A beautiful rebel : a romance of Upper Canada in eighteen hundred and twelve

Preface

It has long been one of my ambitions to write this tale or somewhat like it, re-creating in romantic form the early vicissitudes of fortune in the life of my native province. I have long felt, as the result of a close study of old Upper Canadian History, that no portion of our continent contains more fascinating and tragic material for the novelist, than does the triangular peninsula bounded by the Great Lakes, the Ottawa River and the Upper St. Lawrence.

Here, our early settlers, many of whom for principle forsook homes to the south, found a bracing and temperate climate and a land, a veritable garden of the gods. Here Simcoe, that wise and practical idealist, scholar, soldier and statesman, founded a province which happily has become the nucleus of a vaster British Canada, and nourished it in the stability of British law and the arts of peace. Here, later, that other great saviour of Canada, Brock, during the summer and autumn of 1812, in the face of fearful odds, held this valuable outpost of empire for Britain and the Canadian people, and, in the struggle, laid down his life as a brave soldier of the Empire.

When our history is truly written, as it must be some day, it will be found that the Canada of to-day owes more than she can ever repay to the memory of this great soldier and man. In a dark hour for the country, when few remained- steadfast, when the secret

PREFACE traitor and open enemy had perverted or cowed those who should have been loyal ; and when many despaired : he, by his firmness of purpose and decisive action, drove back the overwhelming tide of invasion, and made possible the birth and development of a new, young and independent nation, under the British Crown on the northern part of this continent.

Happily, all of the old bitterness has long since passed away, and our Anglo-celtic brothers in the Republic to the south will be as interested in the struggle of the Canadian people as an element in race-development as the Canadians have been in that of New England, Old New York, Virginia or Louisiana. To the many readers of Hawthorne, Howells, Cooper, Cable, Mitchell, Miss Johnston, and Wister, I dedicate this slight addition to the historical fiction of our continent. To the British over-sea, but in the Empire I present these pages, in the hope that they will realize that the true strength of Empire depends not on trade or commerce, not on force or political diplomacy; but on the common loyalty of her children at home and abroad to the highest instincts and traditions of a great people.

Ottawa, Canada, Feb'y, 1909.

Wilfred Campbell

Contents

Chapter Page

I. The Envoy 9

II. The Inn IN THE Forest .... 14

CHAPTER I The Envoy

IT was in the evening of a beautiful day in the early summer of 1812, a year most memorable in the history of the fortunes of Canada, that a horseman might have been seen riding slowly along a rude road, or rather blazed pathway, which wound among and over some forest-clad hills and swamp-lands on the Canadian shore of Lake Erie.

He was young and distinguished-looking, slightly above the average height, with a handsome, sensitive face, over-refined for the struggle with the rough life of the frontier in which he was now travelling. His carriage and dress both showed him to be of the military profession, but not of the rude pioneer type, rather that of the environment of courts and camps of the old world.

In spite of a stern manner, rather habitual than natural, and his upright, soldierly bearing, there was about the young man's handsome, youthful countenance, when at rest, a suggestion of thought, of secret selfconference and melancholy, which indicated some inward influence which saddened his nature; though the pride and repression of the man of rank forbade that he should show it openly. This was just sufficient to give character to, and to render interesting a personality which was otherwise frank and light-hearted.

Now, however, he was weary and anxious, as he was fearful that he had lost his way, and, for several reasons was desirous of reaching his journey's end as soon as possible.

Beautiful was the wild aspect of nature about him, appealing impressively to his slightly pensive spirit, as it continuously revealed itself in glimpses of far-stretching lake and marshy shore, this giving place in turn to shaded avenues and groined arches of vast primeval forest, under which his horse wended its way over needles of the pine, as though in the nave of a great cathedral. By this time, however, the traveller had become so worried that he barely more than noted that the country grew ever more bleak and lonely, and the road more difficult to follow as he proceeded.

He had ridden since early morning from the village of Newark, lately the military capital of the Province, and even at the time of the opening of this story, more than a hamlet ; and though he was bound on a mission of a confidential nature, had foolishly, following the whim of over-confident youth and the daring of the old-world officer, refused the offer of a guide made by the official at that place.

"I came from York alone," he had returned in answer to the offer, "and it shall not be said that one who campaigned in Spain cannot follow the windings of a Colonial backwoods road."

