“You know, whenever people take things into their own hands … the only ones who suffer … are the good hard-working folks who have better things to do with their time.” The man subsided into an exhausted silence.
Lewis smiled. He’d heard much the same sentiments from the older folks on any of the circuits that had been settled by United Empire Loyalists, those Americans who had stayed true to the King during the Revolutionary War and who had been hounded out of the States for their pains. They had a basic mistrust of rabble-rousers, and with good reason, he figured. It was ironic that many of these were now the same people who were viewed with suspicion by the government as harbouring pro-American sentiments, an opinion based almost solely on their stubborn refusal to accept the established religion. How many times do you have to prove your loyalty?
He sat for another hour while the old-timer got his second wind and rambled on. Every once in a while someone would get up and disappear somewhere on the other side of the parade ground, but would almost immediately be replaced by someone else coming in. The call for militia must have been quite general, but what on earth they were going to do with the old fellow next to him, he had no idea.
He was about to get up and go looking for something to eat when an officer in a commandant’s uniform strode through the room. He looked neither to the left nor the right, but Lewis realized that this must be the man he was looking for, and rose to block his path.
“What can I do for you, sir?” the man said impatiently.
“You can give me an exemption.”
“What? Former militia? Been pestered into coming here?”
Lewis smiled. “Yes, that’s about it.”
The officer snorted. “Honestly, I don’t know what they’re thinking. Anyone can see that you’re a preacher. Preachers and old men — what am I supposed to do with any of you? Have you got your papers?”
Lewis nodded.
“Follow me.”
Lewis almost had to run to keep up with him. They entered a small office, and the officer rummaged through a pile of papers and extracted a form.
“Let’s see them, then.” He held out his hand. Lewis passed him his documents.
“Oh … Methodist. Been having a rough time of it?”
“There are some who seem to think that just because my church originated in America that that is where my loyalties lie,” Lewis conceded.
“Damn bunch of fools. Let me guess — your parents were Loyalists, you were born here, you fought in the War of 1812, and you’d be perfectly willing to fight again except for the fact that you’ve found the Lord.”
“All true, except for the last part. I don’t think I’d ever be willing to fight again. I saw too much the last time around.”
He knew he was taking a chance by saying this, but the officer didn’t strike him as the sort of man who would take offence at an honest statement.
He didn’t. He treated him to a penetrating stare, then signed the form with a flourish.
“There you go, Preacher. And if I were you, I’d be careful who you share your sentiments with.”
Lewis nodded and was about to go, but turned back. “Just one thing …”
“Yes?”
“There’s a blind old gaffer out in the ready room who’s determined to do his bit. Can you find something for him that wouldn’t be too taxing? You’ll break his heart if you send him home.”
The officer heaved a sigh. “You know, I’ve got a whole platoon of old men who do nothing but sweep the parade ground every day because they’re not fit for anything else.” Then he smiled. “But I’ll do my best to get him enlisted again. Good luck.”
VII
The Wesleyans had been about their wicked work again, or so Lewis was informed the next time he rode into Demorestville. This was according to the Varneys, who were quite upset by it.
“They’re telling everyone that Methodist Episcopals are American spies,” Mrs. Varney told him. “They’re saying that joining the Methodist Episcopal Church is an act of disloyalty and will be viewed as treason by the government.”
“It nearly always has been viewed as the next thing to treason by the government,” Lewis returned mildly. “They’d have us all Anglicans, you know that. The Wesleyans would have us all Wesleyans. The only ones who seem able to leave us alone are the Quakers. Just ignore the talk. It will settle down as soon as somebody catches Bill Johnston.”
The notorious pirate had been marauding up and down the St. Lawrence River again, and in that opportunistic way that all rogues have, seemed to have thrown his lot in with the bands of American Patriots who were determined to invade Canada and relieve its inhabitants of the yoke of British tyranny, whether they wanted relief or not. No one who lived along the shore of the St. Lawrence River felt entirely safe, but Johnston had a particular vindictiveness for anything British, and had masterminded what appeared to be retaliation for their sending The Caroline plummeting over Niagara Falls.
The British ship Sir Robert Peel had been peacefully moored at Well’s Island when twenty-five of Johnston’s men, dressed as Indians, boarded it in the middle of the night. Armed to the teeth, they had forced the passengers into a small cabin on the shore, then sailed the ship off to loot it at their leisure.
Newspaper reports varied in the amount of booty Johnston took from the Peel. The rumour mill added and subtracted and embellished, but one thing was clear: the pirate had made off with the payroll intended for British troops in Canada, as well as a large quantity of the passengers’ valuables found aboard.
“They say he took a hundred thousand pounds,” Mrs. Varney reported anxiously.
“Nay, there’s never that much money in the whole world,” Varney said. “A hundred thousand American dollars, maybe.”
“We’re all going to be murdered in our beds.” She sighed.
“He’s a thief and a brigand, but I’ve never heard him described as a murderer,” Lewis pointed out.
Mrs. Varney looked at him in wonderment. “Now, there’s a Christian attitude for you,” she said. “My goodness, you have charity even for a pirate.”
“It’s not charity — it’s fact,” Lewis said. “I just don’t like all these wild rumours. The facts are the facts.”
In any event, it appeared that the pirates had set the Peel on fire and left, and according to the newspapers, Johnston had taken to wearing the ship’s flag as a sash. True to form, he had the temerity to confirm these reports with a proclamation that was reprinted widely. In it he claimed to be a commander-in-chief in something called “the patriot service of Upper Canada” and took full responsibility for the attack on the Sir Robert Peel.
His words both reassured Americans and threw down the gauntlet at Britain’s feet:
My headquarters were an island in the St. Lawrence River without the jurisdiction of the United States, at a place named by me Fort Wallace. I am well acquainted with the boundary line, and know which of the islands do and which do not belong to the United States, and in the selected I wished to be positive and not locate within the jurisdiction of the United States, and had reference to the decision of the commissioners under the sixth article of the treaty of Ghent, done at Utica in the state of New York, 13th of June, 1822, I know the number of islands and by that decision, it was British territory.
I yet hold possession of that station, and we also occupy a station some 20 or more miles from the boundary of the United States, in what was His Majesty’s dominions until occupied by us. I act under orders. The object of my movements is the independence of the Canadas. I am not at war with the commerce or property