the front,” was much distressed at the lack of money to pay his men.
He was advised that a line of express horses had been established
between London and Sarnia, and he accordingly detailed Captain Kydd
as messenger with a despatch to Colonel John Askin. Captain Kydd
tried to evade the commission, as his regimentals were in no trim
for appearance at headquarters. His brown moleskin shooting-jacket
had seen three sousings in the Maitland, besides much other hard
usage as pillow or blanket on mud floors; his Black Hawk cap was too
small and sat awkwardly on his head, and the rest of his attire was
in keeping. However, he went. After many adventures he reached a
station where a retired naval officer and his young and pretty wife
were domiciled in a log hut some eight feet high, which was roofed
with bass-wood troughs and contained but one room. The kitchen was a
bark shanty, a few feet away. There were no signs of cattle about,
but the frequent ringing of a cow-bell gave the impression that one
must be stabled in the kitchen. Not so, however. A rope connected
the “parlour” with the second building, the bell in use being an old
cow-bell, the ringing of which was the work of the pretty young wife,
who in her own apartment tried, poor soul, to forget her surroundings
by keeping up what semblance she could of her former state. The bush
in those days was full of such anomalies. When the express equine was
brought to the door he had neither saddle nor bridle, a hair halter,
perhaps provided by his own tail, his only garnishing. Nothing but the
bell-rope could be found to assist in improvising a harness. Captain
Kydd had not the heart to deprive the lady of that, and he continued
his journey caparisoned with hair halter alone. His tale of danger and
discomfort, through what seemed an interminable swamp, can well be
believed,--wet, cold and hungry, without sight of another soul until
he reached the next station, where he was received and kindly treated
by the women relatives of our own Edward Blake. These ladies looked
at the half-drowned horse and mud-bespattered man; and full of pity
for a supposed backwoodsman in dire distress, were ready to offer him
their best hospitality. When he put into their hands his passport as
“Captain Kydd of the First Hurons, abroad on special service,” they did
not attempt to disguise their amusement, but laughed long and heartily.
After a rest of an hour or two, a bath, a rubbing down which deprived
him of his coat of mud, and a hearty appreciation from himself and
his beast of the good fare set before them, he was ready to pursue
his journey. At length London was reached, and the precious despatch
put into Colonel Askin’s hands--but with no result, for there was
neither official money nor credit. Instead of coin, Colonel Askin gave
the messenger a packet addressed to Captain James Strachan, Military
Secretary at Government House, Toronto. In vain did Kydd bring forward
his coat and Black Hawk cap as sufficient reason for not undertaking
a further trip; nor yet were his sufferings from hunger and fatigue
on his recent journey allowed to stand in the way of his undergoing
fresh distress. The best mode of conveyance obtainable was a common
farm-waggon, in which he made his way at a foot pace. He met many
people en route, most of them as shabby as himself, and all talking
war to the knife. He arrived in Toronto late at night on the third
day, but waited until morning to present his despatches at Government
House. There the much befogged Secretary not unreasonably looked with
disdain at the coat and cap of the special messenger; the despatch was
taken within for Sir Francis’ perusal, with the result that another
packet, of large size and said to contain the necessary money, was
put into Captain Kydd’s hands, and an order given him to return to
London by express. Express meant a dirty farm-sleigh with a torn canvas
cover. His only travelling companion was a Brant Indian returning to
the Reserve, an intelligent, well-educated man and a most pleasant
companion. Together they were upset from the sleigh, and together they
righted it and its sail-like cover, to resume the weary journey. Upon
presentation to Colonel Askin, the important-looking packet was found
to be worthless, for the document bore no signature. Captain Kydd was
given his original Rosinante, with the same hair halter, and sent back
to Sarnia, while another special messenger was despatched to Toronto
for the necessary signatures.
