that littered the roadway. When she reached the other side of the street she joined a small, pale woman and a large man who had the telltale bulk of someone who earned his living at heavy labour. As she walked away, he noted that not only the group of boys she had been standing with, but all the other men on the street, as well, watched her departure.
They had all been watching him until then. As he had ridden into the village he had marvelled at how busy everyone seemed to be. Everywhere he looked there were workmen — carpenters, bricklayers, masons. Most of the buildings they were working on were frame — appropriate for a village that had grown up around a sawmill — but here and there some ambitious citizen had decided to build in brick.
Demorestville was an old village by Upper Canadian standards, a village founded in the first-settled townships along the St. Lawrence River and Lake Ontario — the “front” they called it, or sometimes the “cash.” These terms implied that life was easier here, not like it was in the clearings to the north and west where back-breaking labour had so far produced little more than tree stumps that dotted the fields and shanties that leaned drunkenly against the forest. In contrast, the fields around Demorestville were cleared and neatly fenced with rails, the trees tamed into windbreaks along the road, the stumps piled up into fences, and the village itself bustling with self-important activity and people who were prepared to spend hard-earned money so the world could see just how prosperous they were.
As busy as everyone seemed to be, still they looked up and took note as he rode by. Carpenters stopped sawing and nailing; bricklayers paused with trowel in hand; even the people clustered at the street corner and in front of the inn huddled together a little closer and took sly, sideways glances at him. It took him aback at first. As a man of the cloth he was used to being welcomed wherever he went. The whole colony was in turmoil, he reflected, and with the militia called out, everyone was in an unsettled frame of mind. Strangers were to be viewed with suspicion until their motives were clear.
He rode on, looking for the general store that he had been told was halfway along the main street — “the Broadway” as he later learned it was called. The store was owned by a man named Varney.
The Bay of Quinte area was where Methodism had first come to Canada, and Lewis had been told that there was still a solid base of supporters here who could be counted on to ease a new preacher into the community. Varney was one of these, and apparently offered his premises for meetings when the church was unavailable.
Lewis found the store without difficulty and as he pushed open the front door he was assailed by the sweet smell of over-ripe apples warring with the sour smell of the pickle barrel. The shelves seemed well stocked, even for January, a time when little cargo could make its way down the frozen St. Lawrence River from Montreal.
“You must be Mr. Lewis.” A plump red-cheeked man strode out from behind the counter and held out his hand. “I was told to watch for a tall clean-shaven man with darkish hair. Besides, I’m fairly certain I know everybody else around here. I’m Varney. Griffith Varney. Come in, come in.”
Varney’s enthusiasm more than made up for the suspi–cious looks that had greeted Lewis as he rode into town.
He was ushered through a doorway at the back of the store. The Varneys had their living quarters in the rear of the building and he was invited to take a seat at a round table that had been set up by the parlour window.
“Elsie! Elsie! He’s here!”
Mrs. Varney bustled in with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.
“We have a little time before the meeting,” she said. “You can rest up a bit before you speak. That’s the best spot.” She pointed to a comfortable-looking horsehair chair. “You sit there.”
“It’s too bad your first meeting has to be here,” Mr. Varney said, “but the Presbyterians are using the church today.”
“There’s only the one, then?” Lewis asked, taking his seat in the comfortable chair. “And everyone shares in?”
“Aye, the mill owner, old Demorest, built the first church here, with the proviso that everybody could use it regardless of persuasion. Now he’s given some land to the Presbyterians so they can have their own place, and he says he’s prepared to donate some property to the Episcopal Methodists as well, but it will be some time before either group can put a building up. It can’t come too fast to my mind. The Wesleyans act like the church is theirs already and they make it difficult for the rest of us.”
“The mill owner is prepared to support us all?” This was unusual. Generally men of influence threw their support to one church or another and gave short shrift to the rest.
“Oh, aye. He’s a good man, and I think he welcomes anything that will have a civilizing influence on the place.”
Demorestville, like so many of the early settlements, had built its fortunes on lumber — one of the few commodities that would fetch hard cash in those first desperate years. Logging, however, brings loggers, and loggers cause problems when they leave the woods and come into town.
“It was so bad here at one time,” Varney went on, “that Demorest’s first wife called the place Sodom. There’s many still call it that, and with some reason, though it’s not nearly so bad as it was.” The shop door opened and Varney excused himself. “Why, look, Elsie,” he called back. “It’s Mr. Simms. You’d best get another teacup.”
Lewis knew of Isaac Simms. He was a peddler, and their paths had crossed on several occasions, although they had never exchanged more than a few words of greeting. He knew that the man had a reputation for fair dealing and seemed to be well-liked everywhere he went.
Whatever transaction the peddler had with Varney was quickly concluded, and he was invited to join them in the parlour. Lewis thought that Simms was probably very successful as a peddler. There was a general air of affability about him, and an open face framed by sandy brown hair. His high forehead denoted intelligence; the width of the brow promised honesty. He would have the pennies winkled out of a farmwife’s hand in a moment, leaving her well satisfied with her bargain, Lewis figured.
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
