Whispers of War Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Niagara Peninsula, Upper Canada, May, 1812

  May 1812

  June 1812

  July 1812

  August 1812

  September 1812

  October 1812

  November 1812

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Niagara Peninsula,

  Upper Canada

  May, 1812

  May 1812

  10 May 1812

  This is the best present I have ever received.

  Today my beloved brother Hamilton returned from Kingston, where he has been for the past two weeks, selling flour and buying supplies for the farm. I missed him terribly.

  What a great many items he unpacked! Coffee and souchong tea, brandy and rum, loaf sugar, salt, a soup tureen and a silver ladle, many tools and a handsome clock for the parlour.

  He also brought everyone a present: a volume of Scott’s poetry for Mama, tobacco for Papa, velvet ribbons for Maria (how she will preen in front of Charles!) and a handkerchief for Tabitha. She says she will never use it, it is so pretty.

  And for me, this elegant little book! It has red leather covers and many thick creamy pages.

  “Use it to tell your story, Susanna,” said Hamilton, as I thanked him.

  “What story?” I asked.

  “The story of your life. You are living in a brand new country. Write down what happens to you every day and you will have something interesting to show your grandchildren.”

  Grandchildren! That is too strange to think about — I am only eleven!

  Hamilton has a journal — he writes in it every day, and he has shown me bits. His life has been like a story. So have Mama and Papa’s, and Tabitha’s. Compared with them, Maria and I have led dull lives.

  I would rather my life were dull than dangerous, however. Mama and Papa and Tabitha have all experienced terrible wars. Hamilton was once almost shipwrecked, even though he is only nineteen. I would not like to endure what they have.

  My safe life will probably not interest my grandchildren. But I do like writing. I enjoy putting my thoughts into words and, until now, I have not had the paper to do so. So I will endeavour to record each day, no matter how humdrum.

  Right now I am too sleepy to write much more. We stayed up late to celebrate Hamilton’s homecoming. Papa asked Tabitha to bring us some port wine and he offered a glass to her, also. (She became giddy and had to go to bed.) Mama played the pianoforte and Maria and I sang “Come Unto Him,” which we learnt while Hamilton was away. My voice squeaked on the high notes, and that annoyed Maria. She never fails to remind me that she is a far better singer than I.

  Hamilton showed us a device he bought for himself — a thin piece of wood with bristles set in it, for cleaning his teeth. The rest of us laughed at him — he is always taken by new inventions.

  I sneaked Jack into the house and when Papa noticed he did not object as he usually does. “You treat that dog like a person, Susanna,” Hamilton said, as I lay with my head on Jack’s warm side. I ignored Hamilton’s teasing. No one but I understands how Jack dislikes being apart from us.

  How thankful I am when the outside world does not intrude upon our family’s peace! Tonight, for once, my fears about the future were soothed and I felt safe.

  Now the candle is almost out and Maria is grumbling at me to come to bed. So I will end my first entry.

  11 May 1812

  Dear Granddaughter,

  It is easier to think of things to write about if I imagine a grandchild reading them. I hope she is a girl, as I do not care for boys. Here is what happened today, my faraway granddaughter. It was much like any other day, except for the end of it.

  I was up in time to kiss Papa goodbye before he left for Niagara. The house will seem empty until he returns next Sunday. But at least Hamilton is back. It was reassuring to see him as usual in the barn, milking the cows while I gathered the eggs.

  We sat at breakfast together. Tabitha poached us some whitefish. When Hamilton told me I had butter on my face, I pinched his ear and he chased me all over the kitchen.

  Tabitha said that dear Mama had a headache. I took her up a cup of marjoram tea and we said morning prayers together before I left for school. Maria was still in bed. She is lazy, and I told her so before I went downstairs.

  It was a glorious morning, sunny and warm. Chickadees called to each other noisily. A bluebird was sitting in a cherry tree — the plumage of its red breast was brilliant against the white blossoms and the blue sky. Hamilton helped me catch Sukie, who is getting more bad-tempered and stubborn every day.

