentencing this murderer to death, you fined him thirteen shillings and fourpence and set him free. A man’s life, Osgoode, a man’s life is to be valued at thirteen shillings and fourpence?”

  “I did what I considered right, damn you. The victim was determined to duel, even though the man you call “murderer” was willing to negotiate. Did the victim not s..s..seal his own death warrant? And the jury decided, did they not? They gave their—”

  “You, sir, acted virtually as defence counsel from King’s Bench, and the jury gave in to your devilish persuasion, even though they deliberated for hours . . . ”

  Osgoode rises from his place at table. “Perhaps I should leave now. You are ups..s..set. We have been through it all before, and no good can come from raking up muck again. I am Chief Justice of this province, and I endeavour to do what I think right.” Osgoode says this in a tone White has never heard from him before. Though angry, it is also sorrowful, as if he regrets this quarrel.

  My God, I can’t break with the man. He’s my chief support in the administration of law in this place. “Sit down, friend. This vile wine has addled my wits. I have one good bottle of port left in the house. Let us drink it. I proffer my apologies and ask you to forget what I have said.”

  Osgoode stands quiet for a moment, hand on the back of his chair. Then he sits down. “We have had an argument that grieves me. But s..s..since you are willing to s..s..sacrifice that last bottle of port to atone, I know you must deeply regret your words.”

  Yvette brings the bottle of port to the table along with two clean glasses and leaves them to it. In a few minutes, she comes back, holding another glass, her face rather flushed. “Mr. White, sir,” she says, “His Excellency is here.” And sure enough, coming through the door behind her is the Gov himself, wearing sturdy boots and carrying his walking stick. The dog called Trojan is with him. The animal leaps up on White first, leaving dirty paw marks on his white breeches, and then treats Osgoode to the same warm welcome. The Gov, seemingly oblivious to the animal’s depredations, pulls out a chair at the table and pours himself a glass of port as he sits down.

  “We are c..c..celebrating the passing of the bill, Governor,” Osgoode says.

  “Good work, sir,” White chimes. Too late to do anything about that damnable lukewarm mess now.

  “Yes, I am happy,” the Gov says. “But I have not come here seeking praise. I was out for a walk with Trojan. I saw the two of you through the window and decided to come in to tell you my plans.”

  They wait obediently while he downs his port.

  “Another glass, sir?” White asks. Just enough left for one glass more, but what am I to do if he wants a third glass?

  “I thank you, no. I have at present a gouty pain in my hand. I fear it is moving to my foot. I have had to limit my wine to a mere bottle a day.”

  White hears himself and Osgoode making sympathetic noises. The Gov’s gout is a favourite topic of conversation.

  “Mrs. Simcoe and I shall embark at the end of this month for Toronto.”

  “Toronto?” Osgoode
and White say in unison.

  “It’s an unfortunate name. I intend to rename it York. With me will be one hundred men from the Queen’s Rangers.”

  “One hundred Queen’s Rangers?” Sophocles could have surely have used us as Chorus in one of his plays.

  “That is what I said. They will begin work on a new naval base. I fear the Yankees. Here we are across the river from them with no protection. When Fort Niagara is handed over to them in 1796, anything may happen. A naval base at York will provide a means of attack if they get out of hand. I was there in May, as you know, and I have only praise for its fine harbour. It is an excellent site for a town.”

  “A wise decision, Excellency,” Osgoode says.

  “Mrs. Simcoe and I shall take a canvas house with us to provide accommodation. I shall supervise the building of the garrison. We expect to be absent from this place many months, but I shall make short visits here from time to time. I leave Newark in good hands.” He nods at them and rises. “Russell will administer affairs here during our absence. You gentlemen will, I know, lend him your support.”

  He gathers his walking stick, makes a clucking noise at Trojan, and departs.

  White waits for the door to thump shut, then says, “Oh, oh.”

  “Oh, oh? Are you implying s..s..something, man?”

  “‘An excellent site for a town.’ What do you think of that phrase?”

  “I hope it was just a phrase in those short and s..s..simple s..s..sentences the great man utters. Do you read more into it?”

  “For a moment I thought he was planning to establish more than a naval base.”

  Osgoode shrugs. “Not likely. But I do have a question about the way he talks. Do you think that an exalted position in the Queen’s Rangers precludes the use of s..s..subordinate clauses?”

  “Undoubtedly. Surely a colonel who has spent a lifetime barking out commands to subordinates must avoid unnecessary subordination. But a word or two barked at that damn four-legged subordinate of his might have saved my breeches.”