press, Mackenzie indulged in a prophecy of an event at which the same
aged mother was a pained witness. In connection with the trials of
a Canadian editor of a different political stripe, he says: “By the
implied consent of King, Lords and Commons, he is doomed to speedy
shipwreck, unless a merciful Providence should open his eyes in time,
and his good genius prompt him to hurl press and types to the bottom
of Lake Ontario.” Mackenzie lived quite close to the lake, and his
evil wishers must have taken the hint. Every one knows the story of
how _noblesse oblige_ was construed into the necessity for an invasion
of the printing office, at an hour when no man would be there; how the
raiders, in age from thirty-four years downwards, were the flower of
that “Canadian nobility” against which the editor never wearied hurling
his radical sayings; and how Mrs. Mackenzie, then in her seventy-eighth
year, stood trembling in a corner of the office--for the building was
home as well--while she witnessed, with fear and indignation, the
destruction of her son’s property and the means of her own livelihood.
As if the tale could be improved upon, some romancers, telling of the
rise of Canada from barbarism to civilization, have adorned it with
gross maltreatment of the aged lady by these gentlemen who, with her
only to stay them, were naturally _sans peur_. They should also be
without this one reproach, for they were too intent upon pi-ing type
and throwing the contents of the office into the bay to trouble about
her.
Someone says that a good and true woman is like a Cremona violin;
age but increases the worth and sweetens the tone. In the words of
Disraeli, this woman’s love had illumined the dark woof of poverty;
fate had it in store that that love should “lighten the fetters of the
slave” before she died.
The way in which Canadian rebels were treated in prison is to the
reader of their experiences a continual reproach to the powers which
made them thus suffer. But the American Bastille, according to the
records left by Mackenzie, out-did the Canadian. A steep staircase, a
ladder and a trap-door fastened by bar and lock, led to a room wherein
were the dangling rope and hideous apparatus of death ready waiting for
the next unfortunate; beyond the room was Mackenzie’s cell. It was only
through this passage-way that mother, children, wife or friends could
reach him, where they had to run the gauntlet of coarse jests from
brutalized men and the worse than brutal remarks of such women as were
prisoners there. The gaoler in this place deserved to be immortalized
by Dickens. Of low stature, with an exaggerated hook nose, fleshless
and fallen-in cheeks on which nature had begrudged a sufficient skin
covering; round, sunken, peering eyes, feline from long watching;
nails filthy, like claws forever in the dirt--such was the gaoler.
“You felt in regarding him that if cast into the sea he would have
more power to pollute it than it would have to purify him.” A fee of
thirty-six dollars for three months procured from him the occasional
admittance of friends, although the iron doors were freely opened to
those who wished to see a real live Canadian rebel. Close confinement
and miasma broke Mackenzie’s health in a short time; he could no longer
eat the food which his children carried him--it was feared he might be
poisoned by the gaol fare--his wife was in delicate health, his mother
had reached ninety years, and his mind was torn with anxiety over
the illness of a beloved daughter. The other prisoners were allowed
occasional days of freedom to visit taverns and roam the town, but no
such liberty came to him. “My dear little girl grew worse and worse,
she was wasted to a skeleton.... I had followed four of her sisters and
a brother to the churchyard, but I might not look upon her. One fine
day she was carried ... to the prison, and her mother and I watched her
for forty-eight hours, but the gaoler vexed us so that she had to be
taken home again, where she was soon in the utmost danger, and when her
poor little sister comes to tell me how she is at dusk ... the gaoler
will tell her to wait in the public place in the gaol, perhaps for an
hour or more, till supper comes, as he can’t be put to the trouble of
opening my cage twice.”
Then the poor old mother sickens, and he knows her time has come. He
makes every effort to be allowed to see her, and when he has given up
hope writes her a truly beautiful letter of farewell. In it he thanks
her for all she had done for him, all she has been to him, and that if
the wealth of the world were his he would give it to be at her side.
