On the Head of a Pin (2 page)

They exchanged a few pleasantries while Mrs. Varney poured more tea, and then Lewis attempted to turn the conversation to the subject of his new congregation.

Simms had distracted the Varneys from church matters, however; they were eager for news, regardless of how bad it might be. Though the towns along the front had easy access to newspapers — there was one that published regularly from nearby Picton — the Varneys, as was the case with most people, placed little reliance on the truth of anything they read in these. The papers were too apt to propound their own points of view, and support their owners' politics. It was preferable to gather intelligence from those who travelled the colony with regularity, most notably peddlers and itinerant clergymen like himself who often had the facts first-hand and could dispute or confirm the printed version with authority. Unlike himself, Simms proved to be an informative source.

“Lount and Matthews are to hang, Governor Arthur will make sure of that,” he told them. This was consistent with what had been reported in the more radical papers. “Thousands are to be transported or banished.”

It was clear that Lieutenant-Governor Arthur was bringing the full force of the law to bear on those who had risen against the government. Across both Upper and Lower Canada, people were being arrested with little apparent regard for whether they had actually borne arms or had merely expressed an opinion. Lewis doubted that there would be as many transportations as Simms claimed, but the peddler spoke with great conviction and it was evident that the Varneys believed every word. Whatever the truth of the details, it was clear that the rebel leaders, Mackenzie and Papineau, had sown a crop of woe for many.

After the failure of the rebellions, both of the leaders had evaded capture in spite of the enormous rewards offered and had fled to the United States. Papineau seemed to have melted into nowhere, but the mad little Scot, Mackenzie, had set himself up on Navy Island, just above Niagara Falls, proclaiming himself the head of “a new republic.” American agitators had been quick to supply him with food, arms, and men.

“I shouted hurrah when our soldiers seized
The Caroline
and sent her plunging over the falls,” Mrs. Varney said. “That'll starve the rebel out.”

The Caroline
was the ship loaded with provisions that had been plying its way from the American shore to Navy Island. In a daring raid, British troops had fired her and then set her adrift, to howls of outrage from the Americans, who claimed that since the seizure had taken place in their territory, their sovereignty had been impinged, and that reprisals were called for. Simms had with him a copy of the newspaper from Cobourg detailing the latest events, and he was happy to share it. Someone had written a poem to commemorate the destruction of
The Caroline
and the paper had printed it. Mr. Varney insisted on reading parts of it aloud:

“And that the very gallant act Of Captain Andrew Drew, Whose name must be immortalized — Likewise his daring crew.”

“Whatever would we do without brave young men like Captain Drew?” Mrs. Varney exclaimed, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. “My goodness me, we'd be at the mercy of the rebels!”

These fine sentiments were lost on Lewis, as the name Drew meant nothing to him. Still, he supposed it was a victory of sorts for British troops and should therefore be lauded.

“Listen to this, Mother.” Varney chuckled as he went on:

“The captain and his gallant crew, Whose names I wot not all, From Schlosser cut the steamboat out, And sent her o'er the Fall. Oh then the Yankees stormed outright, And spoke of reparation. A mighty flame then rose through this Tobacco-chewing nation.”

“Hee, hee, hee,” Varney wheezed. “Tobacco-chewing nation, that's a good one, isn't it now?”

“Well, that will put paid to all Mackenzie's nonsense,” Mrs. Varney said. “Fancy the Americans helping such a rogue.”

Lewis declined to comment on the affair and discounted the Varneys' statements. Now that the rebellion had failed, everyone claimed to be an ardent supporter of the status quo, and there was nary a person around who would own up to being a Reformer.

“Britain is sending a new man out to investigate what's going on. They say he'll hang everybody,” Simms reported.

“Serves them right,” Mrs. Varney said.

Lewis waited patiently during a protracted discussion of just what the new governor might or might not do, and whether or not the Americans really meant to invade Canada again, until it appeared that Simms's news was exhausted. When it seemed that nothing further could be added to the rumour mill, he gently turned the conversation back to matters of the church.