But now, as he moved slowly along with growing

THE ENVOY misgiving, he heartily wished that he had accepted the services of the Indian who was to have been his companion and conductor. As he descended into a dark gully under the trees, where the path, which the horse seemed instinctively to follow, lost itself in the increasing gloom, he carefully examined the priming of his pistols, and began seriously to meditate on the possibilities of his having to spend a night in the forest without any provision for himself or his horse, which, high-strung and restive, now began to show signs of the effect of the long and wearisome journey. His mind now reverted to unpleasant recollections of tales which he had heard at York, of the prevalence of wolves and other wild beasts, which at this time of the year were unusually ferocious. He also remembered, in the isolation of this solitude, that though the savages of the Province were disposed to be loyal, being of the Mohawk najtion, and those of the neighboring country to the south broken in spirit since the defeat of the schemes of the great warrior and chief, Pontiac, yet the growing disquiet caused by the recent rumors of war between the young Republic and Britain was rapidly developing into what was soon to become a sort of gueHlla warfare on the borders of the lakes. He realized that this part of the Province which he approached, was so close to the enemy's frontier as to be most probably the theatre of secret and open invasion and depredation on the part of both the Americans and those of the redmen who were their allies.

This conviction was not made more comforting to the young soldier by the knowledge he possessed that a number of the settlers were said for many reasons to be disaffected, and some even suspected of being secretly in league with the Americans for the conquest of the country; and he had been warned that the section he was now approaching contained the headquarters of one of those disaffected, if not actually rebellious factions. Therefore, as the evening declined toward night, and he seemed to penetrate deeper and deeper into the dense mazes of the forest, in a place where, though he was unaware of it, the road crossed a neck of land, his suspicions and misgivings rose to the point of alarm at his lonely and helpless position.

Since the early morning, after he had left the more thickly settled country in the vicinity of Newark, he had rarely seen a sign of a human habitation, save a stray settler's cabin in some sparse clearing in the forest or on the lake shore, and few persons had he met or overtaken, he was not sure which, on his tedious journey.

The first of these was an Indian, who in the middle of the morning had risen like a shadow at his side, as he threaded a gloomy pine forest that skirted a deep ravine. The dusky savage, though of a lithe and panther-like movement and appearance, showed a friendly face when he lifted it to the other, as he strode beside the horse for a few moments, keeping pace with its advance; and the rider, with the reserve of the soldier, merely let his hand slide toward the pistol at his holster. But the Indian following this motion by a sort of intuition, only said, pointing to his breast, "Mohawk, friend, love Great Father ;" and after walking or rather

THE ENVOY gliding beside the horseman for some time in a dignified, sedate silence, reiterated the word "friend;" then, in a thickly wooded declivity, disappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as he had appeared, and was swallowed up in the lonely gloom and inky depths of the dense forest round about.

CHAPTER II The Inn in the Forest

WHEN the surprise, occasioned by the Indian's sudden disappearance had passed, the young soldier's mind reverted to the latter's personality, which was so utterly different from what he had been led to expect. His experience of the natives had been one only of casual observance, as they but rarely visited the Capital, when they moved with silent mien, alien from the place and its inhabitants.

He was surprised to see that this Indian was dressed rather as a trapper or guide might have been, very simply; and that the only weapon he carried was a light gun, with a narrow barrel. This last, the soldier in him perceived, while he realized that the aborigine seemed more a mere denizen of the wood than the romantic befeathered and bewampumed savage which he had expected.

It was while he was pondering on this and the savage's appearance and disappearence in so dramatic and shadowy a manner, that he emerged from the pine forest, under which he had been threading his way, and suddenly saw before him a wide far-stretching arm of the lake, smiling and pulsating, blue and illusive in the

THE INN IN THE FOREST 15 sunlight; while between him and the forest which partially hid its wind-stirred bosom, stood the rude inn or stopping-place, where he had been told it would be necessary to halt for rest, and to refresh both himself and his beast. So once more urging his horse, he soon drew rein opposite the tavern door. The building was a rude log hut, standing in the centre of a rough clearing, with a single door and window in its front, the latter without glazing, and a chimney built of sticks and mud, which rose slightly above the centre of its low sloping roof of grooved, hollow logs overlapping each other, and from which a faint curl of blue smoke was now ascending. Near this building was another of a similar appearance and structure, but with no chimney or window, which suggested that it was a storehouse or shop of some sort, in that lonely spot in the wilderness.

As the young soldier instinctively cast his eye over the water before alighting, he saw with some astonishment, a small schooner or large lugger, spreading her canvas to the fresh breeze which had begun to ripple its surface. While he gazed in surprise, she disappeared into the open lake around the slope of a wooded bluff ; and he fancied he saw an American flag run up to her peak, ere she dream-like swept from his vision.

