October 1792
White looks out the door of the rented log house which he and Osgoode now occupy. The black bear is there again in the “back forty,” an expression he’s just learned from an American farmer. Though he has no desire to meet the animal up close, he rather likes to watch it munch on the rotted apples that have fallen. There is a pleasant cleared space just behind the house where he hopes to plant a garden in the spring.
He and Osgoode have a woman to cook for them. Her name is Yvette LaCroix. She’s what the settlers here call a “half breed,” having a French father and a Chippewa mother. The Frenchman accepted no responsibility for Yvette’s upbringing, so she has been raised by her mother’s Indian band. It’s a common occurrence in these dark Canadian forests.
Much as he enjoys Osgoode’s friendship, he realizes they have few common interests. Osgoode is always content to fall to sleep at ten o’clock each night reading his favourite book, Boote’s Suit at Law, but he needs more stimulation. It’s a relief, though, to be in this rented hut and to escape from the gimlet eye of Mrs. Simcoe. By early fall of next year, he may have his own house. The builders are working on it now. Though it has a good view of the river, it’s a far cry from the stone mansion he once envisaged. But four rooms to himself, even in a house of logs, will be heaven.
Four rooms to himself? Should he not ask Marianne and the children to come to him here in the wilderness? No, postpone it. There is but one doctor at the garrison, no school for the children, and not even a church for their spiritual enlightenment, only an itinerant Church of England preacher who conducts his services in a room in the Freemasons’ Lodge. Eliza Russell, bless her good heart, would tolerate Marianne, but how would his wife fare with the Gov’s lady? He tries to imagine Marianne engaging in a conversation with the lady about pet snakes, or the best way to cook a squirrel, or worst of all, sitting with Captain Brant, the Mohawk chief, at an official dinner. She would undoubtedly ask him how many scalps he had taken. He needs must put off these potential embarrassments for as long as possible.
The Parliament of Upper Canada which convened in the Freemasons’ Lodge has been prorogued so that the farmers can get home to harvest their crops. White was at first worried about his role in the new assembly, but it soon proved to be the same as government anywhere: too much talk and too little action. But what can he expect from what David Smith has called a “lair of warriors and peasants”? It’s true that half the assembly is made up of former military men who have no experience in the world of politics and the other half of farmers who are mostly illiterate and untutored in the ways of the world.
Though the amended slave bill has been postponed for the second parliamentary session, White is happy enough with the current passing of bills which set up the district courts and the Court of King’s Bench. That at least establishes a framework of justice. But he’s determined now to see regulations enacted to ensure lawyers, magistrates, and justices in this new world are properly trained for these courts.
He heard over tea with the Jarvises last week that Peter Russell intends to supplement his income by sitting on King’s Bench. Mrs. Jarvis can sniff out gossip like a foxhound routing a fox.
“The old fool knows nothing about the law,” she told him, her face flushed with joy at imparting bad news, “except what he learned when he was sentenced to Fleet prison.”
White had protested against this slur, of course, but she’d whacked him down. “Surely, sir, you’ve heard of his gambling losses and the ten months he spent in the Netherlands before atoning for his debts like a proper gentleman.”
Well, yes, Osgoode told him about Russell’s time in debtors’ prison, but this is the first inkling he has had about the man sitting on King’s Bench.
If the woman is right, I’ll have to face Russell and try to talk him out of getting into the courts as a judge. Russell is a friend, and he dreads the moment of confrontation. Even now, Russell’s horse is tethered to the railing on White’s stoop. “It’s yours when you need it,” his friend has told him many times.
His worries have made him restless, bringing on the headaches and nosebleeds that plague him. He made the mistake of mentioning his woes to David Smith, inveterate teller of tales, who passed on his information to virtually everyone in the community. Mrs. Jarvis sent along a bottle of castor oil, and Mrs. Simcoe, a package of pigeons’ gizzards dried and ground to a fine powder. He’ll send the ladies thank-you notes, not mentioning that he dumped both concoctions down the groundhog’s hole.
It’s a fine fall day, Indian summer they call it here, so he’s decided to allay his worries with a change of scenery. He mounts Russell’s black horse and sets out for his first visit to the Falls of Niagara.
On the road he passes Major Small and his wife in a calash pulled by two fine steeds. Small must have a private income, White surmises. Either that or he’s living well beyond his means. The man is aptly named. Though he’s tall and well-built, he has but a small status in the Legislative Council. He’s a mere clerk, a recorder of minutes, a position well below White’s own exalted one. But in this gossipy settlement, niceties must be preserved, so as he canters up behind them, he waves a greeting.
