nodded, mollified, and turned her attention to Martha, who had gummed down her crust of bread and was fussing again.
Poor little motherless mite, he thought.
III
Everywhere he went, people were talking about the firing of The Caroline, the prospect that the Americans would shortly be invading, and the viciousness with which anyone associated with the rebellion was being persecuted. Any man who had openly expressed support for the Reformers was being arrested. Even those who had commented for Reform in the most innocuous way were being relieved of any sort of government post and denied even the smallest amount of government business. As far as Governor Arthur was concerned, the mildest of criticism was proof of treason, and he was bringing the full force of government authority to bear against it.
“The British could scarcely have picked a worse man to settle the colony down,” one farmer said to him, and privately Lewis had to agree, although he was careful to keep this opinion to himself. Arthur had previously served as lieutenant-governor of the penal colony in Van Diemen’s Land, and it was said that he had hanged nearly everyone there. Now he seemed determined to send as many Upper Canadians as he could to that dreadful place.
“They say there are strange unnatural animals everywhere and the natives will eat you if they can catch you,” the man went on, “and even if you manage to dodge all that, you’re starved or worked to death and the governor can swoop in and decide to hang you at the drop of a hat.”
The farmer seemed to think that there was little to choose between being hanged and being transported across the oceans, for life in the strange far-off land was, by all accounts, brutal, with little hope of survival and none of return. It was no wonder most people had closed their mouths and shuttered their windows, and Lewis advised the farmer to do the same.
He was on the road to the village of Milford when he caught up with a brightly coloured peddler’s wagon, the deep reds and bright blues advertising its purpose even to those who could not read its sign. When he drew even with it, he realized the driver was Isaac Simms, the peddler he had met at Varney’s store, for Simms & Sons was painted in black lettering on the side of the cab.
He was surprised to see Simms here. Generally peddlers were creatures of the clearings, riding as far and as often and as alone as any itinerant preacher. They made their way from settlement to settlement and from cabin to cabin selling an assortment of useful items that were hard to come by in the remote areas: needles, pins, awls, pots and pans. They also carried more discretionary wares that the luxury-starved settlers could never resist on those few occasions when they had extra pennies in their fists: yard goods, crockery, and seed for flower gardens. The women bought these last items when they could, for it was the women who bore the brunt of any deficiencies on the farm, and as far as the men were concerned, the need for new stock or a tool always took precedence over extravagances such as dresses and decoration. The bulk of a peddler’s business was done on back stoops or in dooryards.
“The trails are too soft right now,” Simms grumbled as they jogged along. “That warm spell we had last week has made them a boggy mess. I’ll have to wait for either a hard frost or a rainless week before I head north again, though truth to tell, I sometimes wonder why I bother. Nobody has any money, or even much to barter with.”
Simms had apparently established a round in the more settled areas as a hedge against those times when the forest trails were impassable, topping up storekeepers’ stocks with the small items they ran out of over the winter.
“If the ground would freeze solid I could put the sled runners on the wagon and get into the backcountry, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen for a while.” With runners he could skim over the mud holes and fallen brush that so often blocked the way at other times of the year. “Sometimes I leave the wagon and most of the goods at one of the shops, and take a pack and horse into the further reaches, but right now I can’t get there even on horseback. Looks like I’m stuck at the front in the meantime.”
If the ruts on the road to Milford were any indication, Simms would be at the front for some time to come, for even here on a travelled route, the going was hard, and frequently Lewis was forced to ride along the shoulder in order to avoid the large mud puddles that had collected in the middle. It made for a very disjointed conversation, but the peddler appeared not to notice, and continued talking even when Lewis had wandered away.
“So, are you the Simms or the son?” Lewis asked him, as he rejoined the wagon after the fifth detour.
“Both. I inherited the business. My father had a half-baked idea of establishing some sort of commercial empire someday. He wanted to be man of means, to be one of the important men in the colony, but it appears he was a little over-optimistic, since all he ever really had was a peddler’s cart and a little stock.” Simms shook his head. “He kept us all well enough, I guess, but he certainly never grew rich. When he died, all that was left was his cart and the responsibility for the upkeep of an aging mother and three unmarried sisters, none of whom show any prospect of finding a husband in the near future. Never mind. With all the new lands being opened up for settlement, maybe business will pick up. I tell you something, though, just between you and me and the doorpost. A lot of the merchants are in trouble. Everybody’s been running on credit and now they’re being squeezed by their suppliers, and those bastards, pardon my language, Parson, want cash to settle up.”
Few finished goods were produced locally. Instead they came from other places, shipped down the St. Lawrence River, the trade controlled by Montreal businessmen who added a substantial surcharge to anything they sent and refused to fairly share the monies generated by customs and duties at the port of entry. Upper Canadian goods, timber and wheat for the most part, were shipped back, but nearly everything within the colony itself ran on a barter basis. Cash was hard to come by at the best of times, but according to Simms, now credit was being choked off as well.
“It’s the States,” Simms said. “They were determined to build as many roads and canals as they could, and they issued too many bonds and notes. The people who invested have discovered there’s nothing backing them up. Fortunes have been lost, a lot of them in Britain, and now they’re scared skinny and pinching pennies.”
“So people are being squeezed all the way along the line, top to bottom?”
Simms nodded. “Yes, that’s the crux of the matter, all right — including yours truly. If I could get the girls off my hands it would help a lot.” He sighed. “You don’t happen to know of anyone who’s looking for a wife, do you? Mind you, none of the three knows how to do anything except sing a little and do fancy needlework, so don’t be offering up anyone who’s looking for cooking or cleaning or anything useful.”
“What you need is a half-pay officer or someone with a government appointment, then. Their wives are mostly ornamental, or so I’m told. Not the circle I travel in, I’m afraid.”
The colony was awash in ex-British officers who had been granted huge swaths of land in lieu of their pensions — acreages that would have made them rich had they been in settled England. Upon arrival they had been astounded to discover that there was no servant class in Canada and that they were expected to hew their own wood and carry their own water. They were not, as a rule, very successful as settlers.
“Unfortunately,” said Simms, “only one of my sisters could be described as decorative in any way. Mother would love it if she landed some Britisher of the gentleman class, but they all seem to arrive with families in tow, and besides, they’ll have nothing to do with the likes of us, no matter how hard mother tries to pretend that she’s one of them. Apparently it’s a disgrace to work at earning a living.”
Many