With a startled exclamation, which he immediately regretted, he sprang to the ground and gave the bridle to one of two men who had been seated on a rude bench beside the door. The men were smoking short pipes, fashioned out of corncobs ; and as the one who seemed mine host of the inn came forward to the horse's head, he knocked the dead ashes out against the beast's shoulder, and pocketed the pipe, while he surveyed the traveller and his horse with an eager curiosity, which, if vulgar, was but natural to persons reared in the lonely surroundings of pioneer life in the backwoods settlements. He was a short, thickset man, with a full beard, and was a fair type of the lower class of his day and environment. But just then he was mine host of the only inn to be found in all that lonely territory — and he played his part accordingly.

"I want a meal and some food for my horse," said the young soldier, as he turned toward the door.

"You can have both," answered the other, "but our fare is only for poor folks. Since this war has threatened we have," — he was going on in a long apology, but the traveller stopped him.

"Give me what you have," he said shortly and sternly, "only provide my horse with your best, and have a care, for he is inclined to be restless."

"I guessed as much, sir," and he examined the animal with the hand of an hostler. "You will have come far?" he added, with a slight tone of interrogation. As he spoke, the other man, who had also been examining the rider and horse with a curious gaze, came forward. He was of a lank figure, with a long, crafty face and a furtive eye, in which lurked a low cunning, cloaked in an appearance of sly humor.

It was with an obsequious manner, which thinly veiled a coarse satire, that he addressed the young soldier. "A fine bit of horseflesh that, I reckon ; none its equal this side of the States."

THE INN IN THE FOREST 17

"He has had hard usage," returned the other, tersely, ignoring the intended flattery.

"Come far?" The sly inquisitor's smile and insinuating tones jarred on the traveller's nerves, as he answered shortly, watching his interrogator's crafty face, "From Newark this morning."

"From York to there, I reckon," continued the man in a sort of half question.

The young man merely nodded, and remained silent.

"And where might you be bound for?" continued the other, with that freedom of the pioneer, and that amazing inquisitiveness which so irritates the soul of the European in the New World.

The traveller hesitated. He liked neither this man's appearance, nor his sly insinuation, and he resented his familiar manner of seeking knowledge about what was none of his business.

But he was asked a direct question, and he felt that to refuse to answer might be construed as a desire to hide his destination, and so might create suspicion, so he answered as before, shortly:

"To Castle Monmouth. Do you know of the place? Is it far from here?"

At his answer, a quick, shrewd glance of intelligence flashed between the two men. But the one who had asked the question paused to take a slow pull at his pipe, ere he drawled:

"That we do. Ain't the owner fair king of all the blamed country hereabouts?" and there was an under current of spite in the man's manner and words, as he added, "We ain't like the Yanks. We're still under the rule of King Garge."

"What do you mean?" There was a sternness in the traveller's manner which made the other step back.

"Oh, nothin', he's main friendly when he ain't otherwise; but he's got a tidy lot of King's land, most as large as the State I come from. But I hain't got nothin' agin him. Fact is I'm bound for his place myself soon. I've got my eye sot on some of his land."

"Why.? Does he sell it.?"

"Naw! Don't you know the Colonel? He jest gives it away. But you hev to be on his soft side to get it. But you hain't after land then?" he added slyly.

The stranger started at his mistake; and with a cleverness not to be expected, parried the question with another.

"Then you are from the States, are you not?"

"Ya'as, but sometime back," replied the man suspiciously, taken aback in his turn ; "since the war. My folks was Britishers, they was — not that they was any too well treated and got their desarts. Now, as for me, I was well edicated, I was, and made a school teacher down to the States. But here there ain't no show for book larnin', except for those 'Piscopalians and Presbyters, and Romans. They have the hull gol dam show."

"Ah, the Government hasn't appreciated your scholarship," observed the young man, with a sense of the ludicrous aspect of this New World doctor of learning.

"That they didn't; though I say it, I'm as clever at figures, and parsin', and spellin' as any one in these here

THE INN IN THE FOREST parts, and I kept a singin' school one whole winter down to Jersey. Though I'm lyal as sez it, it's only a Scotchman or an Irishman who can keep school here. There's no room for the nateral born genus of the nateral born son of the sile."

"Then why do you not cross the line.'^" asked the other.

"Because, darn me, as sez it, Silas Fox is lyal, spite of how things is goin'. But say, stranger," he asked quickly, "you wouldn't care to trade that beast of your'n, now would you.''"

"No," returned the soldier, "he is not for sale;" and so saying he turned with a contemptuous indifference, and went toward the house.

The other looked after him for a moment, then he slapped his thigh with a sly chuckle of cunning and self-satisfaction.