“May I present my wife?” Small calls, pulling on the reins.
Mrs. Small is a petite, attractive woman with an ample bosom which the current fashions show off to advantage. Her eyes match her hair—dark and lustrous brown, like chestnuts. He’s seen her from time to time at Fort Niagara, but like the bear, never up close. She’s wearing a soft fur tippet, and her cheeks are flushed with the nip of the autumn air.
“We’re on our way to the Falls. And where are you going?”
“Just out to enjoy the day.” He finds it presumptuous that Small should be questioning him. Best to put him in his place and perhaps make an impression on the lady at the same time. He adds, “After I have breakfast with the Hamiltons.”
Small has nothing more to say. So White tips his round hat, lately bought at Hamilton’s large emporium, and turns his horse towards the huge stone house visible from the well-travelled road on which they have stopped.
Hamilton is a wealthy merchant, the sole provisioner of the garrison. The Gov has tried to break his monopoly, but has had to recognize the realities of life in the wilderness. “A Scotch pedlar and a damn republican,” the Gov calls him, though White knows Mrs. Simcoe is a great friend of Mrs. Hamilton, whom she calls “Catherine.”
The Hamiltons live in a Georgian two-storey mansion with side wings, located high above the river at the Landing or Queen’s Town, though since Hamilton has started to drop the “w” from his mercantile papers, people are calling the place Queenston. This new appellation is one of the grievances which the Gov holds against the man.
Hamilton’s abode is exactly the sort of house that White once dreamed of owning, though he has been forced to realize his dreams are unrealistic. He’s been in this country almost five months and has not yet received a penny of the salary owed him from England. He has been forced to open a private law practice in order to pay the rent. Perhaps the Gov’s letter to the Colonial Office will bring results.
White and his hosts eat breakfast in a covered gallery—which the Yankee settlers call a “veranda”—overlooking the Niagara River and the dark woods on the American side. There’s some excellent porridge with cream and the maple sugar he’s come to love, along with good bread from a bake oven, an asset owned only by the rich.
Most of all, he enjoys the coffee, not the vile chicory that Mrs. Jarvis serves up, but the real thing. “Ordered in special, and just arrived yesterday,” Hamilton tells him, pointing down to the batteaux unloading casks of rum and scotch at the wharves. The man is a self-satisfied lout who gives himself the airs of a gentleman, but his wife is pleasant enough. She’s a thin woman with a lined face that suggests hard work and the burden of a large family.
It’s almost noon when he gets back on Russell’s horse and sets out again for the Falls. He’s drunk a tankard of beer along with the coffee, so he dismounts from time to time to void by the wayside. No need for pisspots in the forests of Upper Canada!
When he gets to the Falls, he finds the Smalls already there. He can see their calash parked along the row of trees that fringe the top of the steep heights leading down to the cataracts. Mrs. Small waves at him, and he joins them. They stand for a few minutes taking in the view that almost matches the praise heaped upon it a hundred times by Mrs. Simcoe.
“A vast and prodigious cadence,” White shouts above the roar. He does not bother to attribute this statement to its author, Father Louis Hennepin, whose seventeenth-century account of the Falls he read before leaving London. His sole motive after all is to put Small at a disadvantage and to impress the beautiful Mrs. Small.
“Vast and prodigious, indeed,” she says to her husband. “I must descend. That big flat rock down there will be a perfect spot from which to get a better view.”
“My dear, you must not. It is not safe. And there will be rattlesnakes.”
“Nonsense,” she says, throwing her muff at Small and stepping towards the edge, ready to make the descent. In a second, they can see only the top of her head.
“Oh my, oh my, whatever possesses the woman?” Small whimpers, wringing his hands. “I cannot follow her. I’m . . . I’m . . . Whatever am I to do?”
Opportunity knocks. “Don’t worry, man,” White says. “I’ll go down with her and keep her safe.” He’s less confident than he sounds, but he scrambles after her.
Down, down they go, laughing and grabbing at tree branches to slow their precipitous descent. He catches her hand from time to time to keep her from plunging too quickly, and at every jump, the lady’s fine ankles and slender legs are on display. As they slide from branch to branch, he forgets his fear in the exhilaration of conquest. By the time they reach Table Rock, they are breathless and exuberant.
“Oh, Mr. White, what fun,” she says. “Thank you for saving me from certain death.”
Yes, she is the one I’ve been looking for. Next step: find out her first name.