Читать книгу The Burying Ground - Janet Kellough - Страница 6

Thaddeus Lewis had given up horseback riding, and now made his rounds in a hired trap pulled by a rib-thin pony. The provision of a horse and cart was one of the conditions that he had insisted upon when he’d been approached by Philander Smith to take temporary charge of the Yonge Street Circuit. He was too old to ride, he pointed out to the bishop, and his aching joints plagued him too badly.

He was reluctant at first to agree to do even that much. He was settled into a comfortable routine in Wellington, after he’d got over the initial shock of his wife Betsy’s death. His son Luke kept him distracted for a while. Luke called upon him to unravel a mystery that had arrived on Canada’s shores with the great influx of sick and starving Irish three or so years before. They chased up and down the shore of Lake Ontario from Kingston to Toronto and back again and eventually found the truth of the affair. But at the conclusion of the excitement, Luke went on to Montreal to study medicine, and Thaddeus was faced with the unappealing prospect of returning to his small cabin behind the Temperance Hotel where he spent his days alternately helping out with the routine drudgery of looking after guests and assisting one of Wellington’s leading citizens, Archibald McFaul, with his complicated business affairs.

It was enough — only just enough — to keep his loneliness at bay, although he still felt a pang of loss every time he returned to the cabin at the end of the day. He never really became used to the idea of Betsy’s death, but he seldom let this be known. He kept his sorrow to himself and mumbled over it late at night when he had nothing else to distract him. It became a treasure of sorts that he guarded jealously and shared with no one.

And then his routine began to fall apart. Business dwindled to a standstill in Canada West. Britain’s Free Trade policies had destroyed Canada’s markets and there were now no ready buyers for the timber that grew so plentifully or the wheat that sprouted out of the ground. Mr. McFaul’s affairs were not as complicated as they had once been. He had less business to conduct and less correspondence to see to. The businessman reluctantly informed Thaddeus that his services were no longer needed. He had hopes, McFaul said, that economic times might improve in the future, especially if trade continued to grow with the United States, but for the time being, financial prospects were dim.

“If some of these railways they’re proposing actually mater-ialize, that will help,” McFaul said. “But in the meantime my business has contracted along with everyone else’s. I’m sorry, Thaddeus, but there just isn’t enough work to keep you on.”

Things changed at the hotel as well. Custom fell off. There was still plenty of work to get through every day — especially since Sophie, the genius in the kitchen, was once again expecting, and after several disappointments hoped this time to complete the process of birthing a child. Her brother, Martin, though, was let go from the Wellington planing mill, and he was immediately, and quite rightly, offered a place at Temperance House. The hotel belonged, after all, to his mother.

Martin was young, and far more help than Thaddeus had ever been. Nothing was said, no hints were dropped, but it was clear that the hotel was trying to support far too many people, even with Thaddeus working for nothing more than room and board.

He was far more receptive to the notion of being a preacher again when Bishop Smith returned a second time and repeated his urgent request that Thaddeus ride Yonge Street in the name of the Methodist Episcopal Church.

The decision was made easier for him by the arrival of Luke’s letter, with the news that he was considering a situation in Yorkville. Thaddeus hoped that the advice he gave his son was based on Luke’s best interests and not his own, but it was extraordinarily convenient all the same. When he was tired of congregational hospitality, of lumpy mattresses and kitchen beds, when he had completed his circuit and needed dry socks and a clean shirt, he could go to Luke’s. He wrote to Bishop Smith at once to accept the appointment.

Now, as his pony pulled him along Yonge Street, Thaddeus marvelled at how much the circuit had changed in the course of just a few years. He’d first come here in 1834, when he finally gave in to the siren call of the preaching life. He was received into the travelling connection at the Methodist Episcopal Church’s annual conference at the chapel at Cummer’s Settlement. Yonge Street was little more than a track at the time, muddy and perilous with holes and fallen brush. Now he found that whole sections had been macadamized, improvements paid for by the tollgates that halted travellers and demanded fees for passage.

Little villages clustered around mills and the inevitable taverns that lined the road on its long march toward Lake Simcoe. These inns had been the breeding ground for Mackenzie’s doomed rebellion in 1837. Every grievance, every complaint was trotted out on the taproom floor and catalogued until the stolid farmers of North York rose up and formed a pitchfork army. They marched down Yonge Street only to be ambushed and overpowered. Too few of them had marched home again. But now all was forgiven, apparently. Even the rebel leader, Mackenzie, was beckoned home, and the villages themselves had settled into a pattern of slow, sleepy growth until the collapse of the wheat market threw them into crisis again.