"Ye don't know me, but I know you," he ejaculated in a spiteful soliloquy, "and Silas Fox can lick tarnation off every darn subject of King Garge, and the day is comin' when King Garge and King Monmouth and Gov'ner Gore, and the whole jam pack will be swept out of this here country and the Stars and Stripes flyin', and then Silas Fox will have his share of a tidy mess of land, and a fine gal for a wife. But I must be off, for I'm goin'," — and he shook his fist in the direction of the inn door, — "my starched friendj to prepare the way for you."

So saying, or thinking, he lifted a light pack, which lay near, on to his back, and taking up a gun, stole like that beast whose name he bore, into the absorbing deeps of the neighboring forest.

CHAPTER III The Pioneee Peeacher

THE young officer approached the rude building and stood for a moment in the open doorway, gazing with some interest on its equally rude interior. Two small windows, in opposite walls, one unglazed, and one covered with a bit of coarse, thin, white cloth, which kept out the inclement weather at the chill seasons of the year, gave a dim light to an apartment which would surprise the Canadian of to-day, but which was only too common in those early pioneer years of the infant colony.

A square place in the center of the house, under the opening in the roof which served as a chimney, was set apart to contain the fire, which was built on a sort of hearth. Here an iron pot was simmering over the embers above which it was suspended; and a woman now and again stirred its contents with a wooden ladle or spoon, when she was not engaged in placing a rude meal on a table under the open window. The floor of the apartment, which comprised the whole building, was made of rough logs hewn flat on their upper surface. The walls were of logs, plastered with clay and moss, and there was no furniture save of the simplest and rudest. A few stools made of blocks of wood, about the fire or at the table, served for seats. Several children, half-naked, played on the floor with a dog, which rose and growled as the stranger entered, while they stood, finger-in-mouth, gazing at him in childish awe. A space at each end of the room was allotted for sleeping places, one for the family, the other for chance travellers, benighted at this primitive inn. These places were raised slightly above the floor, and heaped with the soft branches of the pine, spruce, cedar and hemlock, which gave a pleasant odor to the otherwise close atmosphere of the place.

It was an interior which, though lacking in all that refinement demanded, yet provided, no doubt, on many a bleak night a simple comfort to the hardy pioneer, who, travel-worn and weary, and sheltered from the inclement storm, lay or half reclined, wrapt in a single blanket or a fur covering, upon its branchy couch, and watched the showers of sparks shoot upward from its flaming cheery hearth, which gave both light and heat to the apartment.

The woman of the house had a careworn, faded appearance, pale eyes and hair, and dark, sunburnt face. She wore a simple homespun dress and no foot covering. At her invitation he entered and was about to take his place at the rude table, when the doorway was again darkened, and a voice came in a benediction :

"The Lord be with all in this house."

"Amen to that. Parson Webb," cried the woman, her face lighting up with a homely welcome; and forgetting her other guest, she went forward and received the preacher with a warmth that showed her appreciation.

He was a small man, somewhat over middle age, witK hair heavily sprinkled with gray, and a wiry frame which endured much and was inured to travel. He had a kindly, gentle face that mingled a wise shrewdness with its spiritual expression. His pleasant gray eyes could grow rapt in religious emotion, or twinkle with a kindly humor. Parson Webb, as he was called, was a Methodist circuit rider, one of those worthy, earnest men who carried the gospel, and with it much consolation, to the rude homes of the settlers throughout the lakeside region, and penetrated into the remote wilderness beyond.

What Presbyterianism and Anglicanism have been to the pioneer West during the latter half of the nineteenth century, Methodism was to the older Upper Canada of its first three decades. The Churches of England and Scotland both accomplished noble work in their different spheres, especially in the education of the youth, as well as in the ministration of religion. But the Methodist preacher was their forerunner in the more remote, more sparsely settled districts. Needing no orders of command beyond the order of the Spirit to spread the Gospel, these earnest men penetrated everywhere, and brought the comfort of the simplest tenets of Christianity, so dear to the poor and humble, into the lowliest places ; and beside the primitive firesides of the forest-dwellers, gave hope, inspiration and comfort to living and dying, whom no other form of Christianity could then reach.

Much has been truly written by Parkman and others in praise of the early Jesuit missionaries among the Canadian Indians ; but, strange to say, the heroic work of these early missionaries of Protestantism has been sadly overlooked by our writers. A type of such a class was this man who now advanced into the apartment and, with his presence, seemed to bring so much pleasure and comfort to the poor female inmate of that lonely cabin.