“But wealth I have none, and of justice there is but little here.” He
tells her of his hopes to put, with his coming liberty, the rest in
comfort, but “sorrow fills my heart when I am told that you will not
have your aged eyes comforted by the sight.” The majesty of the law,
for offence against which he was suffering, was invoked to get him
freedom for the desired interview. Under the shadow of a writ of Habeas
Corpus _ad respondendum_, a court at which he was required to appear as
a witness was held in his house, and accompanied by his gaoler he was
allowed to attend. The magistrate was late in arriving, conveniently
cold when he did come, and protracted his sitting so that the desired
interview between the dying mother and distressed son might have no
interruption, while the sheriff and gaoler waited in the room adjoining
the bedroom. The mother summoned all her fortitude, pronounced her
last farewell, bade him trust in God and fear not. She never spoke
afterwards, and from the windows of the gaol the political prisoner, in
an agony which any can understand, with which all can sympathize, saw
her funeral pass.
Mackenzie’s consideration towards women did not extend beyond the
members of his own family. But an alert providence arranged that he
should usually be well met. Some hours after Anderson had been shot,
a rebel named Pool called at the house of Mr. James Scott Howard, in
Yonge Street, to inquire the whereabouts of the body. Immediately
after he left, the first detachment of the rebel army, about fifteen
or twenty men, drew up on the lawn in front of the house, wheeled at
the word of command, and went away in search of the dead man. The next
to be seen were three or four Loyalists hurrying down the road, who
said there were five hundred rebels behind them, and as the morning
wore on more men were seen and the sound of firing was heard. At eleven
o’clock, or thereabouts, another detachment of rebels appeared, headed
by the afterwards well-known figure stuffed out with extra coats to
be bullet-proof, on a small white horse. To enable the pony to enter
the lawn the men wrenched off fence-boards, after which the stuffed
man, Mackenzie, entered the house without knocking, took possession of
the sitting-room, and ordered dinner for fifty. Mrs. Howard said she
could not comply with such an order. Mackenzie took advantage of Mr.
Howard’s absence in town to indulge in much abuse of the latter, saying
it was high time someone else held the postmastership. Mrs. Howard at
length referred him to the servant in the kitchen, and Mackenzie went
to see about dinner himself. He and his men appropriated a sheep in
process of cooking in a large sugar-kettle, a barrel of beef and a
baking of bread. The tool house was made free use of to sharpen their
weapons, which consisted of chisels and gouges on pole-ends, hatchets,
knives and guns of all descriptions. At two o’clock the rebels took a
disorderly departure, leaving a young West Highlander on guard. Mrs.
Howard said she was sorry to see so fine a Scotchman turn against his
Queen, to which the reply was, “Country first, Queen next.” The fifty
rebels had evidently left on account of the flag of truce proceedings,
and at half-past three they all returned, headed by Mackenzie. He
demanded of Mrs. Howard “where the dinner was,” and her coolness of
demeanour and temper exasperated him. He pulled her from her chair
to the window, shook his whip over her, and told her to be thankful
her house was not in the state in which she saw Dr. Horne’s. Lount
privately told Mrs. Howard not to mind Mackenzie, as he was quite
beside himself. After they had eaten the much-ordered dinner, the men
had some barrels of whiskey on the lawn and their behaviour during the
night naturally alarmed the family. The one man-servant had made his
escape, saying he feared being taken prisoner by the rebels. The party
remained there until Wednesday; the true defence of the place lay in
Mrs. Howard’s intrepidity. Her troubles did not end with the departure
of the rabble, for her husband, a true Loyalist of the best type,
suffered much at the hands of either party. Such grinding between the
upper and the nether millstone as he thereafter experienced is a matter
of history.
