to this circuit. The last man we had was a little dry.”
Thaddeus’s predecessor had been Calvin Merritt, who was known to have a weak voice, to perspire heavily, and to stutter in moments of stress.
“We all serve God in our own ways,” he said. “Some of us have been blessed with better lungs, that’s all.”
“We have stew,” Mr. Gordon said. “Would you have a bowl?”
Thaddeus accepted gratefully, and leaned against the Gordons’ wagon while he ate his late dinner.
“This is a grand turnout for the meeting,” Old Mrs. Gordon said. “Mind you, it’s been so hot I expect everyone jumped at the chance to camp out; but still, you must be pleased.”
“I am. It’s a grand occasion to meet you all. And, as you say, it’s perfect weather for an outdoor meeting.”
“Is it the comet, do you think, that’s causing the heat? Some say it’s an omen.”
A strange ball of light had first appeared in the evening sky at the beginning of the month, near the southern part of the Great Bear, its long brilliant tail trailing behind it. Its appearance had caused a great deal of speculation and not a little alarm.
“No, from what I’ve read it’s a perfectly natural occurrence,” Thaddeus said. “Soon it will travel on to another part of the heavens and then we won’t be able to see it so easily. I doubt it’s a harbinger of evil times to come, but no one seems to know if it affects the weather or not. I suppose it’s possible.”
“It would be nice if it gave us a mild winter,” the old woman said. “My rheumatism would thank it.”
Just then, the woman in the familiar dress caught Thaddeus’s eye again. He watched as the couple walked past the Gordons’ camp, in the direction of the entrance gate.
“Who is that?” Thaddeus asked, hoping that the Gordons could supply him with a few more details about the pair. “I heard someone call him ‘the Major.’”
Now that he could see the woman more closely, his impression was confirmed that, although the pattern of her dress was similar to Betsy’s, the material was of a far finer quality, and had been fashioned into a skirt with several flounces — more stylish, he supposed, than the plain dress his wife had made.
“The Major and his wife?” Mrs. Gordon said. “I must say, I’m surprised to see them here. Not their sort of thing at all.”
“What is he major of, exactly?” Thaddeus asked. The man’s coat was well cut and of a good-quality broadcloth, but he was in ordinary street clothes, not a uniform that would denote a commission in any of the British regiments stationed in Canada.
Gordon laughed. “Oh, I don’t know that George Howell is really a major of anything. That’s just what everyone calls him. He was in the British Army years ago, or so he says, and came out here to settle in the thirties. He has a farm south of us, but he doesn’t seem to farm it, hard work being beneath him and all. I rent a couple of his fields for wheat.”
“Now, now, it takes all kinds. There’s no call to be uncharitable,” Old Mrs. Gordon chided.
Thaddeus knew the type. A large number of English settlers had immigrated to the district in the 1820s and ’30s. Cobourg itself, and much of the land around Rice Lake, was full of them. The English farmers who had come from small holdings in the old country made a great success of their Canadian farms, but some of the settlers had been half-pay officers unable to live in England on the pensions they were awarded in the wake of the Peninsular War. These former military officers were unsuited to pioneering, and many of them fled to the haven of government appointments and favours. Those left behind on their bush farms seemed to have survived on little more than boxes from home and loans from their neighbours, all the while sniffing at the “Yankeefied manners” that flavoured Upper Canada.
Leland Gordon was unchastened by his mother’s words. “I’ve nothing against Ellen Howell,” he said. “She’s pleasant enough, and neighbourly, but the Major seems to think we should all be tugging our forelocks when he passes by. It’s a good thing he’s seldom home. I can ignore him on the few occasions when he is around.”
“I feel sorry for her,” Mrs. Gordon said. “The English seem to want to stick to themselves, but with the Major gone so much, she seldom sees anybody.”
Thaddeus was curious. “If the Major doesn’t farm, what does he do? Something in the government?”
Gordon shrugged. “No, some sort of business, he claims, although I’ve never heard what exactly. He seems to travel in some pretty high circles — well, high for around here, at any rate. Mayor Perry is a friend, apparently. D’Arcy Boulton. He prefers to associate with people like that — or with other Englishmen who used to be somebody.”
Thaddeus knew the names. D’Arcy Boulton was a lawyer who had settled in Cobourg and built a large house, a mansion, really, that was called “The Lawn.” You couldn’t spend much time in the area without hearing about D’Arcy Boulton. I wonder what the Howells are doing here? he thought.
A British officer who hobnobbed with the mayor of Cobourg and the Boultons was most likely to be an Anglican, and Thaddeus knew there were not many of those present. Almost every other denomination had been drawn to the campground, whether out of a genuine interest or the promise of a fine entertainment, but the movers and shakers of business and government usually disdained Methodist affairs. Especially Methodist Episcopal ones. It didn’t matter one way or the other why the Howells had come, he supposed, but he had to admit he was curious.
He had just handed his bowl back to Mrs. Gordon when a commotion erupted at the gate. Three wagons arrived at once and were jockeying to gain entrance to the grounds. One of the horses balked and stood stubbornly at the gate, blocking the way of the other two, who were growing restless at the delay. As Thaddeus hurried toward them, one of them reared and whinnied.
Thaddeus grabbed the halter of the first horse. “Come on, girl, come on,” he said softly, and then slowly led her through the gateposts and into the field.
“Thank you,” said the man who was at the reins. “She’s an ornery beast. I couldn’t get her to budge.”
“Sometimes they just need a little coaxing. Where are you from?”
“Bailieboro. We heard about the meeting and decided to come along.” The man’s brow furrowed and he looked a little worried. “We’re not Methodists, though, we’re Presbyterians. I hope you don’t mind that we’re here. Everyone seemed very excited about the meeting and we don’t get much edification where we are.”
Thaddeus beamed at the man. “You don’t have to be a member of our church to come to any of our meetings. We’re very happy to share the Word with anyone who cares to hear.” He was delighted. Bailieboro was a long way away, but news of the meeting had obviously reached beyond the Hope Circuit. Bishop Smith was right. There was a lot of support in this district.
People continued to pour into the farmer’s field for the rest of the day. Thaddeus was particularly pleased to hear that a number of the Wesleyan Methodists from nearby Alderville had chosen to attend, not only many of the Indians who attended the school there, but their teachers as well. Besides the Wesleyans, there were apparently contingents of Baptists and Lutherans, along with the usual groups of backsliders and nothingarians who had come along merely for the outing.
