August 1792
An advantage of being in close quarters with the Simcoes is that White has an opportunity to be near to the Gov and to observe his ways. As Attorney-General, one of his duties is to help the Gov draft bills for passage in the new Parliament of Upper Canada which is to be housed for this session in the squalid little Freemasons’ Lodge in the centre of the settlement.
“I intend to abolish slavery,” the Gov says to him one morning as they sit together in a musty room at Navy Hall, damp from a recent rainstorm. “I am deeply troubled that many settlers in this community, including at least three members of my own administration, own slaves. It is an abomination and I will put an end to it.”
“You have my heart and soul in that endeavour, sir.” He tells the Gov about the horrors of the Jamaican slave trade that drove him from the island.
“You are the very man I need for the drafting of this bill which will set all men and women free. Let us begin now, shall we?”
For several days they work together, from early morning until far into the night—while the candles gutter and die—and the ensuing bill gives both of them great pleasure. All slaves currently in Upper Canada are to be set free, and any further importation of slaves from anywhere is to be considered a crime that will bring dire consequences to the offender.
“I thank God for decent, far-seeing men like yourself, sir,” White says to the Gov. “When I think of the wretched slaves in those damnable sugar plantations in Jamaica, I rejoice to be here, part of an enlightened new society.”
The Gov smiles complacently. “We can plant new ideas here, sir, and watch them grow and flourish. Let us have a celebratory drink in the oak bower now, eh, Mr. White?”
They have finished one bottle of wine from the Gov’s stores when David Smith appears on the scene. He is a man of “overweening ambition,” according to Mrs. Jarvis. But White knows him to be a capable young sprout who the Jarvis woman perhaps fears may one day be given her incompetent husband’s position as administrator of land grants.
At the moment Smith has one foot firmly placed in the political sphere, being the elected member for Suffolk and Essex. He has also curried favour with the Gov by taking on the role of acting deputy surveyor-general, a post which at the moment carries no salary. White feels sure he will be on the Gov’s side in this war against slavery, if for no other reason than to further his own advancement.
Simcoe passes the slavery bill to him. “Look over this, Smith, while you have a glass of my best claret.”
White opens a new bottle, passes a glass to Smith, and settles back to await the accolade.
Smith pulls out a quizzing glass from a pocket of his coat. He waves it about so White can catch the glint of diamonds on its rim, then holds it close to his left eye, at the same time managing to keep the wine glass steady in his right hand.
Moments pass while he squints at the document. What on earth can be taking him so long? My penmanship is the best, and I spent two hours last evening copying the document over so that there are no cross outs to impede its reading by the Clerk of the House.
Finally he replaces the quizzing glass in his coat and heaves a sigh.
“Well,” the Gov says, “let us hear what you think.”
“With abject apologies, Your Excellency, it will not work in its present form.”
“Why not?” the Gov says, his face growing red.
“Think about the people who will vote on this bill, Excellency. Half of them are military men who have fought in the West Indies and America where slavery is still deemed immutable. Half are the peasants of this province who have no interest in anything beyond the needs of their bellies.”
“Surely you are wrong about the people who voted for you,” White says as he tries not to think of the ignorance of the folk who voted for him in Leeds and Frontenac.
Smith laughs. “I got the goodwill of my peasants by roasting three oxen whole and giving them six barrels of rum with which to wash it all down. They had not the slightest interest in anything I said to them. When they finished belching, they lurched back to their farms to see that their slaves had rooted out the turnips.” He pours himself another glass of claret. “You must agree with me, White. You are familiar with the peasants in the backwaters of Kingston.”
He cannot disagree. But why should such peasants influence the outcome of this important bill? He can only hope that the Gov will stand firm for what he believes in.
Simcoe leans back and folds his arms across his chest. White has come to recognize the gesture. It’s what he does when he’s under siege from a verbal attack.
“What would you suggest then, Smith?”
“A compromise, Excellency. Perhaps let the peasants keep the slaves they have now, but outlaw any further importation. That way you’ll still have the moral high ground, and you’ll get their vote. They can’t think beyond the end of their noses. And they don’t give a damn what happens after they’re dead and gone.”
“Capital idea. White and I will work on it tomorrow.”
Damn, damn, damn. I’m to work on the watering-down of a bill that has taken us days to write and that says everything that needs to be said against slavery?
“And if I may offer another suggestion, Excellency. I should advise not introducing such controversy at the opening session of our Parliament. Perhaps in the second session?”
To this, Simcoe responds by running his hands through his hair. It’s an abundant thatch and this gesture has the effect of making him look like one of the scarecrows White has noticed in a settler’s vegetable garden. Don’t give in on this point, Gov. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
White waits for Simcoe to speak the words that will tell Smith to take himself off to perdition. The minutes tick away while the Gov looks down at the bill Smith has thrust back at him, and White contemplates throwing the wine in his glass at one or both of them.
Finally the great man speaks. “I believe you are right, Smith. We can find a compromise surely, first getting the settlers on our side in this parliamentary session and then—”
“Mealy-mouthed compromise is to be better than hard and honest speech?” As he says this, White stands up, knocking over onto the grass the small table and the bottle of the Gov’s fine claret.
“Calm yourself, sir. What you call ‘mealy-mouthed compromise’ is surely better than utter failure. Be at Navy Hall at eight tomorrow morning and we shall begin drafting a new bill.” Simcoe bends down to retrieve the upset bottle and the remainder of its contents.
I must restrain myself. It would be fatal to my prospects to antagonise the Gov this early in the game. “Perhaps you are right, Excellency. I shall retire to my tent now and contemplate some phraseology we may use for amendment.”