January 2, 1800
White is still on the sofa in the withdrawing room. He has moved only once or twice in the night to find a chamberpot and to get a bottle of sherry from the kitchen cupboard. It is now mid-morning, a snowy, frosty day from what he has observed through the window behind the sofa. Susannah has been in to clean up the mess of spilled wine and broken glass. She spoke to him, but he lay with his eyes shut, pretending not to hear. Now that she has gone back to the hearth, he raises himself just enough to grasp the sherry bottle from the Pembroke table by the sofa. He splashes some of it into his glass, drinks it in one swallow, and prays for oblivion.
But he is unable to shut out the basic question that plagues him. What is he to say to Macdonnell when he comes with Small’s formal challenge to a duel? He remembers how often in the past he has condemned duels: in newspapers, at dinners and parties in Niagara and York, and in the court houses of Upper Canada while Osgoode, not heeding a word, imposed token fines on murderers.
He has himself been able to avoid two challenges: one from William Jarvis in Niagara—thanks to Russell—and the other more recently from the Glengarry Fencible.
A gentle knock on the withdrawing-room door: “John, John, I must speak with you, please.”
“Come in, Susannah.”
She wears a starched dimity cotton dress in a becoming pale blue shade and a clean, ironed apron. She has pulled her blonde hair back into a neat braid, but strands of curls have slipped over her ears.
“You are a vision in the midst of the squalor of this room,” he says, suddenly aware of his uncombed locks and unwashed face and the stink of wine from the carpet by the sofa.
She appears to read his mind. “I must take this mat and hang it on the line. I shall throw some snow on it and give it a good whacking with the broom. And you, John, will you not come into your bedchamber where I have put some hot water into a pitcher for you to wash yourself? It is near ten o’clock.”
“Got to get myself in hand, you’re right. Macdonnell is coming soon. Perhaps he is already on his way. But if he comes while I am still indisposed, pray take the message and deliver it to me.” He swings his legs off the sofa and tries to stand up.
Susannah gives him a tug and gets him upright. She tilts her chin and looks into his eyes. “I will take no message, nor will I deliver one.” Her voice is fierce. He has never heard her speak this way before.
“Well then . . . what am I to do if the man comes knocking while I am still—”
“I hope you will not accept the challenge, John. But if you do, I must have no part of it. I will not contaminate myself with the unspeakable horror of duels . . .” As her voice trails into silence, she raises her fist as if she would strike him.
“Whoa, Susannah, what is this all about?”
“I told you once that my husband died of a gunshot wound . . .”
“In a duel, is that what you are telling me?”
“Yes, in Kingston. When my man was appointed Clerk of the Legislative Council, a captain in the 25th Regiment of Foot wanted his position, and my husband was angry. He lost his temper and challenged —”
“My God, I know this story. Your husband was Peter Clark. His opponent was David Sutherland who killed him, and I—”
“You made a brave defence, sir. But Chief Justice Osgoode let the murderer go free with a fine. I remember the amount to this day. Thirteen shillings and fourpence. My husband’s life was valued at thirteen shillings and fourpence, think of that, thirteen shillings and—”
White pulls her to him and puts his arms around her. “You were in the courtroom, my dear?”
“Yes, I heard it all. I suffered it all.” She is sobbing now. He feels her tears wet against his cheek.
But her name is Susannah Page. Her husband’s surname was Clark. What . . .?
He says nothing aloud, simply holds her tight and hopes that she feels some comfort from the close embrace.
Finally she says, “You must have wondered how I came into service. My little girls were born almost nine months after my husband’s murder. I changed my name back to Page, my maiden name, got on a packet boat with my babes and settled here. Made a fresh start, I did, though times were hard until I found you, sir . . .” More sobs.
There comes the knock on the front door, that dreaded knock they have both anticipated. White holds Susannah tight and moves her carefully to the sofa where he sets her gently down and pulls her feet up on the cushions so that she is resting, he hopes, comfortably.
The knock has become louder, more insistent. “I shall go,” White says. “Stay here and rest. I understand your pain. Perhaps in time you can understand mine.”
Alexander Macdonnell’s round cheeks are red, whether from anger or cold, White knows not. “I shall not sully myself by crossing your threshold,” the man says, thrusting a folded, sealed note into White’s hand. “Read it, and give me an answer.”
Meet me behind the Parliament Buildings at daybreak tomorrow. Bring a pistol and a man to act as your second. Tell no one of this meeting.
“I love the name of honour more than I fear death.”
John Small
White scrunches the note in his fist. He laughs. “Those last lines, I know them. They are the words of Brutus, a traitor and a murderer.”
“What has Brutus to do with it? What answer do I give Small?”
Macdonnell has a walleye. White finds it difficult to know if the man is looking at him or over his shoulder into the hallway. He hopes Susannah has decided to stay in the withdrawing room.
“I find it a strange irony that you, a magistrate of this town, a man specifically appointed to keep the peace, should be standing at my front door issuing a challenge to a duel.”
The man’s lips purse in a muttered oath. “Shut up. Give me an answer.”
“Very well. I answer in the words of Julius Caesar: ‘Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.’ Tell your damned friend Brutus that I accept the challenge.”