he found out, but by then it was too late.
When Sarah had written to tell them that she was expecting another child, Lewis had asked for a posting nearby, close enough that Betsy could be a help when the babe arrived. It was not new life that claimed their attention, however, but an unexpected death. It was to them that the task fell of preparing the body and arranging the burial after they had found Sarah in the cabin, Martha screaming in her cradle, her father nowhere to be found. Lewis was convinced that there had been argument, an altercation, and that Renwell had killed her and fled into the night. The doctor could find no evidence of foul play, and in his opinion Sarah had died of “natural causes” — just what those causes might have been, he couldn’t say.
Renwell had disappeared that night and not a whisper had been heard of him since. What had transpired between them that would have caused him to choke the life out of his beautiful wife, Lewis’s only daughter? For who else could it have been but Francis Renwell? If Lewis had not been a man of God, he would have cursed the name.
Betsy was stirring, trying to rise. “Tea?” he asked again. “It won’t take long.”
He always tried to adopt a cheerful tone when Betsy was down. It struck a false note, he knew, but he wasn’t sure what else to do, and at least then one of them sounded cheerful. Sometimes she didn’t answer him at all when he made these simple inquiries, but this time she leaned up on one elbow, groaning as her weight shifted onto inflamed joints.
“I’ll get it.”
“No, no, I’m fine. You stay where you are. I’m on my way again tomorrow and you’ll have to get your own tea then.”
It would take him four weeks to ride the entire circuit, he figured — four weeks of meetings, of preaching, of calling on the sick and dying, and welcoming the newborn. Four weeks when Betsy would be more or less on her own, for he would seldom be close enough to return home at day’s end. He must speak to the boys again and urge them to help their mother more while he was gone. The problem was, he thought, that some days she was fine, and you wouldn’t know anything had ever been the matter, but then that was the intermittent nature of the fever that plagued her. The boys, in the way of the young, assumed that one good day was equivalent to full recovery, and forgot that their mother had been deathly ill and still needed looking after.
“There were some men here looking for you,” Betsy said as she hobbled over to the stool beside the stove.
“What did they want?”
“All the veterans are being called out to patrol the borders in case Mackenzie attacks with the Americans. You’re to go to Kingston and report.”
“What, all us old men? That’s ridiculous.”
“They said there are armies massed all along the border. You’re not going, are you?”
“No. I’m an ordained minister now. They can’t make me fight again.”
“The men were quite nasty. They seemed to think you should have gone already.” She looked a little frightened, but whether it was the thought of Americans attacking or just the notion that he might be in danger, he wasn’t sure. It certainly wasn’t the thought of being left alone. She’d be left alone whether he reported to Kingston or not, and after all these years as the wife of a saddlebag preacher, she was surely used to it.
“They can think what they like. I’ll ride to Kingston and get a deferment, but not until I’ve made at least one complete round of the circuit. I’ve only just been appointed here. All the good Methodist Society members would think it most remiss if I left them on their own so soon.”
She 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