* * * * *
Nathaniel Pearson, a Quaker, one of the most refined and gentle of the
gentlest sect, an intelligent farmer and keenly interested in politics,
lived in the Aurora district. Some of his Quaker principles were
sacrificed to those of Reform, and he rode off to join the insurgents
on their way south. He missed them, and to his Quaker mind there was
but one honourable thing to do, and that was to give himself up to the
Government. During his absence his wife, possessed of as many gifts and
attractions as her husband, had to go to Aurora on business, with the
result that she was marched to the guard-house between two Loyalist
soldiers. She appealed for help to a man who was their neighbour,
and who often had been kept in the necessities of life by the Quaker
family; but he turned a deaf ear, even when she pleaded on the score
of her young baby at home. Her case reached the ears of a man named
King, from Orillia, who at once interested himself in her behalf. “Do
you tell me you have a young baby at home needing you? Gad, if they had
taken my wife that way, they wouldn’t know that the devil had ever been
born before!” His interest resulted in her release, and on reaching
home she found that Quaker principles were to be forfeited once more.
The Loyalists were about, searching for food and arms, and the faithful
maid, Betty, determined they should have neither at her employers’
expense. The one gun in the house was hidden in a brush-heap behind
the barn, and Betty had barely straightened her back after doing so
when she saw a Loyalist on the fence, watching her. A party entered the
house, demanding food, and were on their way to the cellar, where a
large stock of freshly-cooked provisions was stored, when the faithful
Betty once more forswore her sect, declared the cellar empty, and saved
her master’s property.
* * * * *
When Captain P. De Grasse left his home on that ever eventful night
in December to join the Loyalists in the city he was accompanied by
his two daughters, Charlotte and Cornelia, who wished to see him to
the borders of the town, so that they could report his safety to their
mother. The way lay through uncleared bush, and the time was late at
night. They fell in with Matthews and his party, who were on their
way to destroy the Don bridge, when Charlotte with great presence of
mind suddenly wheeled to the left, made her pony stamp noisily through
the mud, and thereby averted Matthew’s notice from her father and her
sister. They all succeeded in reaching the city about one o’clock, an
exciting ride for two girls under fifteen years of age. In spite of the
commotion and signs of fear all about, the girls determined to go back
to their mother. The first half of the return journey was in bright
moon-light, but the second half contained all the terrors of darkness
in a section infested by rebels. They reached their mother at four in
the morning, and that same day returned to town with information of
the proceedings of the rebels at the Don. Again, on the Wednesday,
they crossed the bush to seek their father at the turnpike on Yonge
Street; he was not there, and when Cornelia saw the general terror,
consequent upon the report that the rebels were five thousand strong
at Montgomery’s Tavern, she resolved to proceed there alone and find
out the truth. As she passed the rebel lines all seemed amazed to see
a little girl on a fiery pony come fearlessly among them, and she
could hear them inquire of one another who she was. She reached the
wheelwright’s by Montgomery’s without molestation, inquired in a casual
manner as to the price of a sled of particular dimensions, promised
to give him an answer the next day, turned her horse’s head towards
town, when suddenly several men seized the bridle and said, “You are
our prisoner.” They kept her nearly an hour while they waited for
Mackenzie, who when he did come, amidst general huzzaing, announced
“Glorious news! We have taken the Western Mail!” In the booty he had
the historical feminine impedimenta which afterwards disguised him for
escape, so capturing little girls was quite in the order of things.
While the rebels congratulated him and crowded round the coachman
and passengers, the doughty Cornelia saw her opportunity, whipped up
her pony and made her escape, although fired at several times. After
ridding herself of this party she was fired at from Watson’s and
summoned to surrender. This but strengthened her nerve, and in time she
reached the city, to give a true account of the robbery of the mail and
the number and arms of the rebels.
Meantime the Loyalists were making use of Charlotte as a despatch
bearer on the Kingston Road. She returned with the answer and then set
out for her home. Near a corner of the bush she was fired at by a large
party of rebels; both she and her pony were wounded, and the frightened
beast jumped the fence; one of the rebels, not to be outwitted, ran
across the angle of the bush, got in front of her and fired in her
face.
The next day Cornelia, once more bent on seeing her father, reached
the city in time to follow the troops up Yonge Street on their way
to Gallows Hill. This daughter of the regiment was urged by the
Chief-Justice to collect for him all the particulars of the engagement,
which, cool and undaunted--oblivious of thundering of cannon--she
undertook to do, and did.