These settlements were beads on the string of road as it led north. Yorkville with its breweries; Drummondville, famous for the Deer Park estate; Davisville and its potteries; Eglington and the infamous Montgomery’s Tavern where the Rebellion had faltered so badly. And so on north to York Mills, Lansing, and Cummer’s.

He had returned to Cummer’s Settlement only once since he’d been appointed as a circuit rider. It had been a few years later — 1838 if he remembered correctly. He was a seasoned campaigner by then and was asked up onto the platform to preach at a camp meeting that had lasted three days. And when he finished exhorting the crowds to a frenzy of conversion and confession, he had been invited to share a meal with Jacob Cummer and his family.

Cummer was a German from Pennsylvania who had built a mill on the Don River and opened a tinsmith’s on Yonge Street, but in those rough and ready days when the area was far from civilization, he had also trained himself to be the local doctor and veterinarian. Like Luke had done up in the Huron, Thaddeus reflected, except that Jacob had never bothered to acquire any formal credentials. The Cummers were Lutherans when they arrived in Canada, but when Jacob built his log meeting house he had invited all denominations to use both the church and the campground. Later the Cummer family formally joined the Methodist Episcopals. The old man died a few years after that shared meal, but the majority of his fourteen sons and daughters still lived either in the village or nearby and, in particular, the oldest son Daniel was proving to be a stalwart supporter of the church. Of all the villages on the Yonge Street Circuit, Cummer’s Settlement was the place where Thaddeus would receive the surest welcome.

He looked forward to seeing Daniel Cummer again and was pleased that the man was waiting for him in front of the meeting house. He was far less pleased when he realized that nearly all the men present for the class meeting were Cummers, sons of Cummers, or married to Cummers. But then, he reflected, Yonge Street was never as rich a ground for the Methodist Episcopals as other parts of the province, and too many Methodist adherents had been drawn off by the Wesleyans, or by one of the other numerous versions of the doctrine.

When he completed the meeting, Daniel, as Thaddeus had hoped he would do, invited him to share a meal at his house. He confirmed that the Methodist Episcopals had lost ground on the Yonge Street Circuit.

“As you know, the Presbyterians and the Anglicans have always done well here,” Daniel said as he dipped into the savoury stew his wife served up, “but there are a lot of New Connection and Primitive Methodists as well. And, of course, Wesleyans.”

The British arm of John Wesley’s church had attempted a union with the Methodist Episcopals some years previously. The partnership soon fell apart, but the Methodist Episcopals suffered greatly by the Wesleyans’ claim on all of the property that had been brought to the merger at the time.

“It’s an uphill battle to keep the old church alive,” Thaddeus said. “Otherwise I doubt you’d be seeing me today. Bishop Smith must have been desperate to ask an old man like me to take a circuit again.”

“I expect he is desperate, there are so few of you left. I dare say there are no more than a handful between here and Cobourg. And your work is made all the harder by the times. The fall in wheat prices has badly affected the farmers of York, although here and there you can see signs that things are stirring again. John Hogg has started to lay out lots at York Mills, I hear.”

“If I remember correctly, most of the land there is swamp, isn’t it? Swamp, and a murderous steep hill.”

“Your memory is good,” Daniel said. “No one can fathom what he’s up to. People have started calling it Hogg’s Hollow, which doesn’t make it sound very appealing, but he must think he can sell the land. And now that David Gibson is home again, he’s making plans to build a mansion.”

Gibson had been one of the leading figures in the 1837 Rebellion. Like Mackenzie, he escaped to the United States before he could be arrested for treason. Unlike Mackenzie, he had fared well there. He was a surveyor, and found work building the Erie Canal. It must have been profitable, Thaddeus thought, if he could now afford to build a mansion.

“And farther up the line?” he asked. “What can I expect there?”

“More of the same, I’m afraid,” Daniel replied. “You might do well in Langstaff, but I’m not sure it’s even worth your while to stop at Thorne’s Hill. Not with the cult that’s sprung up around Holy Ann.”

“Holy Ann? And who would that be? It sounds like something that belongs more rightly with the Catholic Church.”

“No, no she’s a Methodist. Wesleyan. But a very strange one. They say she has the second sight and can perform miracles in answer to prayers.”

“Only God can do that.” Thaddeus was immediately on the alert. He had experience with women who claimed miracles and turned out to be charlatans.

“I know, I know,” Daniel said. “Just try and tell that to the ignorant folk who traipse up to Thorne’s Hill to drink from her well, all of them expecting to be cured of their ailments.”

“Who exactly is she?”