The despatch and its bearer had variations. When Black Willie Wallace,
of Dunlop’s Scouts, was sent with one from Clinton to Goderich it took
nine days to travel the twelve miles and pass the various taverns on
the way. The importance of the despatch entered even the childish mind,
and one small daughter, whose father was a bearer, cried out as the
latter rode up to the gate in full regimentals, “Here’s father with
another dampatch.” Always warlike and politicians, these small babes
sometimes dealt unpleasant truths to the untrue. One Tory atom when
questioned “Where’s your father?” replied, “Father gone to fight the
dirty rebels, and brother Dan’el gone to fight the dirty rebels, too.”
Colonel Dunlop swore not a little when Kydd reported himself
empty-handed, but tried to keep up his own hopes as well as those of
his men. Weeks and months went by, and no money came; privations were
great, and the mental trial was added of the knowledge of farms at home
going to ruin, families unprovided for, and no prospect for the future.
In March the order for return came; but there was no word of any money.
The companies were told off for the homeward trip, one day apart, and
the record is of a terrible journey in the broken March weather, with
roads at their very worst. Dunlop remained behind with others of the
officers, for, as he wrote Government in terms not to be mistaken,
he had become personally liable to the local stores for clothing and
necessaries, and would not leave the place with such indebtedness
unpaid.
“Glory is not a very productive appanage, it is true, but in the
absence of everything else it is better than nothing”--but these
impoverished lads had little or no glory, and they returned without
having seen what was technically known as active service. Dunlop’s
illustration of the _ne plus ultra_ of bad pay was Waterloo, where
each private there performed the hardest day’s work ever done for a
shilling. Now he thought the brave Hurons in a still worse plight. By
the time pay day did arrive they were not few who expressed the opinion
that the Canadian rebellion was due to the machinations of a “parcel
of poor rogues and a few, a very few, rich fools, one party deserving
accommodation in the penitentiary and the other lodgings in bedlam.”
Dunlop did not allow himself such free speech in regard to the policy
of the Colonial Office, which let numbers be brought to the scaffold or
to the foot of it; but he used no circumspection in words when he dealt
with local mismanagement.
“As syllabubs without a head,
As jokes not laughed at when they’re said,
As needles used without a thread,
Such are Bachelors,”
says an old song. Now Tiger Dunlop might have said, “And when I fell
into some fits of love I was soon cured.” But bachelor as he was, the
well-springs of fraternal love were not dried up in him; nor were
his syllabubs wont to be without a head, nor his jokes unlaughed at.
When he spoke others listened, and his dissatisfaction ended in his
resignation, upon which he addressed the following letter to his brave
Hurons:
“COMRADES,--When I resigned the command of the St. Clair frontier in
March last I endeavoured to express to you in my farewell Order my
gratitude for the generous confidence you had reposed in me, and my
thanks for the steady soldier-like conduct with which you had borne
every privation and met every difficulty. I have now to explain to you
the reason why I voluntarily abandoned a situation in every respect
gratifying to my feelings as the honourable command I then held.
“From the day that I resigned the command to the present hour I have,
at great expense and total neglect of my own personal affairs, been
travelling from one commissariat station to another in order to get
something like justice done you. To the superior military officers my
best thanks are due--Sir John Colborne, Sir F. B. Head, and latterly
Sir G. Arthur, Colonel Foster, and our immediate commanding officer,
the Hon. Colonel Maitland, have treated me with the greatest kindness
and you with the greatest consideration. From men of their rank we
might possibly have submitted to a little hauteur; on the contrary we
have met with the most courteous condescension. The Commissariat, on
the other hand, men infinitely inferior to many of us in birth, rank,
and education, have treated us with the most overweening arrogance and
the most cruel neglect. They have never personally insulted me, for I
am six feet high and proportionately broad across the shoulders; but
the poor farmers have to a man complained to me of their treatment by
these
_Very magnificent three-tailed Bashaws_
of Beef and Biscuit. I grudge none of the labour I have spent, nor
any of the pecuniary sacrifices I have made in your service. My life
and my property are my country’s, and I am willing cheerfully to lay
either or both down when my Sovereign may require them, but my honour
is unalienably my own, and I cannot submit to be made, as I lately
unwittingly have been, the instrument of the most cruel and grinding
oppression, to snatch, without remuneration, his pittance from the
peasant or the bread from his children’s mouths. I have therefore
submitted my resignation, but with no intention of leaving you; I shall
stand with you in all danger, shoulder to shoulder, but it shall be in
the ranks.