Her adventures were not yet over, for on her way home she discovered
that Matthews had by this time set the Don bridge on fire, and she
at once returned to the city to give the alarm. While she was thus
occupied another heroine, sometime cook to Sir Francis Bond Head, was
engaged in putting the fire out, a work which she did not accomplish
before receiving a bullet in her knee. As by this time the bridge was
useless, Cornelia left her pony in town and set out on foot on her
homeward way at eleven o’clock at night through a district filled with
dispersed rebels. The story does not relate the final reunion of this
mutually devoted family, but it is to be presumed Charlotte went on
calmly cutting bread and butter and Cornelia continued worthy of the
great name she bore.
* * * * *
One Deborah, who did not pose as such, tells a modest story of what
she saw and omits much of what she did. “I remember that Monday before
Montgomery’s. I had been in town for some days, and on that Monday
there was great excitement--no one knew exactly what about. At first
I thought I would go to the Mackenzies’ for safety, even if it was
a long time since I had been there; but when I got half-way to the
house it struck me that as my father and brothers had turned against
him, since he had come back from England and was all for bloodshed, I
had better leave the Mackenzies alone. So I went to a friend farther
east, and found her half crazy with fright, swinging her baby above her
head, and saying we would take a boat and row over to the island, as
the rebels wouldn’t touch us there. But I thought if there was going
to be trouble I had better be with my own people; so I started to walk
up Yonge Street towards home. I met no one, but every now and then
a horseman would rush past, or two or three armed men would be seen
together, and by and by I saw a few farmers going in to offer their
services to the Government. At Bloor Street I was tired and went into
the Red Lion parlour to rest; everything was in great confusion, but
nobody spoke to me. In a little while I went on; and at the toll-gate
above the Davenport Road I saw the rebels coming over Blueberry Hill
opposite. The toll-keeper swung the gates to and ran off to the woods,
and I turned up Davenport Road a little way and watched the rebels;
they were my friends and neighbours, and it was dreadful to see them.
It is said that when they reached the house that Mackenzie set fire to
it was deserted, but I know that it looked very ordinary when I passed
it, smoke coming out of the chimney, no sign of disturbance. I was
frightened and went on, but I heard that when Mackenzie set to work to
build a fire in the cupboard of that house some of his supporters were
angry, and said they did not come out to burn houses but to fight for
their rights, and one, when he saw he was not listened to, threw down
his gun and took himself and his sons off to the States.
“When I got home I found father had gone to offer himself to the
Government, and everyone was busy preparing food and baking bread.
We had once been supporters of Mackenzie, and everybody knew we had
turned against him after he came back from England. Some people were,
therefore, very bitter against us, and we thought it wise to fill the
house with food, leave the place open, barn, grain, everything, so
that they could get it all easily, and take the chance of the house
therefore not being burned down. So we left everything ready for them,
and went to stay at a relative’s farther back in the country.
“There are plenty to say that Moodie was not shot at all. Some declared
that he was alive when taken to the tavern and that he would not give
in, and it ended in his being trampled to death in the tavern.
“Sheriff Jarvis took the news of the rising coolly. When father was
going down Yonge Street to offer himself he met the sheriff, who said,
‘Well, John, what’s the news with you to-day?’ And when father said,
‘There’s great news--Toronto will be taken and burnt, if you don’t stop
it,’ the sheriff said, ‘You don’t say so!’ and only half believed him.
“For a long time before the rising I did not go very often to the
Mackenzies, for they thought I would spy on them, and father thought
I had better leave them alone anyway. We had supported Mackenzie
strongly, like the rest of the farmers, before he went to England, and
my father and his friends took their turn in watching him for fear the
Compact people would spirit him away; but that was when he was all for
reform and agitating for our rights. Whatever it was happened to him
in England turned everything into fighting, and father wasn’t going to
fight against his country. That Mackenzie was the craziest man you ever
did see. He wore a wig, and when he got excited--he was always excited,
for the matter of that--he would throw it on the floor, or throw it at
you if he felt extra pleasant. You’ve heard of the time he was brought
home with cheering and torches and great doings, and given the gold
chain?[6] A fine chain it was, long and thick, and he was very pleased
and worked up. He saw me standing by, laughing--for I was excited,
too--and he cried at me, ‘Ah, Mary!’ and quick as lightning threw the
chain at me and the wig on the floor, and then he flung his arms round
his mother’s neck and kissed her.
