Читать книгу On the Head of a Pin - Janet Kellough - Страница 15

VIII

During that month-long ride around his circuit, Lewis found one disturbing constant: It didn’t matter where he went, village or single cabin, he found a profoundly agitated and anxious people.

It was in the more far-flung areas and with the poorer families that he found the most doubt and depression. These were the places where Mackenzie’s ranting had found fertile ground. Solid farmers and the hard-working poor, who knew all too well what was wrong with Upper Canada, for it was they who shouldered most of the hardship of a stagnant economy and a corrupt government. The settler who frantically cleared the requisite acreage in order to gain clear ownership of his land, only to be defeated by the bureaucracy of gaining legal title; the farmer who must give over too many of his working days in order to service the roads that ran past the vacant lots reserved for the Anglican Church; the tradesman who desired to expand his business, but was unable to find anyone to loan him the money to do so. These people were never the beneficiaries of patronage nor did they receive the lucrative government appointments that went to those of the right class or opinion. They were denied the thousands of acres in land grants that went to those with the right family connections. And now the man who had spoken up for them was gone, with a price on his head and his supporters destroyed.

Everyone was frightened by the talk of war, and many were convinced that the pirate Johnston was waiting around every tree, ready to jump out and slaughter them all, or that American troops were massed at the border lacking only the signal to invade. Even more disturbing was the suspicion that had been sown amongst friends and neighbours. Astounding arrests had been made, as the most unlikely people were scooped up and thrown in jail. Most still languished there, waiting for trial, for charges, for proof. If these men were rebels — and they must be, for why else would the government have arrested them? — then anyone could be a traitor: the man next door, the family down the road. The lad who came to help with harvest could be an American Hunter spy; the old gentleman who tipped his hat to you in the street could be a pirate; the farm wife you bought your eggs from could be carrying important information to an invading army.

He made a special effort to visit the most isolated families. They were invariably anxious for the latest news. Were the Americans at the border? How many rebels would be hanged and how many transported to Van Diemen’s Land or Botany Bay? Was life going to be harder than ever from now on?

Everywhere he went, he noted that the Caddick brothers had been singularly successful with the marketing of their wares. In some of the more substantial homes, he saw several of Benjamin’s portraits hanging proudly above mantelpieces as well as a couple of Willet’s oils. But it was the little pins with the Lord’s Prayer on them that were the most popular in the houses of the poor. The Caddicks had done well to consign them to Isaac Simms, for even in the rudest of cabins, the women would have them safely stowed away in little boxes or carefully wrapped in pieces of ribbon. They would be proudly brought out for Lewis to see, and the women would proclaim their admiration of the tiny writing.

“But can you read the prayer?” he would ask. “It’s so small.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” one woman replied. “I can’t read, and even if I could, I’d never be able to see anything that size. It’s just a comfort knowing it’s there, and whenever I get a little blue, I take it out and hold it for a bit. It’s a wondrous thing.” She hesitated for a moment. “It makes me feel as though God is looking after me, somehow.”

When Lewis returned home after completing another full round of his circuit, he discovered that Betsy had been taken with her ague again and had spent the majority of her time over the last few days lying on the kitchen bed. She told him she had tried from time to time to get up to attend to her household, but he could tell by the sorry state of the kitchen that she had not been able to do much. Lewis took the boys to task for neglecting their chores, and while the two younger ones, Moses and Luke, had the decency to look contrite, the oldest, Will, looked astonished.

“I’m out working and I bring most of the money home,” he said. “Why should I have to do all this, as well?”

Lewis privately felt that Will had a point. At sixteen he had finished his schooling and found employment with a local carpenter. At the end of each week he handed the bulk of his wages straight to his mother. The younger boys picked up odd jobs here and there after school and helped with the harvest in the fall, but Lewis insisted that they continue to attend classes regularly, which they both grumbled about.

“We’re the biggest boys there,” they said. “Nobody else goes to school this long.”

They were right — few Upper Canadian children attended the local schools much past the age of twelve or so. They learned how to read a little and how to figure simple sums, had a few basic facts pounded into their heads, and then were sent off into the world to earn their living. Only the children of the wealthy had access to the higher halls of learning.

Lewis found this general level of ignorance unacceptable, and was determined that his children would rise above it. But this meant that between work and school they had little enough time for chores, and it wasn’t surprising that they often neglected them when their mother wasn’t well enough to issue not-so-gentle reminders.