  I suppose I had better tell you who are the people and animals I write about. Sukie is my pony, who was given to me on my seventh birthday. Papa called her the nickname I had as a little child, much to my dismay — sometimes the boys at school call me Sukie to taunt me.

  I had to kick Sukie’s sides to get her to start moving. How I wish I had a real horse! But Papa says I am not big enough. It is frustrating to be so small for my age — I hardly seem to grow at all.

  The wide creek sparkled in the morning sun and a pair of hawks circled high above the mountain. Jack followed me for a while until I shooed him home. Sukie agreed to trot once she realized she could not turn back, and I quickly reached the Seabrooks’ farm.

  Abbie Seabrook has only lived at the Twelve for two years — she and her parents and two little brothers came here from Connecticut. She is my closest friend, the first real friend I have ever had, since the other girls near our farm are not my age. Abbie’s father is still clearing their land and their log house is small and dark compared to our large frame one.

  Mr. Seabrook frowned at me as Abbie climbed on to Sukie’s back. He does not approve of Abbie attending school — he thinks she should be staying home to help. Her mother, however, has never learned to read and write and wishes Abbie to do so.

  Papa does not like Abbie’s father, or any of the many Americans who have moved here during the last few years. Mr. Seabrook is much younger than my father. His father was on the opposite side to Papa during the Revolutionary War. “That war is long over, Thomas,” Mama says. “The Seabrooks have as much right to be here as we do.”

  When the Seabrooks first came, Mama called on them. But now Papa discourages her from visiting Mrs. Seabrook. At first he objected also to my friendship with Abbie. Mama reminded him that we were only children, and that I needed a friend. Papa, who has always doted on me, relented.

  Abbie and I chattered all the way to school. I told her about the presents Hamilton had brought and she complained, as usual, about her mischievous brothers. I like having Abbie’s warm body perched behind me. When I used to ride alone I was quite frightened of the thick, dark forest, but now that I have a companion I am not.

  Our school is as small and dark as Abbie’s house, and in the winter we all have to bring wood to keep it warm. The only other buildings in the village are the church, the inn, the store and a warehouse, with the mills in the valley below. When Mama and Papa came here sixteen years ago, there were not even those.

  Our village is much smaller than Niagara — so small that it goes by several names. Some call it “Shipman’s Corners,” some “Twelve-Mile Creek” or “St. Catharines.” My family has always called it “the Twelve.”

  There are only four girls in our school, counting Abbie and me. The other eleven scholars are all boys. What a difficult time they give us! As I was bending over to tie up Suki
e, Elias Adams sneaked up and thrust a worm down the back of my neck.

  It felt unpleasantly slimy but I pretended it did not bother me and walked, I hope, coolly away to the privy to get it free.

  Elias is a troublesome boy. He never leaves me alone, and because our fathers are good friends I have to pretend to be civil to him at social gatherings.

  School was as usual. I am afraid Mr. Simmons is a very poor teacher. (I have learnt far more from Mama.) He spends most of his time reading his newspaper behind the desk while we write long tedious lists by rote on our slates. Today it was all the dates of the British monarchies. I do enjoy handwriting, however, and I made my list as neat as possible.

  Nathaniel and Caleb were whipped for having a fistfight at dinnertime. I do not like it when the boys fight, but I also do not like watching them being whipped. I averted my eyes and drew a picture on my slate of Jack wearing a hat. Abbie laughed when I passed it to her.

  I am proud to be the first girl in our family to go to school. Caroline and Maria learnt their lessons from Mama. (Maria did not learn very much, I am sorry to say.) Mama intended to teach me at home as she did my sisters, but when she was ill with dropsy I was allowed to start school. I enjoyed it so much she did not have the heart to take me out of it, although she is disappointed in Mr. Simmons’s teaching.

