reforms he believed in had come to pass. John King’s generation enjoyed the benefits of being able to vote for responsible government, but as the speaker that day pointed out, there were the issues that still required change. King himself might put up his fists to defend his personal honour, but he wasn’t such a hothead that he charged about with mobs waving pikes and pitchforks. After all, he and his wife were expecting their first child, William Lyon Mackenzie’s grandchild.
Before King could settle into listening again, he felt an urgent tapping on his shoulder.
“Mr. King, a message. It’s your wife. They’ve already sent for the doctor.”
John stood up, half knocking over his chair. Something was very wrong. Isabel was not expected to have the baby for another month. He needed to be back at Benton Street as fast as a horse could get him there.
John and Isabel already had a beautiful year-old daughter, Isabel or Bella. Bella had gone to John’s Uncle Dougall Macdougall’s house. There she would stay with her Grandmamma, John’s mother, Christina King, and his Aunt Flora. John was free to do a lot of pacing and hand wringing. It was a cold night. Fetching wood and stoking the fire in the wood stove kept him busy.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, Dr. Bowlby appeared in the bedroom door holding a bundle. “I’d like to announce the safe arrival of a baby boy!” he trumpeted. “Mother and baby are doing well.” The doctor neared the wood stove and unfolded a corner of the blanket.
King peered at the red, scrunchy face of his newborn son. “Well, well, well,” he admired. “I have decided,” he told his wee lad softly, “and your mother agreed, that we shall call you William Lyon Mackenzie.” He glanced at Bowlby, his eyes twinkling merrily. “William Lyon Mackenzie King has a nice ring to it, an important ring, don’t you think?” And then he answered himself, “Why yes, it does.”
Although he had been born prematurely, baby Willie thrived. Soon he was toddling about the house, chasing the cat and trying to mount his big wooden rocking horse by himself. His mother thought he looked simply cherubic. His innocent blue eyes were full of curiosity, his blond hair curled sweetly around his chubby face, and his plump little legs peeked out like German sausages from under his dress, the garb for both boys and girls of the day.
Two years later there was another baby in the family, when Janet (known as Jennie) arrived in 1876. During her pregnancies and confinements, Isabel might not always feel like romping across the carpet with her children and roaring like a lion. A nursemaid helped her with the children’s care, but their mother was always available for merriment! After dinner she played the piano and sang hymns and other songs. Sometimes John joined in and even accompanied her with clacking castanets. The little family had a lot of fun before quieting down later each evening to games and stories read aloud. As both John and Isabel King were of Scottish ancestry and very devout Presbyterians, they would read the bible and hear the children say their prayers every night before they went to bed.
Willie awoke to the sound of little Jennie’s crying. He couldn’t get back to sleep.
“Tell me the grandfather story,” he demanded of his mother as she perched on the edge of his bed.
“Which grandfather story?” Isabel queried, tucking the coverlet around Willie’s small frame. “You have two grandfathers, young lad. Both came from Scotland and both were very brave and important men, like you shall be one day. Would you like to hear about Father’s father, Bombardier King? At the Battle of the Windmill the Royal Artillery fought off the Rebel sympathizers!”
“No, not that grandfather – my grandfather,” the little boy insisted. He didn’t mean any disrespect toward his soldier grandfather who had fought against the other grandfather’s forces. But Willie wanted to hear about the person for whom he was named.
“Oh!” Isabel chuckled. So her father’s exploits had become the story.
“My father, William Lyon Mackenzie, was a man with strong ideas who wanted to help people.” In the lamplight she wove a story of good and evil – the brave farmers and their leader against the government and its selfish, powerful friends. “Grandfather felt he had to take more action than writing or editing a newspaper or even than he could when he had been mayor of York.” Isabel’s account contained many exciting details – but Willie liked best the part after the Rebel forces lost the battle. He was thrilled each time he heard Isabel tell about the daring escape through the countryside “just a few miles from here. There was a large reward offered for Grandfather’s capture, one thousand pounds to any one who would ‘apprehend and deliver’ him. You’ve seen the very poster that many greedy men also saw that day. However, a good man and lover of reform posted scouts, who found Grandfather before his enemies did. They took him across the Grand River and gave him shelter for the night. The next day they sent him on his way to safety across the border to Buffalo. Grandfather never forgot their kindness.”
Although she made her father’s life sound like an adventure story, Isabel couldn’t help adding her own personal colouring in a quieter voice.
“I was born the same year as your father, in 1843. Only I was born in the United States, after Grandmother Isabel, who is an angel now, joined Grandfather in New York State. I was the youngest of thirteen children, although not all survived. Things were very difficult.” She told Willie of the hardships she had known, how her father was often without work, and once even imprisoned for breach of the American neutrality laws! Her life continued to be difficult and some people snubbed them, even after a pardon permitted the family to return to York. When her father died in 1861, they had bravely struggled on. “Then your Uncle Charles Lindsey introduced me to a good and handsome student from the University of Toronto – but now we’re getting into another story and it’s time for you to go back to sleep!”
She smoothed his hair and kissed his face tenderly before she took the lamp and left the room.
The importance of family traditions is reflected in the names the Kings gave their four children. The first baby girl was named Isabel Christina Grace, after her mother and grandmothers. The second child, the couples first born son, was given the name of Isabel’s father, William Lyon Mackenzie. Their third child, a daughter, was Janet Lindsey (but called Jennie). Her namesake was her mothers sister, Aunt Janet, who had married Charles Lindsey. When the fourth and last King child was born in 1878, he was given the name of John’s uncle, Dougall Macdougall. The young Dougall Macdougall, however, would be always known as Mac or Max.
John and Isabel had grown up in an age when it was expected that families would help each other. In the days before government programs provided any help, it was common for elderly or widowed people to be looked after by their family. John King’s father had died before he was born, so he and his mother had lived with his uncle, Dougall Macdougall, a Berlin newspaper editor.
When John finished school, he returned to Berlin and opened his law practice. He and Isabel had a long courtship, but John wasn’t established enough to marry her and bring her from Toronto to Berlin until 1872. Like most parents, John and Isabel created hopes and dreams for the four precious children they had. They wanted their offspring to be respected people and important citizens – the girls to have secure marriages and the boys to have important careers. Helping their children achieve these goals meant sacrifices. True, John King wanted to make the world
