them from hard labour in the backwoods. The government was only too happy to oblige; after all, they were of good British stock and nearly all Anglicans, and The Family Compact had entrenched itself by pandering to them. This elitist group wanted an aristocracy — with themselves at the head of it, of course — and anyone with any ambition was wise to act in a way that befitted the station he aspired to. Unfortunately, this was an attitude that was mirrored by ordinary citizens, as well, for no one wanted to admit that they were on the low end of the class ladder.
“Sometimes I wonder if Mackenzie didn’t have it right,” Simms said. “This whole colony runs on a pack of nonsense. We’re all on the road to ruin, if you ask me, but it’s beyond me what to do about it.”
He was still grumbling as they parted company on Milford’s main street. The peddler would transact whatever business he could find and set off for his next destination. He had no need to stay. When night fell, he would simply pull the wagon over to the side of whichever road he was on, climb into the back, and go to sleep.
To Lewis’s eye, Milford appeared to be every bit as busy as Demorestville. Surely Simms was being pessimistic about the state of economic affairs, for he saw cartloads of grain being hauled to the mill, huge timbers being drawn to the ship-building yard, prosperous-looking matrons carrying baskets of goods. Crops had been poor in the last few seasons, particularly this last year, but Milford appeared not to have noticed, and if ever the rewards of industry and hard work were evident, it had to be in this village.
It also turned out to be another of the places where he could be sure of a warm welcome. The mill owner was a confirmed Methodist. His father had been one of the subscribers who had built the first Canadian Methodist meeting house in Hay Bay, just across the water on the mainland, and the man had carried his convictions to the place where he ultimately decided to settle. The son had donated land for the building of a small meeting house, and there were several class meetings scheduled here for both men and women in addition to a regular service open to all. It would be necessary to spend the night in order to accommodate such a number of gatherings, but his board was easily arranged — in fact, there was a rivalry to claim the honour of having the preacher stay.
He was offered an excellent supper at the home of a local carpenter. Here, too, the talk was of Mackenzie and The Caroline, and what would happen if the Americans invaded. Lewis repeated whatever news he knew was fact and left out any of the rampant speculation that had reached his ears. Just as Simms had reported, two of the rebels who had the misfortune to be caught, Matthews and Lount, had been hanged at Toronto Gaol. Governor Arthur had been quick to brand them leaders of the uprising, and had exacted the ultimate penalty. The execution, by all accounts, was a grisly affair. Instead of hauling them up on a rope, as was usual, they had been dropped through a trap door. A miscalculation as to the depth of the drop needed had apparently resulted in Lount’s head parting from his body in a bloody and spectacular manner.
“There was a petition going around,” the carpenter said, “asking the governor not to hang the rebels. They say Matthews’s wife delivered it personally to Governor Arthur, went right down on her knees and begged, but it did no good. I didn’t know what to do when they asked me to sign it. I don’t agree with rebellion, but I don’t agree with what the government is doing, either. But who’s to say they won’t come after the petitioners next?”
Who indeed? Lewis thought, but it was a sad statement on the affair that a show of clemency could be construed as treason.
Not all of those who had joined the rebel band were in jail, though, not by any means. Some of them had melted away when it became apparent that the uprising was doomed; still others had never reached the colony’s capital in time to join the fiery little Mackenzie.
Many of those strongly associated with the rebel cause had slipped across the border to the United States and vanished into the bustling anonymous cities, while others had joined with the Patriot groups who were eager to invade Canada again.
“You can’t help but worry a bit, you know, us being so close to the States. Why, they could sail right across the lake and capture us all.”
“I doubt it will come to that,” Lewis said, but the carpenter had a point. Milford lay in the southern part of the peninsular Prince Edward District, which jutted well out into Lake Ontario. Milford-built ships crossed the water to New York State with regularity, island-hopping across the eastern end. And if ships could go one way, they could certainly come the other.
To his surprise, the carpenter also confirmed what Simms had said about the state of business in the colony. “There’s no doubt things are slowed right down. I’m not near as busy as I was. Oh, there’s still people building, and I get good hours from the shipyard, but unless things settle down real soon, everything’s going to grind right to a halt and then I don’t know what’ll become of us. Oh, well. God’ll send what he sends, won’t he? And there isn’t anything we can do but abide it.”
Used to an early rising, his host family made motions to retire as soon as their supper dishes were cleared away, but Lewis knew that if he followed suit, the heavy fare he had just eaten would settle uncomfortably into gas.
“I think I’ll take a stroll through the village and look at the night,” he said. “If I try to go down now, I’ll just toss and turn. I’ll let myself back in, and don’t worry, I’ll be quiet about it.”
The carpenter offered to send his eldest boy for company. Lewis had no need for company, and besides, the eldest boy was already half-asleep in his chair at the end of the table.
“No, I’m fine alone,” he said. “I like to look up at the sky and marvel at God’s creation. It’s a clear night. I’m in no danger of stumbling.”
It was a pastime that he often indulged in, this watching of the skies. He wished he knew what more of the stars were called, and why they seemed to change position with the season. Although he was, by Upper Canadian standards, a reasonably well-educated man — he had been a schoolteacher before he was called to God, and had read a great deal more than most people, even many ministers — he often felt a hankering to educate himself further. With each piece of information he learned, he felt more in awe of what God had created. He promised himself that the next time he had a few pennies extra, he would look for a book about the stars and learn more of their names. Or perhaps he could see what was available at the new public reading-room that had opened in Picton.
He walked along the street to the bridge, where he decided to lean his back up against the rail to steady himself while he tried to locate the trio of stars that formed Orion’s belt. As he turned to settle his position, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure had just appeared around the corner of the mill building that nestled by the edge of the river. He shifted himself a little, making it look as though he was merely making himself more comfortable. This allowed him to glance over to where the figure stood watching him in turn, and from that angle he could more clearly see the man’s face. It was Francis Renwell — he was sure of it!
He felt the bile rise in his throat as he glimpsed the face of his son-in-law, the man he was convinced was responsible for his daughter’s death.
He moved toward the figure as fast as he dared in the darkness, but by the time he reached the corner of the mill, the man had disappeared. He searched in vain, his anger growing. He wanted his say … he wanted to tell Renwell that he knew he had killed Sarah, and that he would do everything in his power to bring him to account, but he was denied the opportunity. The man had vanished into the anonymity of the night.
Lewis trudged back to the carpenter’s house, the stars now forgotten.
The next morning, Lewis approached his host and asked after the