“I have to warn you not to judge of a government by the meanest of
its servants, nor let the upstart insolence of a body so contemptible
alienate your affections from your Queen and country; the people
of England are both liberal and just, and were your case fairly
represented to them there is not the slightest doubt immediate steps
would be taken to redress your grievances. The Queen, like other
people, has dirty work to do, and must have dirty fellows do it. The
royal chimney-sweepers who exercise their professional functions in
Buckingham Palace and St. James’s may be very pleasant fellows in their
way, but I doubt much if they are the kind of people that either you or
I would borrow money to drink with, as Shakespeare’s fat Knight says.
“Some little excuse must be had for the poor fellows after all.
That the Commissariat are ‘saucy dogs’ we all must allow, have felt
it; but that they are not too saucy to eat dirty puddings we know,
for cursed dirty puddings they are obliged to bolt, without even
daring to make a wry face at them. Witness the correspondence which
the House of Assembly last winter elicited between the arrogant,
insolent, empty-headed coxcomb at the head of that department and the
Commissaries at Toronto and Penetanguishene. To this the poor devils
are obliged to submit for their piece of silver or morsel of bread.
It is natural, therefore, that the people who have studied so long
in the school of arrogant ill-breeding should be anxious to exhibit
the proficiency they have attained when their turn comes; and it
is possible they may suppose that a Canadian yeoman, who is afraid
of losing all that has been taken from him by offending their High
Mightinesses, may for a time submit to it.
“A broken head or two might remove this delusion and convince them that
_a man is still a man_ though clad in a homespun coat, and that to get
rid of their redundant bile safely they must make it go as hereditary
property does by law, downwards, and alight on the heads of clerks and
issuers, who, living in the hope of one day having it in their power to
abuse their inferiors, will probably submit with more equanimity.
“In applying to the British Parliament for redress, I give you warning
that the Commissariat is the most powerful body you can well attack.
The Duke of Wellington and Lord Grey, Lord Brougham and Lord Lyndhurst,
Sir Robert Peel and Mr. Daniel O’Connell may talk, and all, when in
their turn of power, have provided for the sons of faithful butlers
and respectable valets in the Commissariat--a department particularly
favourable for the offspring of the lower orders (the pay being good
and the work little or nothing), the attainments necessary for its
duties being easily acquired in any parish school, they being comprised
in writing a legible hand and a tolerable acquaintance with the first
four rules of arithmetic. The experiment, however, is well worth
trying, and I trust will be successful.
“With best wishes for your prosperity and hope that you may
henceforward, under the protecting arm of a just Government,
cultivate your fields in peace, I subscribe myself, my comrades and
fellow-soldiers,
“W. DUNLOP,
“_Your late Colonel,
“Commanding the St. Clair Frontier_.”
This letter found its way into all the provincial journals, and made
no little talk. The Kingston _Whig_ says, “Among many other endearing
epithets he calls Mr. Commissary-General Routh an empty-headed,
arrogant, insolent coxcomb. Now the gallant ex-Colonel, according to
his own confession, stands six feet high and is proportionately broad
across the shoulders, and Mr. Commissary is an aged and feeble man,
altogether past the prime of life; would a duel therefore be fair
between the parties? We think not; and yet according to the absurd
notions of modern honour what else can Mr. Commissary do than fight,
unless, indeed, one of his younger and subordinate officers equally
insulted by the gallant ex-Colonel takes up the cudgels in his own and
his chief’s behalf.” But there was no duel. Dunlop had a sovereign
contempt for what he called a lobster-coated puppy, and took his
grievances straight to Colonel Maitland, Commandant at London. There
are always wheels within wheels. The Doctor’s requisitions for food
and drink had been on a generous scale; an assistant commissary had
peremptorily brought things under different conditions, with an amount
of unnecessary red tape which aggravated the Doctor beyond endurance.