“Her name is Ann Preston. She’s a poor, ignorant Irish girl, brought to this country by Dr. Reid as a servant. She seems to be particularly adept at locating lost articles, just by praying to God for guidance, but I don’t think anyone took her seriously until the Reids’ well went dry.”

“What happened then?”

“She prayed to God, of course, and fetched up two buckets of the purest water,” Daniel replied.

“Was it raining at the time?” Thaddeus wanted to know, and Daniel looked at him in astonishment, then started to laugh.

“I’ve wanted to ask that question myself,” he said. “Good for you.” And then he grew serious again. “There’s a great deal of work for you to do here, Thaddeus. I’m afraid it’s not the easy circuit you might have been led to believe it was.”

“I’ve had harder,” Thaddeus replied. “I took on a whole nest of Universalists near Rideau one time.” But he was beginning to understand why Bishop Smith had been so anxious to have him return to the travelling connection. The Methodist Episcopal Church was fighting for survival.

He discovered how correct Daniel Cummer’s assessment was as he trotted north. There were only three women waiting to meet him at the general store in Newtonbrook. And as his weary pony trotted into Thorne’s Hill, he passed a knot of people clustered around a wellhead. Supplicants to Holy Ann, hoping she could cure them or reform them or make their chickens lay, he expected. And when he reached the wagoner’s cottage where he was supposed to conduct a class, there was no one there but the apologetic owner. It was hard for an ordinary preacher to compete with miracles, he reflected, when all he had to offer was a sermon or two.

He was cheered somewhat by the number of people in attendance at the meetings in Langstaff. There were three Methodists at the men’s class and five at the women’s, and they all came again in the evening to hear him preach. Oddly, there were no taverns in Langstaff and Thaddeus hoped that the lack of liquor was as a result of the influence of the church, but he was afraid that it was more due to the lack of prosperity in the small settlement.

Langstaff was where his boundary ended, the villages farther north more properly part of the Markham or Vaughan Circuits, so he arranged times and places for his return, then turned the cart to work his way southwest through sparsely scattered settlements as far as the Humber River. From there he would circle around to Yorkville and take a day or so to visit with his son. It wouldn’t be the same as going home to Betsy, but it would do.

Even though Yonge Street was by no means the lar­gest circuit he had ever ridden, and in fact he hadn’t had to cover it on horseback as he had in the old days, Thaddeus found that disappointment had exhausted him by the time he reached Luke’s. He felt none of the exhilaration that came from preaching to overflowing halls or counting up new converts on this first round. He had accomplished nothing more than the humdrum exercise of reaffirming the faith of the already committed.

He was given a good dinner at the end of his last class meeting, however, so when he reached Dr. Christie’s yellow brick house on Scollard Street he was content to go straight upstairs and sink into a deep sleep on the daybed in Luke’s sitting room.

The next morning he found his way to the dining room, where a place had been set for him. Christie seemed pleased that he was there.

“More the merrier,” he said, beaming. “When Luke asked if you would be welcome, my one question was whether or not you were capable of intelligent dinner conversation. He assured me that you were, and I suppose that applies to breakfast as well. I’m hoping it will compensate for the inelegant presentation of the meal. Never mind, here comes Mrs. Dunphy. Dig in.”

Mrs. Dunphy turned out to be a rather large woman with a heavy gait and a dour expression. She stomped in from the kitchen and thumped down a gigantic bowl of porridge. Thaddeus filled his bowl, then looked in vain for a jug of milk and some sugar to go with it. Christie ladled out a huge serving for himself, sprinkled it liberally with salt, and then handed the saltcellar to Thaddeus. “Get yourself around a bowl of oatmeal every morning and you’re content for the rest of the day, isn’t that right, Luke, my boy?”

Apparently they were expected to eat their oatmeal Scottish-style: plain porridge with salt and nothing more.

“Wait,” Luke said to his father, and a few moments later Mrs. Dunphy returned with a platter of scrambled eggs and side bacon. Thaddeus was relieved. There was a time when he would have been happy enough with a bowl of plain oatmeal, but he had since been spoiled by Sophie’s cooking. Mrs. Dunphy’s food didn’t appear to be quite up to the standards of the Temperance House Hotel, but it was served hot and looked reasonably edible.

“Methodist Episcopal, eh?” Christie said between mouthfuls of porridge. “Not many of those around here.”

“I’m finding that,” Thaddeus replied. “I have my work cut out for me.”

“Always found Methodist services a little hysterical for my taste — all that shouting and so forth. I’m a John Knox man myself, or at least I was raised that way. Some seem to like the excitement though. The Cummers up yonder, of course. And the Africans down along Richmond Street, but I expect, being in the city, they’re not really part of your circuit.”