“Every market day, when business was all done, and before the farmers
went home, there would be a crowd round him as he talked from the top
of a waggon. He made great speeches, I can tell you. I happened to
be there once through a friend of his, who was staying in his house
and wanted to hear him, and would not go alone. We turned down by
the church, and waited at the market corner below King Street, where
Mackenzie was standing in a waggon, talking, and you should have seen
how the people listened. Perhaps you know that the Compact had a lot of
hangers-on who would do anything they were told for the soup, clothes,
and stuff that was given them, and we used to call them ‘soupets,’
like the bits of bread you put in soup to sop it up. As Mackenzie was
talking, suddenly the vestry door was thrown open, and out rushed a
crowd of soupets, caught hold of the tongue of Mackenzie’s waggon,
and ran off with him towards the bay. He just stood there, waiting,
I suppose, till the farmers got over their surprise. But the soupets
nearly had him ducked in the bay before the farmers came to their
senses.”
However, there were some whose principles were not changed by
Mackenzie’s bloodthirstiness; we have one (Mrs. Dew, then Miss Betty
Duffield) who is still proud to tell the tale of how she pinned on
the white badges. “I was staying with the Leonard Watsons, who lived
near Montgomery’s tavern, when the troubles came to a head, and
with my own hands I tied on the badges of white cotton worn by some
of our fighting men. On that Wednesday morning I saw Mackenzie ride
from the direction of the tavern just as the sound of music was heard
coming from the city. Mackenzie halted near our house and exclaimed,
‘Are these our friends?’ meaning those whom he expected from the
other districts; but he was soon convinced that the music belonged to
the loyalist militia coming up Yonge Street. I am sorry to say that
while Mackenzie never could be accused of cowardice in so far as his
tongue was concerned, his fighting qualities were not so assured, for
I myself saw him fling off his cloak and gallop away.[7] Mr. Leonard
Watson found it necessary to try to make his escape. Mrs. Watson and
the daughters went to a neighbour’s, carrying some of their valuables
with them, as they were afraid the militia would burn the house down.
Peter Watson eventually reached the United States. But I stood by the
house, and when the militia came up they riddled it with bullets;
they ransacked everything, upset anything they touched, and broke
nearly all the furniture. But part of this damage was probably done
by ruffians who had taken the opportunity to follow the militia for
the sake of plunder. Watson’s horses were appropriated, a tall dark
man taking one, and a short red-headed man another. Someone proposed
burning the house down, and very likely this would have been done had
I not happened to notice an officer riding up. I accosted him, and he
turned out to be one of the Governor’s aides. He drew the attention
of his superior, who kindly asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted
protection to the property. He immediately told me to get him paper,
which I did, and handed to him as he sat in his saddle. He wrote, “Do
no further injury to this house,” signed his name, and told me to show
it to anyone offering further molestation. A few days afterwards I went
to Darlington in behalf of the Watson family, carrying money for Peter
Watson to enable him to reach the States from there. I had to walk
part of the way, and I remember when passing a large block of woods a
man came out and timidly inquired if I had seen anyone on the road. He
looked the picture of misery and nearly starved. The woods were being
scoured on each side of the road by men on horseback, and I suppose
that poor fellow was captured.
“While those taken were in prison they amused themselves by carving
various articles in wood, and I have yet in my possession a small maple
box, beautifully made and finished, presented to me by Leonard Watson.
On the cover is my name, some verses are on the sides, and on the
bottom ‘April 12th, 1838, alas for Lount and Matthews.’”
* * * * *