A stop was put to the whiskey _in toto_, not on temperance but on
military principles, and that he could not thole. He reached London
at night. Next morning, instead of reporting himself in an ordinary
way, he arrived at morning parade of the 32nd, and there accosted the
Colonel on horseback. Dressed in his usual homespun shepherd’s plaid
and blue bonnet, the Doctor is reported to have delivered himself thus:
“Good-mornin’ to ye, Maitland. Hoo air ye this mornin’?’
“Why, Dunlop, is this you?”
“Yes, ’tis I myself. I’ve just come over from Port Sarnia to lay a
wee mather before ye. I was in command of the volunteers from my own
neighbourhood, farmers and farmers’ sons, who are in the habit of being
well fed and well found in their ain hames, and I generally supplied
them in all they needed at Sarnia, and tried to make things comfortable
for them by givin’ them plenty to eat and plenty to drink; when a
Commissary fellow by the name of Robinson came there, took the mather
in hand, cut off pairt o’ the supplies and disregarded my orders when
I gave requisitions. Now, Maitland, I am here an old army officer,
and I know what it is to feed men, and I’ve come to lay this mather
before you that you may set it right, because I’ve never been in the
habit, and I never will be subjected, to take my orders from a dom
pork-barrel.” Upon which the Colonel nearly fell off his horse. He knew
the Doctor, and enjoyed the originality of the whole complaint.
Why should the good Tiger’s memory be too heavily assailed for his
fondness and capacity for liquids. Maréchal Saxe, in his hale youth,
could toss off a gallon of wine at a draught; and when Wolfe’s men
reached the crest of the hill he had grog served out to them, while he
spoke kind and encouraging words after their terrible climb. Why should
not Goderich and the Tiger appear in these tales oscillating between
history and myth? It was called a Goderich custom to conceal the glass
in the hand while the liquid was poured in; but Whiskey Read, teamster
and trader, earned his sobriquet because his load to Goderich was so
many barrels of the terrible liquid.
In time Dunlop was advised that ten thousand dollars lay to his credit
at the Bank of Upper Canada in Amherstburg. Thus were unnecessary miles
added to a journey already delayed and cruelly long. Doctor and aides
made their way there--that place renowned for loyalty, rattle-snakes
and turkeys--astonishing all Windsor on his way through it by the
display of a half-crown piece which had turned out from some forgotten
pocket corner. So much specie had not been seen there for a long
time; they knew no money but the wild cat shin-plaster. From Windsor
they proceeded by water; and after further adventures, immersions and
escapes, there was the final discovery of Jamie Dougall in a little
low-ceilinged shop, manager of the Bank of Upper Canada. But there was
no money yet for Huron, and they must wait some days for its possible
arrival. So, with as much patience as might be, they established
themselves at Bullock’s Hotel, and after five days’ waiting the money
did arrive. The Doctor in the meantime had intended to divert an hour
by calling upon the officers at Fort Malden; but the dress suit of
claret-coloured cloth, the coat tails lined with pink silk, with which
he had provided himself, was now all too small, and when arrayed in it
he looked and felt so much like the letter T, that he called lustily,
“Kydd, Kydd, come and let me out.” In his dirty homespun and Tam the
visit had to be made, and the straight-jacket was never seen again.
On leaving the village with their precious load a sudden panic took
the person to whose special keeping the sum had been given, and at
the moment of departure he could nowhere be found. The Doctor could
only suppose that both man and money had been kidnapped, and, as
consolation, had recourse to horns with every friend he met. And the
Doctor’s friends were many, and the horns were potent. At length
Doctor, money and aides were all got together and a start was made for
Sarnia. Then followed further adventures, impassable roads, frequent
halts and scanty fare. Just as they were watching the manœuvres of the
migrating fish, and admiring the dexterous way in which they helped
their passage by hugging the shore, they came upon an old walnut
dug-out, abandoned on account of a crack in its side. The bullion
convoy was at this time enjoying the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs.
