On the Head of a Pin (7 page)

“Good afternoon,” the man said pleasantly, “although it could well be good evening by now.”

“How long have you been waiting?” Lewis asked him.

“I got here this morning.”

This was unwelcome news. Lewis had been hoping to dispatch his business in a few minutes and be on his way back home.

“Are you here for the fighting?” the old man wanted to know. “They say the Americans are coming across to burn Kingston.”

“I was supposed to be, since I'm a militia veteran, but I won't fight again. I'm a Methodist Episcopal minister, and I'm here to get an exemption.”

The man peered at him closely, and Lewis realized that he was half-blind, his eyes clouded with a milky film. “Oh, I should have seen that you're a man of the cloth. Of course you won't fight, or at least not for anything less than men's souls, eh?”

“I should have thought that there was an age exemption as well,” Lewis said.

“Oh, there is, there is. I ignored it. I don't hold with revolutions or with Americans invading either, for that matter. Don't care how bad things are, there's no call for armed insurrection. Nasty things happen during revolutions, I tell you. Nasty, nasty things.”

Lewis took a guess. “Loyalist?”

“And proud of it. I was a young man back then in Dutchess County, New York. Had a wife and two children already. Damn Yankees came and took all my livestock on the first go round, then they came back and took the farm, too. I'd have stayed out of it if I could, but they didn't leave me much choice. Fought with Rogers' Rangers on the British side just to get back at them. Settled up here on land the government gave me for fighting. Fought them again in 1812 … lost my oldest son in that one … and I'm telling you, I'll fight them again tomorrow before I let them take one damn thing more from me … pardon my language there, Preacher.”

He took great rasping breaths between sentences and Lewis realized that he suffered from emphysema as well as being old and blind.

“You know, whenever people take things into their own hands … the only ones who suffer … are the good hard-working folks who have better things to do with their time.” The man subsided into an exhausted silence.

Lewis smiled. He'd heard much the same sentiments from the older folks on any of the circuits that had been settled by United Empire Loyalists, those Americans who had stayed true to the King during the Revolutionary War and who had been hounded out of the States for their pains. They had a basic mistrust of rabble-rousers, and with good reason, he figured. It was ironic that many of these were now the same people who were viewed with suspicion by the government as harbouring pro-American sentiments, an opinion based almost solely on their stubborn refusal to accept the established religion. How many times do you have to prove your loyalty?

He sat for another hour while the old-timer got his sec
–
ond wind and rambled on. Every once in a while someone would get up and disappear somewhere on the other side of the parade ground, but would almost immediately be re
–
placed by someone else coming in. The call for militia must have been quite general, but what on earth they were going to do with the old fellow next to him, he had no idea.

He was about to get up and go looking for something to eat when an officer in a commandant's uniform strode through the room. He looked neither to the left nor the right, but Lewis realized that this must be the man he was looking for, and rose to block his path.

“What can I do for you, sir?” the man said impatiently.

“You can give me an exemption.”

“What? Former militia? Been pestered into coming here?”

Lewis smiled. “Yes, that's about it.”

The officer snorted. “Honestly, I don't know what they're thinking. Anyone can see that you're a preacher. Preachers and old men — what am I supposed to do with any of you? Have you got your papers?”

Lewis nodded.

“Follow me.”

Lewis almost had to run to keep up with him. They entered a small office, and the officer rummaged through a pile of papers and extracted a form.

“Let's see them, then.” He held out his hand. Lewis passed him his documents.

“Oh … Methodist. Been having a rough time of it?”

“There are some who seem to think that just because my church originated in America that that is where my loyalties lie,” Lewis conceded.

“Damn bunch of fools. Let me guess — your parents were Loyalists, you were born here, you fought in the War of 1812, and you'd be perfectly willing to fight again except for the fact that you've found the Lord.”

“All true, except for the last part. I don't think I'd ever be willing to fight again. I saw too much the last time around.”

He knew he was taking a chance by saying this, but the officer didn't strike him as the sort of man who would take offence at an honest statement.

He didn't. He treated him to a penetrating stare, then signed the form with a flourish.

“There you go, Preacher. And if I were you, I'd be careful who you share your sentiments with.”

Lewis nodded and was about to go, but turned back. “Just one thing …”

“Yes?”

“There's a blind old gaffer out in the ready room who's determined to do his bit. Can you find something for him that wouldn't be too taxing? You'll break his heart if you send him home.”

The officer heaved a sigh. “You know, I've got a whole platoon of old men who do nothing but sweep the parade ground every day because they're not fit for anything else.” Then he smiled. “But I'll do my best to get him enlisted again. Good luck.”

VII

T
he Wesleyans had been about their wicked work again, or so Lewis was informed the next time he rode into Demorestville. This was according to the Varneys, who were quite upset by it.

“They're telling everyone that Methodist Episcopals are American spies,” Mrs. Varney told him. “They're saying that joining the Methodist Episcopal Church is an act of disloyalty and will be viewed as treason by the government.”

“It nearly always has been viewed as the next thing to treason by the government,” Lewis returned mildly. “They'd have us all Anglicans, you know that. The Wesleyans would have us all Wesleyans. The only ones who seem able to leave us alone are the Quakers. Just ignore the talk. It will settle down as soon as somebody catches Bill Johnston.”

The notorious pirate had been marauding up and down the St. Lawrence River again, and in that opportunistic way that all rogues have, seemed to have thrown his lot in with the bands of American Patriots who were determined to invade Canada and relieve its inhabitants of the yoke of British tyranny, whether they wanted relief or not. No one who lived along the shore of the St. Lawrence River felt entirely safe, but Johnston had a particular vindictiveness for anything British, and had masterminded what appeared to be retaliation for their sending
The Caroline
plummeting over Niagara Falls.