The Varneys, their tongues loosened by temporal gossip, happily filled him in regarding the spiritual state of the neighbourhood, detailing who could be counted on to support him and ease him into a new place. Mrs. Varney was quick to regale him with the personal details of everyone they discussed. He was beginning to realize that she was that most reprehensible of creatures, the village gossip, but decided that for the moment the failing could be useful. The people she described seemed to be solid, respectable citizens, and she spoke of an encouraging group of young people who regularly attended meetings.

He wanted to ask her about the girl with the chestnut hair —to inquire as to who she was, and whether or not she was a Methodist. But then he realized how unseemly his questions would sound. A man of forty asking after a young girl like that might be taken the wrong way.

“We are fortunate to have two artists in our ranks,” Mrs. Varney informed him. “The Caddick brothers. One of them paints miniatures and will do a portrait for you in a minute. The other is more interested in scenery. Both of them can write the entire Lord's Prayer on the head of a pin. It's most amazing.”

Lewis's mind had been drifting and he had only been half-listening to the prattle, but with mention of the pins, he started, nearly spilling his tea. He had seen just such a pin once before — nestled in the folds of his dead daughter's bodice! At the time he had wondered at the novelty of it, but with so much else to contend with, he never expected to discover where it had come from.

“The Caddicks really are gaining a reputation, thanks in part to Mr. Simms here,” Mrs. Varney continued.

Simms nodded. “Aye, it's astounding how well those little pins sell. Occasionally the Caddicks sell one of their paintings in town, but it's those pins the people in the backcountry like.”

Lewis was told that the older Caddick brother, Benjamin, peddled these artistic wares along the front, in the settled areas. But in an attempt to broaden the market, the brothers had apparently commissioned Simms to take some of their stock as well. The younger boy, Willett, went out occasionally, but according to Varney he hadn't the personality of his brother and more often stayed at home to work in their father's tannery.

“Old man Caddick is quite put out at all their nonsense,” Mrs. Varney said. “He'd much prefer it if they just stayed at home and helped him with the business. But you know young men. If there's an excuse to go gallivanting, they'll seize it and off they'll go. I must say, they're quite nice young men and seem quite steady in spite of all the painting. I expect you'll see them at meetings. They come quite often. You'll find that around here the young people seem to like the Methodist meetings best.”

As soon as his wife paused for a breath, Mr. Varney jumped in. “Aye, there are good Methodist families here you can rely on. There are a lot of newcomers in the area, as well. Of course, one can never be sure how they lean, but I would expect a few of them to swing our way. They may still call the place Sodom, but we're doing our best to change that.”

At that moment, the shop door opened, and two older women came in, shortly followed by a younger woman with a small boy in tow. Separate class meetings were held for women and men, with the women's most often held during the day, and the men's in the evenings, after their day's labour was done. Simms rose and nodded to Lewis. “Good to see you, sir. I'll get out of your way now.”

“Will you be coming to the men's meeting tonight?” Lewis asked.

Simms smiled. “Sorry, Preacher. I'm heading north from here.”

Mrs. Varney disappeared into what Lewis assumed was the kitchen to get extra chairs as more women arrived. They all settled down with expectant looks.

“We're so pleased to have a minister from the Methodist Episcopals again,” one of them said. “The Wesleyans never made us feel welcome.”

The women all seemed quite sincere in their beliefs and joined in the spirit of the gathering enthusiastically. Lewis made an effort to speak to each of them individually, although he was certain that it would take him some time to remember all their names.

Afterward, he took his supper with the Varneys, and the welcome he received at the afternoon meeting was repeated at the evening one. In spite of the strange beginning to his visit, he was well satisfied with his reception in the village of Demorestville, and looked forward to returning.

The Varneys offered him a bed for the night, but he declined. His plan had him scheduled for another meeting in the morning and he was anxious to meet his contact on the Big Island, which lay across a marshy stretch to the north. Besides, he found Mrs. Varney's gossipy tongue quite wearisome.