He set Moses and Luke to work in the backyard splitting wood, but when he returned to the kitchen he discovered that Martha had found the ashcan and was happily spreading its contents across the floor. He grabbed the child and a damp cloth and was attempting to remove the worst of the sooty mess when there was a knock at the door. It was a wonder he heard the rapping at all as Martha was vigorously protesting the application of the wet rag against her face. However, her screeching subsided as soon as he stopped wiping, and he tucked her under his arm while he answered the door.

Lewis knew something was wrong as soon as he saw that it was Griffith Varney. He seldom saw Varney outside of Demorestville. It was such a bustling town that its inhabitants could find nearly everything they needed along the Broadway, and most of its families were inter-related, so that not even social calls lured them away. The only time they really had to travel was when they had some judicial issue to settle. Hallowell Bridge, now called Picton, had been incorporated and designated the district seat where the courts met. It was unlikely that Varney had made the journey for anything other than a serious matter.

“Mr. Varney, it’s a pleasure to see you, but what brings you here?”

His suspicion was confirmed. “I hoped I’d find you home. There’s been trouble in the village again.” He nodded at Betsy, who was making half-hearted attempts to tidy her hair in honour of the unexpected company.

“What sort of trouble?”

“Over the church again. As you know, I held the class meeting on Tuesday. There was no sign of anything amiss when we went in, but while we were in prayer, the room suddenly started filling up with smoke.”

Lewis sighed. He knew what was coming.

“Them vicious Wesleyans climbed up onto the roof and stopped up the chimney!”

It was the sort of prank that was becoming all too common when the different denominations attempted to share premises. Lewis had heard of locks being changed in the middle of the night, then changed back again the next; of one rival group linking arms and surrounding a church, so that another group couldn’t get in. It was all just too petty for words.

Varney’s face was serious, though. “I know what you’re going to say, Mr. Lewis — that it was nothing but a small crowd of trouble-makers, and we should ignore it, but this time it got out of hand. Before I knew it, some of our men had rushed outside and removed the ladder so the vandals couldn’t get down. They jumped off the roof, and one man broke his leg. After that, it was bedlam, the men all lit into one another, and as well as the broken leg there are quite a number of broken heads.”

Lewis deposited Martha on the floor and sat down. This was serious — people had been injured and someone would be called to account for it.

“That’s not the worst, though,” Varney went on. “While all this fracas was going on in the dooryard, nobody was paying any mind to the chimney. It was still stopped up, and the smouldering made it catch fire. Before anyone’s attention could be got, it had burned a big hole in the back part of the roof. That church won’t be used by anyone for a while.”

Lewis felt his anger growing, but he attempted to control it so that it wouldn’t be reflected in his words. Anger would do them no good here.

“That is the most disappointing thing I think I ever heard,’ he said finally. “That this contention should lead to the destruction of a House of God.”

“Oh, aye, it’s bad business all right. Anyway, I just came to say that in the meantime, we’d better make plans to use my place instead, don’t you think?”

Bless Varney and his ilk, he thought. In spite of the trouble in Demorestville, his first thought was the continuation of the church.

He realized that the man was still standing in the doorway. His news had taken them by such surprise that he had not yet been invited in.

“Take a seat, Mr. Varney,” he said. “I’ll get us some coffee while we sort this out.” Betsy had nudged the kettle over onto the stove and it was singing.

Varney smiled. “Now, I’d hoped you might offer, but I’m a tea man, myself. Not everyone is, you know. Some people never have it in the house, so I just happened to have brought a little with me, I’m that thirsty. I hope you’ll boil it up for me.” He produced a package that looked to weigh at least half a pound, and Lewis knew that he would leave it all behind when he left. Their few luxuries most often came that way. A member of the congregation would drop by and “just happen” to have a little of this or that, which they always managed to forget to take away with them again. Lewis silently sent up a prayer of thanks; tea was far too dear to find its way to his table very often. The storekeeper’s gift would go a long way toward reviving Betsy’s spirits.

Varney settled himself at the table while the tea steeped.

“What is the reaction to all of this trouble in the rest of the village?” Betsy asked. “Has anyone learned a lesson from this, or do the feelings still run high between the two groups?”

“The Wesleyans claim that they had nothing to do with it, that the men who climbed up on the roof were the village hooligans. They say they’re going to hold the Methodist Episcopals to account for the damage to the church. After all, we were the ones using the church at the time, so according to them, we’re the ones who are responsible.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lewis said. “How can we be responsible for something done by someone else?”