After enquiring in kindly and thoughtful terms as to herself, her husband and children, for each of the latter of whom he had a few words of kindly admonition or pleasantry, and who met his advances with no shyness or fear, he addressed the young officer with a certain homely dignity, which, while it showed the self-possession of one who is accustomed to confer more than he receives, yet revealed a recognition of the other's profession and rank.

The other, to whom the newcomer appealed in an unexpected way, rose and returned his salutation in a manner, which, if more formal than that of the preacher, showed that he appreciated his presence, and in cordial tones requested that he would share his meal.

"That I will, and right gladly, sir," said the preacher ; "for, as this good woman knows, I am of those who believe the laborer is worthy of his meat;" and so saying, he followed his companion's example in seating himself at the table, while the woman bestirred herself and, with many apologies hastened to supply new dishes and certain dainties which, though but rude, she knew her guest would appreciate.

"This is indeed a lonely part of the country to travel in, sir," said the preacher, addressing the young man, "and I fancy you are but new to it."

"It is," returned the soldier, "but so far I have found my way. Men of my profession learn early to rely upon themselves and love to encounter new dangers and difficulties alone."

"And men of my calling," returned the other, "learn to lean upon others, and to face troubles and trials not alone, but trusting in a higher power."

"You speak the truth, reverend sir," said the young officer, appreciating both the truth of the rebuke, and the gentle manner of its administration, "but my profession is a hard one, and self-reliance is one of its first and most difficult lessons — ^but here comes our meal."

As he spoke, the woman who had been stooping over the pot at the fire, approached the table with two wooden bowls, each containing a savory mess. It was simply a mixture of meats and vegetables, but it seemed acceptable to the nostrils of the refined European, and he was about to attack his share of the viands, when the little man raised his hand, and said solemnly, "Let us, sir, first ask a blessing on what we are about to receive."

The other paused and bowed his head, while the woman hushed the children and stood silent, as the preacher, in fervent and quaint terms which, though new to the young officer, did not offend, as he had apprehended, his sensitive, cultured ear, besought a blessing on the household — father, mother, children, and the stranger beneath the roof. Man of the world as he was, and by social and other prejudices averse to any but the forms of the Established Church, there was somewhat about the whole action and personality of this man, his quaint manner of expression, and the simple earnestness of his petition, covering, as it did, all the wants and needs of the rude household so as to sanctify them, and with so kindly a wisdom and thoughtfulness running through it all, that the young soldier was surprised to find himself entering into the spirit of this primitive service and realizing, for the first time, a domestic and everyday character in religion which was new to him.

When it was ended, having been punctuated by fervent "amens" from the woman, he found himself somewhat sobered in mood, and less inclined to converse as he resumed his meal.

But if he was so disposed, not so was the preacher, by either instinct or inclination. He was in the wilderness, not only to instil religion, but also to comfort and solace ; and this he proceeded to do while he ate, directing his conversation now to the woman and anon to her husband, who had come in during the prayer; and it was not long before the whole place was radiating with the cheerfulness and quaint humor which he seemed to bring with him.

He appeared to know all the people in the remote locality, their joys and their sorrows, and he carried, besides, a stock of news and information which made him welcome everywhere, though occasionally his religious ministrations were not.

The presence of the young officer, however, on this occasion placed a certain restraint on the conversation, and the man and woman retired with some of the children out of doors, so that the travellers might converse, if they cared to, in quiet.

When they had left the apartment, the preacher turned to his silent companion, and asked in a totally different tone of voice:

"You are from York, are you not?"

"Yes," returned the soldier shortly.

"From the Governor, and on his commission?" suggested, rather than queried the other, significantly.

"How know you that?" answered the young man sharply, as he rose to his feet.

"I mean no intrusion on your affairs," returned the preacher. "I would only warn you, and perhaps save you from trouble, and even danger."

"Trouble ! Danger !" cried the other. "What mean you?"

"Are you not Captain Etherington of the Governor's staff? Have I not seen you at York? And it is well known that none goes this road from that source, save to one place hereabouts."

"And that place ?" sternly questioned the young man.

"Castle Monmouth."

"How you have guessed my mission, if indeed you have," answered Etherington, earnestly, yet with some heat, "I know not ; but I command you, I entreat you, in the Governor's, in the King's name, in the cause of freedom, for the safety of this Province, that you will do nothing to injure or oppose my object."

"None need preach loyalty to me, young sir," said the other calmly. "I am true to the King and the country, even if I do not see eye to eye with all his representatives, and though I am not bHnd to faults and petty tyrannies of some of their officials, I merely meant to warn you, to help you. Your secret is safe in my keeping, though I doubt if it is a secret in these parts by now."