The British ship
Sir Robert Peel
had been peacefully moored at Well's Island when twenty-five of Johnston's men, dressed as Indians, boarded it in the middle of the night. Armed to the teeth, they had forced the passengers into a small cabin on the shore, then sailed the ship off to loot it at their leisure.

Newspaper reports varied in the amount of booty Johnston took from the
Peel
. The rumour mill added and subtracted and embellished, but one thing was clear: the pirate had made off with the payroll intended for British troops in Canada, as well as a large quantity of the passengers' valuables found aboard.

“They say he took a hundred thousand pounds,” Mrs. Varney reported anxiously.

“Nay, there's never that much money in the whole world,” Varney said. “A hundred thousand American dollars, maybe.”

“We're all going to be murdered in our beds.” She sighed.

“He's a thief and a brigand, but I've never heard him described as a murderer,” Lewis pointed out.

Mrs. Varney looked at him in wonderment. “Now, there's a Christian attitude for you,” she said. “My goodness, you have charity even for a pirate.”

“It's not charity — it's fact,” Lewis said. “I just don't like all these wild rumours. The facts are the facts.”

In any event, it appeared that the pirates had set the
Peel
on fire and left, and according to the newspapers, Johnston had taken to wearing the ship's flag as a sash. True to form, he had the temerity to confirm these reports with a proclamation that was reprinted widely. In it he claimed to be a commander-in-chief in something called “the patriot service of Upper Canada” and took full responsibility for the attack on the
Sir Robert Peel
.

His words both reassured Americans and threw down the gauntlet at Britain's feet:

My headquarters were an island in the St. Lawrence River without the jurisdiction of the United States, at a place named by me Fort Wallace. I am well acquainted with the boundary line, and know which of the islands do and which do not belong to the United States, and in the selected I wished to be positive and not locate within the jurisdiction of the United States, and had reference to the decision of the commissioners under the sixth article of the treaty of Ghent, done at Utica in the state of New York, 13th of June, 1822, I know the number of islands and by that decision, it was British territory.

I yet hold possession of that station, and we also occupy a station some 20 or more miles from the boundary of the United States, in what was His Majesty's dominions until occupied by us. I act under orders. The object of my movements is the independence of the Canadas. I am not at war with the commerce or property of the citizens of the United States.

No one was quite sure whose orders, exactly, he was acting on. The nations on both sides of the border offered huge rewards for his capture, but Lewis wasn't convinced that anyone would ever claim them: those who knew where the pirate was hiding out were probably in cahoots with him; those who didn't were too frightened to offer any information at all. Besides, he figured it would only be a matter of time before both governments started squabbling over which had the jurisdiction to indict him, whether they actually had him in custody or not.

In spite of Varney's reports that the Wesleyans were slandering him, to Lewis's relief there had been no repeat of the churchyard incident in Demorestville. He did note, however, that there seemed to be fewer people at the service. Whether this was because he had been neglecting his duties or because they feared retaliation from the Wesleyans, he didn't know. He stayed to take both the men's and the women's class meetings after the service. It was time he spent some of his energies on consolidating his congregation.

Rachel was with Minta at the women's class meeting. Minta's condition was evident now, even to Lewis, but she looked a little less pale than she had. Rachel sat circumspectly enough and appeared to be paying rapt attention to his words, but her presence drew a crowd of young men who loitered around the front of the church and kept peering in the windows to see if the meeting was over. As soon as the last hymn was sung, and the women rose to leave, these young men crowded in, nearly knocking Minta over in the process, every one of them offering to walk the ladies home. Rachel smiled back at them, but appeared to favour no particular one.

Willet Caddick had painted her a little picture of wildflowers in a field and his brother Benjamin frowned as he handed it to her. He had nothing but his pins with the prayer on them. Morgan Spicer was there as well, but had brought no offering, nor had a sad-eyed boy who wore the plain Quaker dress.

Lewis passed a few words with the rest of the women, but as he was about to gather up Betsy and little Martha, who had for once behaved herself, Rachel broke away from the crowd around her and approached Lewis.

“A moment, sir?”

“Of course.”

The young men scowled at him for waylaying their prize, but they at least had the decency to realize that their presence was not welcome at a private conversation and made their way out the door. Minta and Betsy each took a hand and swung Martha as they took her outside. Only Morgan Spicer stayed behind, but even he wandered over to a window and stood with his hands in his pockets.

“I know you're expecting me to join your congregation,” Rachel said in a low voice. “I must admit that I'm very attracted by the lovely singing …” Lewis nodded. He never discouraged honesty in a prospective convert and if it was the music that had drawn her, so be it. The rest would follow. “I know I must settle soon, but I haven't quite decided where to do it yet.”

Lewis was suddenly not at all sure that she was talking about a church. She might well be referring to the crowd of young men, any of whom would be happy to wed her, he was sure.

“I just feel that I need to be absolutely certain in my mind. Do you think the Lord will be upset if I take a little while to decide?”

“Not at all,” Lewis said. “I think He welcomes a reasoned belief. Just remember, though, that there is many a slip between cup and lip. Don't delay too long, Rachel, for we never know what comes on the morrow.”

Lewis felt for all the world as if he was speaking to his daughter again. They had had this same conversation many a time. Sarah had heard his words near the end and he was sure that she had felt the presence of the Lord.

Just in time as it turned out.

“I'll bear your words in mind,” Rachel said. “I believe I'll have an answer for you in a month or so.”

Her cheeks dimpled in a smile. “I may even have a request for your services then,” she said, confirming his suspicions that she was close to deciding on her marital state as well as a choice of church. “In the meantime, Minta is waiting for me.”

Her brother Seth was waiting outside with Minta, and again he glared at Lewis.