Sutherland, from whom they procured rags instead of oakum, and with
pitch made a good job of the canoe. Mrs. Sutherland provided them
with what she called a week’s supply of provisions, and following the
example of the fish they began their coasting journey. The provisions
turned out to be ample for double the time, fortunately for them, for
it took them all of that to reach the brave Huron First, by then all at
home and anxiously awaiting the pay so dearly earned on the frontier.
At Sarnia the convoy debarked to pay outstanding dues. At Point
Edward there was a further delay, where the rapids proved a barrier.
Ben Young was left in the boat to fend it from the shore, while the
Doctor, Captain Kydd and James Young, pulling on a stout rope, did tow
work. No sooner were the rapids safely passed than an accumulation
of half-rotten ice stopped the way, honeycombed and soft in the
centre--“for all the world,” as the Doctor said, “like a woman’s baking
of tea-tarts, with a spoonful of jelly in the middle.” They beached the
boat as best they could, and soon had a roaring fire of drift-wood, the
warmth of which made them forget many discomforts. This last delay was
too much for the Doctor’s patience, and by morning it was found that
he had struck off on his way home alone--no doubt feeling independent
when on his feet in these pathless woods, even in the winter. James
Young was sent after him, and the other three, with the money in their
keeping, stuck by the canoe. Fresh accumulations of ice, storms, a
rescue by a party of five or six men off Kettle Point, were next in
the list of adventure, until, the water journey becoming impossible,
they camped on shore and turned inland for help, the man with the
money being left with the unhappy canoe and its load of their united
belongings. A poor enough kit it was--dirty blankets and underwear. Mr.
Sayers and his two sons entertained them with their best, and helped
shoulder the load as far as Bayfield. There another stop was made; and
the weary five, with their ten thousand dollars’ worth of pay money,
reached Goderich the following night. The Companies’ pay-lists were
then compared, checked off, and approved by the Commanding Officer, and
many hearts were made glad after another fortnight had been spent in
settling all matters of detail.
Such delays and martyrdoms to red-tapeism read not unlike the record
of the Crimean campaign. It is not unnatural that Captain Strachan,
the Military Secretary, should be spoken of with severity by such as
remember those days and hand down the tale, as he was the middleman
through whom much was suffered.
Meantime, although Goderich had been written of “as more completely
out of the world than any spot which it has been attempted to settle,”
it found it incompatible with dignity and safety to be without a Home
Guard. In the townships there was another class of home guard; for the
old men and the lame, or lads under sixteen, were left in charge to cut
the wood, water cattle and attend to the women’s chores. This help,
such as it was, had to be spread over a large area, one man, lame or
not, having to attend to several farms.
The remembrance of the Home Guard’s duty is that it was a peaceful
performance, a sinecure as far as aggression or resistance went.
Although Goderich was credited by several governors and military
commanders as being a capital natural vantage for defence, the
fortification of the Baron’s Hill never went on, for it was estimated
the point was too far removed from the rest of the world ever to be
attacked.
A Detroit newspaper of June 30th, ’38, tells how “on the night of
Tuesday last some thirty of these heroes (patriots) stole a sloop
and cruised to Goderich, in Canada. There they plundered the stores
of everything valuable and came off. The steamboat _Patriot_ was
immediately manned and sent in pursuit of them, and after a long chase
found them in our waters. The persons on board the sloop were all
armed, but being--as they are--a miserable lot of cowards, they ran
the sloop on to the land, and everyone on board, with the exception of
one man, made their escape. The sloop was captured and brought down in
tow to this place.” Luckily, by July 12th the Detroit paper can say
further, “The steamboat _Governor Marcy_, under command of Captain
Jephson, has succeeded in capturing eight of the pirates who robbed
the storehouses at Goderich, U. C. They were brought down from the St.