“No, they’re not. The African Methodist Episcopal Church is actually a separate body from us. It was organized by the coloureds themselves. They don’t even fall under the jurisdiction of the Canadian Conference.”

“Interesting that they’ve found their way here, isn’t it?” Christie mused.

There had always been a small coloured population in Toronto, Thaddeus knew, but now their community had burgeoned, swelled by new laws in the United States. Local authorities, even in the anti-slavery northern states, were now required to assist in the recovery of runaway slaves. Since all that was required on the part of the slave owner was an affidavit confirming that a coloured person was his property, many free Africans in the northern cities were being scooped up and sent south to the plantations. Many of them deemed it wiser to exit the country entirely.

“Execrable business, this slavery stuff,” Christie said, polishing off his porridge and reaching for the platter of bacon and eggs. “Slave owners should all be hanged. That would put an end to it, then, wouldn’t it?” He suddenly glared in the direction of the kitchen door. “Mrs. Dunphy! Tea!” he shouted.

“You’ll get it when it’s ready!” Mrs. Dunphy shouted back. “You can’t make it steep any faster by yelling at it!”

Christie looked at Luke and Thaddeus and smiled. “There you go. Tea’s on the way. By the way, Luke, I wonder if you might attend the office this morning? I have some rather pressing business to see to.”

“Of course,” Luke said, although Thaddeus noted that his son didn’t seem happy at the prospect.

Mrs. Dunphy trudged in and set a large teapot on the table. Then she settled herself in a chair at one end and glared at Christie, who, with an apologetic look, passed her the bowl of oatmeal.

“And what will you do with yourself today, Mr. Lewis?” Christie asked.

Thaddeus wasn’t sure. He had a two-day rest period before he once again had to meet any appointments, but he hadn’t given much consideration to what he might do when Luke was working. In the old days when his circuit was complete, he always returned home to discover that Betsy had numerous things that needed doing, and he seldom had time to complete all of the tasks before he had to leave again. Even his free days were full.

“You could go and visit Morgan Spicer,” Luke said. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Morgan Spicer?” Thaddeus was astonished. “Where on earth did you run across Morgan Spicer?” He had long since lost track of his one-time protégé.

“He hailed me as I was walking down the street the other day. He mistook me for you.”

“But what is he doing in Yorkville?”

“Spicer?” Christie said, “Isn’t he that weedy little character who looks after the Burying Ground? The one with the twins?”

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “But he wanted to speak with my father in connection with the Burying Ground, so I’m sure you’re right. He said there had been a strange occurrence there. He said to say it was a puzzle.”

“Ah yes, someone’s been tampering with the graves, I hear,” Christie said, reaching for the last rasher of bacon on the platter. “Resurrection men no doubt, looking for bodies for the medical students to cut up. Should do it the way they do in Scotland — just fetch them from the hangman.” He stopped talking for a moment, wrinkled his brow, and chewed thoughtfully. “Mind you, there was rather a strange case in Edinburgh in ’28. Not enough people hanged, you see, so cadavers were in short supply. Families soon found that they had to post guards at the graves of their newly buried love ones, so the bodies wouldn’t be dug up and sold. And then two bright souls decided to expedite the process by dispatching a raft of old folks, drunks, and prostitutes, whom no one would miss, you see. Burke and …” he hesitated for a moment and chewed thoughtfully on his bacon, “Hare. Yes, that was the other fellow. Rather a clever ploy, but they were careless with the victims’ clothing and were soon caught. Hanged, of course, and dissected by the surgeons. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Where did the bodies come from at McGill?” Thaddeus asked Luke. It wasn’t a subject that had previously ever occurred to him to inquire about, but he supposed that they had to come from somewhere.

“From the jails, mostly, I guess.” Luke said. “There was some grave robbing, but not much within the city itself. It was more of a problem in the outlying districts. The Montreal graveyards are all within the city limits, with stores and houses around them. There was some talk of putting a new cemetery up on the mountain overlooking the city. That might make it easier for the resurrectionists, I suppose.”

“If they’d just hang more criminals, it wouldn’t be such a problem,” Christie pointed out. “Enough of this nonsense of sending them off to penitentiary, where they sit around and eat their heads off. Hanging would save a great deal of money and ensure a steady supply of cadavers. They could start with resurrectionists and work their way up to slave-owners.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Thaddeus said. He didn’t dare look at Luke. He was reasonably certain that if he did so, he would scarcely be able to stop from laughing out loud.