  Mama herself attended a girls’ school in South Carolina. She says I need to learn more drawing and French and dancing — therefore, next year I am to attend the new female academy in Niagara. I shall have to live there during the week, since Niagara is twelve miles from here. I know that Mama wishes me to have as refined an education as she did, but I dread being away from my family and from Abbie.

  I wanted Abbie to come and see this journal, but when we stopped at her house her mother made her stay and do chores. So I went home and helped Tabitha get supper. Hamilton had shot a porcupine and we roasted it — it was delicious. With it we had potatoes and turnips and applesauce. I always try to eat a lot so I will grow.

  Every evening after supper I sit on my stool in the parlour with the rest of the family until we all retire. Tonight Mama and Maria and I sewed while Hamilton told us more stories about Kingston. Then he brought up the subject I dread. “Everyone in Kingston believes there will be a war,” he said.

  Mama covered her eyes, even though her headache had gone. “Pray that there is not,” she said. “Oh, please pray that there is not! We have had too much war. I cannot bear the thought of another.”

  My heart leapt in my throat. All my life, it seems, I have sat on my stool and listened to the adults talk about war. Mama’s older brother, Richard, fought in Papa’s regiment against the Rebels and was killed by them in Virginia. Mama was as devoted to Richard as I am to Hamilton. She often tells me about the terrible day when she found out he was dead.

  Papa has also told me about his brother, Shubal, who was shot by some Whigs who had a personal quarrel with him, when he returned to New York from New Brunswick after the war. Two uncles I will never know, all because of the war.

  Mama began to weep, and Hamilton soothed her by reading poems from the book he had brought her. I leaned against her and no one knew how violently my heart was beating.

  Will there really be a war? The adults have been talking about it for months, but I do not entirely understand it. There has been a war between France and Britain for years, of course. Hamilton has tried to explain to me that now there is a quarrel between Britain and the United States. It has something to do with Britain blockading American vessels at sea. Because Upper Canada belongs to Britain, we may have to be part of the conflict. Hamilton calls Britain “the Lion” and the United States “the Eagle.” Poor little Upper Canada could become their prey, like a mouse being torn apart by two fierce animals.

  When I think of war I feel the same icy dread as when Mama talks about her brother Richard. What if my brother had to fight? Perhaps Papa would as well, although I hope he would be considered too old.

  I cannot bear the prospect. I will do as Mama asks and pray tonight that God will spare us such a calamity.

  It comforts me to be able to tell you my fears, Granddaughter. What a great many pages I have written! I know I should not boast, but the black ink of my handwriting does look distinctive on these white pages.

  “Come to bed, Susanna,” says Maria. All she wants to do is talk about Charles.

  12 May 1812

  Dear Constance,

  Do you like the name I have given you? It makes you seem more real. I wonder what you are like. I imagine you are my age. And I have decided that you are my great-granddaughter. That way I will probably not be alive when you read this. It will encourage me to make my life as vivid as possible to you.

  Last night I cried out so much in my sleep that Maria had to shake me awake. But today has been so normal that I have managed to push down my fears of war. At school, since I finished my work so quickly, Mr. Simmons asked me to listen to the three little ones, George, Sarah and Timothy, recite their lessons. I greatly enjoyed doing this and they later impressed Mr. Simmons with how much I had taught them.

  At dinnertime I ate with Abbie, Elizabeth and Sarah as usual. Elias, Henrik, Timothy and Uriah hovered around us and drove us to distraction with their teasing. Uriah called Abbie a speckled hen (Abbie has many freckles) and Elias kept saying, “Here Sukie, Sukie, Sukie,” as if he were calling a pig. Finally I led the other girls into the school, where we latched the door against the boys and continued our meal. They pounded and pounded to no avail.

  When Mr. Simmons returned — he goes to the inn for his dinner — he wanted to know why we were inside, which is not permitted when he is away. I explained that the boys would give us no peace. I feared he would be angry, but he smiled and said that we could come inside when we needed to.