Clair a week since, and on their arrival were taken before the U. S.
judge. Four were discharged for want of sufficient evidence...; two
were held to bail.... Since that time three others have been brought
down ... and convicted. From the present appearance in this quarter,
I am now of the opinion that the enlightened portion of the citizens
of this section of the country have seen the error of their ways, and
are now determined to set their faces against the Patriots. They find
that the ‘Patriots’ are an unspeakable set of vagabonds, and that no
dependence can be placed in them--a very wise conclusion, for I assure
you that a more miserable set of beings never existed in any country.
The commander-in-chief of the force in this section of the frontier
I have been shown; and met him in a public bar-room. He stands five
feet four inches in his shoes--that is, when he is fortunate enough
to have a pair that can be so called--not lacking in impudence by any
means, and a miserable, drunken vagabond, as his appearance plainly
indicates.” This was Vreeland, who bore the unsavoury reputation of
being “a Judas and a traitor.” He was found guilty of violation of
the neutrality laws, and was sentenced by Judge Wilkins to one year’s
imprisonment and a fine of $1,000.
Of his companion, Dr. McKinley, an unflattering silhouette is given by
the Detroit editor, “The complete wreck of all that once constituted a
man.” Also, “The Patriot force does not amount to anything like that
number (one thousand), besides which they have not courage enough to
cross the line.” The Indians took not a little pleasure in keeping
these marauders on their own shore, and one of the former gives a
spirited account of how “the savages drove the unfortunate fellows over
again” from the St. Clair mission; he said they had to watch all night
and sleep all day, wear feathers and tomahawks, “and if the pirates
do not soon mend their ways the red-men will have to dress themselves
so that the invaders will fall dead with fright, even before hearing
the war-whoop and yells. We are in fear we shall get as savage as our
fathers were in all the wars under the British flag.” Changed times
these from those of the Indian proverb, “We will try the hatchet of our
forefathers on the English, to see if it cuts well.”
Deborahs of ’37.
“_Although our last toast, gentlemen,--Place aux dames, ‘The hand that
rocks the cradle guides the State.’_”
“‘_Madame! Madame Cornelia, you are not worthy of the name you bear._’
“‘_Sir, we do not live in the times of the Gracchi; I am not a Roman
matron._’
“_In truth, the poor lady was nothing more nor less than a good,
tender mother and excellent wife, not very interesting, perhaps, to
philosophers, but very acceptable in the eyes of heaven._”
During the Seven Years’ War the only tillers to be seen in the
Prussian fields were women. Likewise, in 1812, it was a common sight
in Upper Canada to see women at the plough in place of absent husbands
and brothers. Small wonder, then, that the mothers of 1812, and the
daughters to whom they gave birth under such circumstances, were what
they were in ’37.
Small wonder, too, that their neighbours across the line, who were kin
and should have been friends, continued obnoxious to them when the
representatives of the Stars and Stripes were such men as Theller and
Sutherland. Yet, allowing for all provocation, the period of first
dentition in the Canadian Infant was unusually squally; full of whims,
shy fits, small fisticuffs and wailings.
Like that pattern of all good housewives described by the prudent
mother of King Lemuel, it could be said of the immigrant’s wife,
“She layeth her hand to the spindle and her hands hold the distaff;
she seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands; she
looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of
idleness.” And when Madame de Léry was presented at the Court of George
III. her beauty forced the monarch to say, “If such are all my new
Canadian subjects I have indeed made a conquest.”
The women of ’37 combined all these virtues with a few heroic ones.
From the dark days of civil dissensions, when Canadians, like their
sisters of Deborah’s time, saw their husbands obliged to travel by the
by-paths because the high roads seemed to each to be occupied by his
foes,
“A company of ghosts steal out
And join their voiceless sobs and cries.”
And there is laughter, too; for when she forgot for a moment to
cry--her tears dropping into her teacup--Deborah did not disdain to
see the humorous side of affairs. If the survivor be the fittest, then
Place aux dames of the Tory stripe.
“Nay, we would in the title glory,
For every honest man’s a Tory,”