October 1798
John White sits in his cramped office off the main room of the court house. He does not have a case to prosecute today, but he is here to write a letter to his brother-in-law Sam Shepherd, and he does not want Marianne to know what he is about. She might demand to read it, and there will be an item or two in it that he must keep from her.
* * *
Yesterday he placed an order for shoes and boots with a new German immigrant, name of Brunshilde, who operates his business from a small room in his cabin in the bush far north of Queen Street. When the man took measurements, cut out the necessary pieces of leather, and told him the cost, White had yelled at him. “Outrageous. You are no better than a thief!”
“Fine leather must be imported from Cordova,” the man said, with a shrug of his brawny shoulders. “Withdraw your order if you wish.”
He had already spent an hour walking northward along a worn trail through the woods. An hour’s walk back home with nothing to show for his exertion seemed stupid. He capitulated. As he handed over the money, he looked over the man’s shoulders. Behind her husband, sitting at the kitchen table, the wife smirked.
As White tramped back home through the woods, he knew it was time to confront the truth. He was bankrupt. He’d pulled out his handkerchief and mopped the tears from his eyes.
On his way south, he met Russell, riding towards him on the fine white charger he keeps in the stable on his property. “Want to climb up, White?” he asked. “Beau can easily accommodate your weight. I’m just on my way to Kurt Brunshilde. With all the walking around I do in this new town, I badly need some good solid boots.”
White recounted his tale of woe to his friend. “I grow angry,” he’d said, “when I think that six years of the prime of my life have been devoted to His Majesty’s service at an expense I can never hope to cover.”
“Join the band, White. We wretched colonials are in hell. We work day and night, and the Brits in London don’t give a damn about paying us our stipends. You made the point long ago that I had no right to sit as a judge. But I have reappointed myself to the Court of King’s Bench because, as you know, I need the money. I’m administrator here, it’s up to me to make all the decisions, but my remuneration for all this extra work has not increased by one penny.”
White made no response. He has heard Elmsley rail against Russell’s “damnable presumption” in setting himself up as a judge, and in theory he agrees with the Chief Justice. But he hates the arrogance of the man. Russell is his friend, and in this benighted country friends must stand by each other.
And it was then that Russell offered him some interesting news. “Powell is bad with the ague,” he said. “Mrs. Powell was over to the house this morning to get some of the bark my sister keeps at the ready.”
“How bad?” White had asked, his spirits suddenly lifting.
“The man probably won’t last more than a week or two. Why don’t you write to that brother-in-law of yours and see what he can do for you?”
“I’d better keep walking,” White had said, “and get the letter written this morning in time for the packet boat for New York.” Not one more word had they spoken, but they both understood the intent of the discussion.
He had picked up his pace then, leaping over the rocks in his path, focusing on that ray of hope offered him by Powell’s possible demise.
* * *
Now White pulls a sheet of fine linen paper from the drawer of his desk. Powell, as puisne judge of the Court of King’s Bench, makes twice as much as White’s stipend, and he does not have to scrape pennies from private practice and allotment of land grants.
He dips his quill into the inkwell, chews at the feathered end for a moment or two and then writes.
My dear Sam:
I write to you in great haste. Mr. Justice Powell is seriously ill. If there should be the misfortune of his death, I hope you will solicit his office for me as I understand the salary is seven hundred and fifty pounds per annum.
I am forever out of pocket doing the King’s business. I cannot live in this place on four hundred pounds. Everything that makes life supportable here must be brought in from overseas. Just this morning, I paid a shoemaker seven pounds for shoes and boots.
There are times when I feel hopeless, disappointed, and without prospect. My life is wretched, and yet there are people in this place who think my situation enviable.
I received your letter a month ago, but I have not mentioned to Mrs. White your news about the death of her sister. The wilderness here has few charms for her, and I know that the sad tidings would only upset her further.
Ever yours,
John White
He reads the letter, then rereads it. Folds it and seals it. Pulls it open and looks at it again.
Whiny and despicable. I have come to this: that I hope a worthy man will die so that I can have his position and emolument.
He seals up the letter again. Looks at his pocket watch. Time to get to the wharf and catch the attention of the crew of the packet boat.
As he passes the pot-bellied stove, he sees the clerk has fired it up. He opens the front door of the stove, pauses for a moment, and looks at the burning coals within. Then he throws the letter on the coals and watches the flames leap up.