As he rode out of the village, he noticed that some wag had installed a sign at the bottom of the hill pointing to a lane that led along the millpond. Gommorah
R
oad the sign said. He made a mental note to check whether or not they had spelled it correctly.

II

I
t took Lewis a week to cover the northern part of his circuit, and when he returned home, Betsy was low again. He had hoped that the move might help her — a different place, a milder climate. But she had found the disruption of moving their household effects exhausting. She had kept going as long as she could, with all the washing of crockery and packing and unpacking of goods to do, but when he returned, she was once again lying on the kitchen bed, the makings of an evening meal only half-prepared on the table. The stove was nearly out and the child crying. He got the fire going and set the kettle on, then settled young Martha down with a crust of bread.

“I brought some chamomile,” he said. “Can I make you some tea?” Chamomile was one of the few things that gave Betsy any relief. That and the laudanum that was far too expensive to use unless the need was dire.

“Fever,” was what the doctor said, and it was true enough that fever had felled her. But Lewis knew that far more was weighing on his wife. Sarah's death had dragged them both down. You would have thought that they would be used to losing children by now — they had lost so many.

But the others had been so young when fever, or accident, or just plain difficulty in living had taken them away — Sarah had survived where all his other daughters had perished. She had been a young woman with a daughter of her own. God could choose to take you at any time, he knew that full well, but it was the manner of Sarah's death that had so disrupted them — lying there on her bed with those strange marks on her neck, the swell of another babe rounding the cloth that covered her.

Sarah had been a sweet seventeen-year-old with a laughing, teasing manner that made the most sombre of people brighten. She had always made friends easily — something that was an advantage for a circuit rider's daughter, since they moved so often.The only surviving girl in a family of younger boys, she had ruled them with a combination of charm and intelligent wit. Sarah had only to speak a word to her brothers and they would do her bidding. All too often her magic worked on Lewis as well. He supposed that he had spoiled her. Betsy often accused him of it, but for him she was the embodiment of all his other daughters who had perished before her.

As a young woman she had had many admirers. Any number of young men would have wed her gladly — good, solid young men with excellent prospects. But they had all drifted away soon after Sarah first laid eyes on Francis Renwell. It was clear that she wanted no one else.

Lewis had been uneasy about the match from the first; though Renwell could match Sarah's spirit, and they made a handsome pair, there was something about the man that he didn't like. Betsy claimed that he wouldn't have liked anyone his daughter picked, and that he'd better get over it, because she was going to marry regardless. But Renwell, in his opinion, was unsteady, perhaps even feckless, and was given to sudden enthusiasms and unconsidered outbursts of opinion.

He had tried to keep these thoughts unuttered, since doing anything else would only subject him to jokes from his daughter and scathing looks from his wife. He just wanted his daughter to be happy, to be safe, to be cared for. And it appeared at first that Renwell was willing and able to do just that. The young couple took up a farm near the lower end of Rice Lake and together they sowed and chopped and reaped and built.

They rejoiced at the safe delivery of their first child, Martha, but whether it was the arrival of the baby, or just a general boredom with the hard lot of a farmer, soon after that Renwell began to pay less attention to his work and his family. He started frequenting the many taverns that were within a day's riding distance. Sarah did not confide this information to Lewis, but rather to her mother, who wisely kept her counsel. It was only afterward that he found out, but by then it was too late.

When Sarah had written to tell them that she was expecting another child, Lewis had asked for a posting nearby, close enough that Betsy could be a help when the babe arrived. It was not new life that claimed their attention, however, but an unexpected death. It was to them that the task fell of preparing the body and arranging the burial after they had found Sarah in the cabin, Martha screaming in her cradle, her father nowhere to be found. Lewis was convinced that there had been argument, an altercation, and that Renwell had killed her and fled into the night. The doctor could find no evidence of foul play, and in his opinion Sarah had died of “natural causes” — just what those causes might have been, he couldn't say.