Chapter Seven

 

 

Niagara (renamed Newark by Governor John Graves Simcoe)

White stands on the deck of the Onandaga as it leaves Kingston and heads into the open water of Lake Ontario. It’s a fine square-rigged, two-masted schooner. It sails briskly in the light breeze, and he loves the feel of the wind pushing his hair back. He looks around him. No one in sight. He does a leap into the air.

“Ah, Mr. S..S..Satyr,” says Osgoode, appearing suddenly from the stern of the ship. “Enjoy yourself while you can. One of the s..s..sailors has just told me the winds are changeable on this lake.”

And Osgoode is right. About seven miles from Kingston, the wind calms, and the ship stops. Osgoode pulls a book from his portmanteau and goes below deck. White stares into the bottom of the lake. It’s so transparent he can see schools of fish swirling around in the depths.

He’s relieved the Simcoes have left Kingston before the lady could set fire to the woods. But he’s sorry the departure was too rushed for Eliza and Peter Russell who are taking a couple of extra days in Kingston. He would have enjoyed talking to Eliza. A sensible woman with a kind heart, she is so unlike Marianne. He likes the way she looks after her brother. Peter Russell seems to have settled into his new role. Osgoode has told him Russell once went to prison for his gambling debts. White is happy to know someone else has come to this country to make a new beginning. If only Russell could be a little less serious. His face with its folds and bags reminds him of a bloodhound’s.

He sighs. How long will it be ‘til the wind picks up again? Hours probably. He’ll find some paper and write a letter to his daughter Ellen and one to his brother-in-law, Sam Shepherd. To Sam I can brag about being on board ship with the new Lieutenant-Governor and his lady. Quite an honour and far removed from my dead-end life in London with a thwarted career and a wife like a noose around my neck. Sam has been a friend indeed.

But how will he get his letters to them? Is there a postal service in this new world? He asks one of the sailors who has just come on deck to check the rigging.

“Give it to us, mate. When we gets to Niagara, we’ll carry it back with us. There be a ship sailing down the St. Lawrence to the sea in a week’s time, I wager.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later, he’s back on deck in the same spot, but now they are far from Kingston. Beside him are Osgoode and a smart-looking young officer called Lieutenant Talbot who is the Governor’s private secretary. The Simcoes are several feet away, sitting on chairs the sailors have placed for them. The lady is sketching, probably trying to capture the view of Burlington Bay into which they have just sailed.

Lieutenant Talbot shouts. “The spray, I can see the spray!” Sure enough, when White follows the direction of Talbot’s outstretched arm, he sees the mist rising from the great Falls of Niagara.

A mere hour later, as the schooner turns south into the Niagara River, they catch a glimpse of the garrison of Niagara on the east side and a few minutes later, they see a half dozen log houses on the land rising to the west of the river.

“Can this be it?” he asks Osgoode.

“Let’s hope not,” Osgoode says. “It’s most likely just a cluster of those s..s..settlers the Governor was talking about yesterday. Butler’s Rangers, I think he s..s..said.”

But the schooner is now tacking towards shore. In front of them at the water’s edge is a forlorn-looking wooden building. Members of the Queen’s Rangers in their green uniforms stand at attention on the wharf, waiting for their commander’s arrival. “My God,” White says to Osgoode, “this is it.”

“Navy Hall,” Lieutenant Talbot explains. “It’s the barracks where seamen used to bunk during the winter months. And now, so we’re told, it’s been thoroughly renewed as a home for Governor Simcoe and Mrs. Simcoe and for government offices.”

But White can hear the doubt in his voice. If the outside looks this bad, what can the inside be like?

Moments after they make their landing, the Gov sweeps into Navy Hall accompanied by Talbot and the Queen’s Rangers while the rest of the Onandaga’s passengers remain on the wharf and the low land in front of the Hall. They hear muffled, barked commands, and then the Gov is outside again.

“A damn miserable place,” White hears him say to his lady. “I have given instructions for an extensive renovation. But it will always be an old hovel. Even if it’s properly decorated and ornamented, it will still look exactly like an ale-house in the slums of London.”

The lady remains calm. “Well then, my dear, we must live in the tents you brought along.”

The Governor turns to the Queen’s Rangers. “Set up the three marquees on the hilltop behind this place.” The soldiers rush towards the schooner. He turns to White and Osgoode. “I have bad news for you, gentlemen. I understand from the Rangers there are no rented rooms to be had in the settlement. But do not worry. You will live in one of the tents at our expense until we can find you a place. A second tent will accommodate our children and the servants. The third one will be designated for me and Mrs. Simcoe. It will all work out.”

 

* * *

 

And it does. White soon becomes accustomed to the wailing children—a girl of three and a boy who’s little more than a baby—and the marital discourses which at times are all too audible. He loves to open the flap of his marquee in the morning while Osgoode is still snoring and look down at the light glinting from the river. On hot summer evenings, everyone sits outside their canvas tents to catch the breezes. The only routine of the day that he cannot stand is the litany of long-winded prayers that the Gov conducts every morning in the oak bower.

The oak bower is almost like another room. Huge oak trees stand in a semi-circle behind the three canvas tents, enclosing them within their circumference. Early breezes often stir the leaves, and pretty red-crested birds called, fittingly, cardinals whistle all the day from high in their branches. When the rains come, the heavy leaf canopy shields them from the worst of the storm.

White often dines here with the Simcoes at the edge of the plain which they now call the commons. He notices how the lady appears to enjoy equally the companionship of her husband and Talbot. Though he has heard much from Mrs. Jarvis about Mrs. Simcoe’s wealth and position in English society, she seems happy in the relaxed informality of her new life. A huge black dog called Trojan lies panting at their feet as they dine, and he notices the lady often slips a piece of her whitefish to him.

Supper is invariably whitefish and sturgeon or sturgeon and whitefish, occasionally enlivened with turtles from the creek cut up like oysters and served in scallop shells. At least there have been no more squirrels.

He is happy to save money in this arrangement. The only expenses he has are his dinners at Fort Niagara across the river, and though he has not taken to gambling, he does drink too much when he’s there, out from under the close surveillance of the Simcoes. At the garrison, in the crowd of military men and their women and the noisy music and dancing, he feels free. The garrison is on Yankee territory, but will remain in British hands until 1796, so he’s heard. After that, he’ll have to find another place in which he can cut himself loose from the shackles of his narrow circle.

The Simcoes do make an appearance at Fort Niagara from time to time, but they go in their own canoe, leaving him and Osgoode to find their own transportation. Last week, Osgoode returned across the river early with the Indian paddler they hire for these occasions, and he’d been forced to share a canoe with Mrs. Simcoe and Lieutenant Talbot. The Gov himself had stayed in the marquee, laid up with gout. The lady and Talbot seemed decidedly cosy in each other’s company, ignored him almost completely, and kept up a conversation he was incapable of following in his drunken state. Talbot did the paddling. He tied on a headscarf and faked a voyageur accent which greatly amused the lady.

That night, inside his canvas wall, White wrote in his diary: “Very tipsy. N.B. Resolve to dine less often at the Fort.”

“Truth is,” he says to Osgoode, telling him this story over breakfast. “I’m beginning to need a woman in my life.”

“S..s..stay c..c..celibate. Less trouble in the long run.”

“No uncomfortable passions, you understand. Just someone to indulge me in a little coquetry, the sort of thing Talbot and Mrs. Simcoe seem to enjoy.”

But he’s taken the measure of the women in his immediate circle. Who is there in this place to have fun with?