  Mr. Simmons is a kind man, despite being a poor teacher. All afternoon he had us add up long lists of numbers while he snored behind his desk. There was so much rum on his breath that the boys held their noses, but no one dared laugh aloud.

  Abbie told me some discouraging news. Her mother has just learned she is expecting another child, so this will be Abbie’s last term at school. I fear she will never attend again. I promised to lend her books next fall and, when I am home from Niagara each week’s end, to teach her what I have learnt. This cheered her considerably.

  When I reached home Hamilton and I rode his horse all over our land to inspect the crops. The corn and rye and barley are already poking up through the ground and the wheat Hamilton planted in the fall is quite high. We saw a doe with a fawn so young it could barely totter.

  Hamilton’s horse is very handsome, a tall black stallion called Caesar. How pleasant it was to sit up so high! I asked Hamilton if he thought Papa would give me a horse for my birthday. He reminded me that it is still five months away and asked if I thought I could grow by then.

  I told him I would try, which made him laugh. I cannot make myself grow, of course — only God can. So I will begin to pray for that, as well as praying that there will not be a war.

  13 May 1812

  Dear Constance,

  Nothing particularly interesting happened to me today, so tonight I will tell you about the rest of my household.

  I will start with my parents. My father, Thomas Merritt, is from New York State. During the Revolutionary War he fought bravely for the King in Colonel Simcoe’s regiment. My mother, Mary (but Papa calls her Polly), is from South Carolina. After they married, my parents followed their parents to New Brunswick, along with many other Loyalists. But Mama did not like the climate and in 1785 they returned to New York for a time. There my eldest sister, Caroline, and then Hamilton, were born.

  Colonel Simcoe was appointed Governor of Upper Canada. Papa decided that he would rather live under the British government than in a republic, so he, Mama, Caroline and Hamilton (Hamilton was only three years old!) made the long, arduous journey here, where Colonel Simcoe granted him some land.

  Mama d
id not want to come, but of course she had to accompany her husband. She often tells me how difficult it was at first. They were lucky to move into a house already built, but she had never done her own cooking and housekeeping. One day a neighbour found her in tears because she did not know how to bake bread! I tease her about this — I have known how to make bread since I was very young.

  Maria and I were both born in Upper Canada, Maria in 1797 and I in 1800. Last year my sister Caroline married James Gordon and moved with him to Burlington Bay. This fall they are to have a child and I will be an aunt!

  My parents left a fine house and could only bring with them what they could carry. Mama often tells me how much she misses the United States. She especially longs for her younger sister, Isabel, who still lives in South Carolina.

  Papa was appointed Sheriff of Niagara and spends all week there. Mama has slowly made our house comfortable and can now bake and churn and keep everything in order as well as our neighbours do.

  Of course she has Tabitha to help her. Tabitha came to us when I was eight, from a place called Norfolk, in England. After she was orphaned, she went to work for a family in England. She made the long sea voyage here with them, but they mistreated her and she was very glad to leave them and come to us. She has a heavy accent that people have trouble understanding, but I am used to it. Tabitha is stout, with rosy cheeks, and she makes me laugh with her stories and songs — except when she talks about the war against France, where her father and brother were killed.

  My candle is sputtering and I forgot to bring another one upstairs. So I will tell you about Hamilton’s past later and end this entry with a few words about family romances!

  Hamilton is deeply in love with Miss Catherine Prendergast, whose father is a doctor here. She is a very handsome girl who frustrates Hamilton terribly because she has neither accepted nor rejected his advances.

  Maria is totally besotted with Hamilton’s friend, Charles Ingersoll, who lives in Queenston. Whenever he visits she is constantly asking me if I think he is fond of her.

  Even Tabitha has a suitor — she has several times been called upon by Samuel Gower, the Turneys’ hired hand. Tabitha is five and thirty, so this could be her last chance to be married. But she is as particular as Catherine and has not given Samuel much encouragement.