July, 1837
A loud, angry voice woke him. Jamie bolted upright, stifling a cry as he smacked his head on the rough beam. Da was coming into the barn. Quietly he crawled to the edge of the loft. How foolish to fall asleep. Da would be disappointed in him . . . again. Maybe he could still get down without being seen. Jamie peered over the edge. Too late! His father and Thomas McCleary, their next door neighbour, stood outlined in the doorway. Fortunately, it was dark inside the barn and it would take a while for their eyes to adjust. He slid back behind a beam. No sense in getting caught.
“We’ve got to do something!” Mr. McCleary was obviously agitated. “We can’t just let these English run all over us. Our illustrious new governor, Sir Frances Bonehead, is supposed to help us govern, not take over. He’s worse than the others. Before long we’ll be part of a dictatorship. How could King William send us a governor who doesn’t know enough to stay out of our affairs! ‘A vote for a Reformer is a vote against Britain.’ How dare he call us traitors?”
“Calm down, Thomas.” Da put his hand on Mr. McCleary’s shoulder. “No one is calling anyone a traitor. It was a foolish thing for him to say. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all! Why, Malcolm MacPherson, either you’re the most forgiving man on the face of God’s earth or you are the blindest! Bond Head’s interference cost us a Reform representation in the Assembly. Why, even Mackenzie lost his seat.”
Da ran a large, calloused hand through his dark, curly hair. “Aye, Thomas, so he did. But that hasn’t kept him quiet. Have you read the latest Constitution? Wee Willie has a new idea. Now he wants to set up Political Unions throughout the land.”
Jamie strained to hear Mr. McCleary’s reply but the men had moved off. He scurried down the ladder and out into the garden and picked up the hoe. What was Da talking about? Political Unions?
Jamie recalled what he knew about William Lyon Mackenzie. Although he had lost his seat in the last election because of Governor Bond Head’s meddling, the little newspaper editor was not defeated. He used his newspaper, Constitution, to continue his fight for reform.
Da came around the corner of the barn. “Och, lad, I see you didn’t get far.” He sounded disappointed. “It’s too hot for this kind of work now. Take a breather. You look like you could use one.”
Jamie didn’t object. The sun burned through his thin shirt and his parched throat ached for water. His short nap in the hayloft had only added to his discomfort. There was almost nothing worse than weeding. It was women’s work. A man had better things to do. He followed Da to the pump and held his head, face turned up and mouth gulping, under the cool stream while his father pumped. “Ah, that feels good.” As he straightened, the water coursed down his neck. He shook his copper hair soaking his shirt – and his father.
Da took his turn under the pump and returned Jamie’s shower two-fold.
The MacPhersons were a mixture of the black and red Scots. Jamie favoured his mother in colouring although he had his father’s stocky build and curly hair. His older sister, Isabel, had often teased him about those curls. “Any girl would be proud of that hair, our Jamie.”
“What was Mr. McCleary on about?” asked Jamie as the two continued on to the house.
“Oh, just the usual. He’s been listening to Mackenzie’s followers again and thinks all government men should be strung up.”
“But doesn’t he have just cause, Da? I’ve heard you talk reform, too. You’re just as set against the bad rule as Mr. McCleary and the Reformers.”
“Aye, son, something’s got to be done, but I’m not so sure Mackenzie’s way is the right one or that Mackenzie is the man to lead us.” Da held up his hand as he put his foot on the bottom step into the house. “Later.” Jamie nodded. He knew Da’s rule against political talk of any kind within earshot of the women folk.
They entered the kitchen through the open doorway. The tall maple just outside the door helped keep the house cool. Jamie was proud of his home, one of the finest in the district. His father and Uncle Robbie, Da’s brother, had worked hard to clear the purchase when they first came to Canada some twenty-five years ago. As soon as the crude log cabin was up, Da had sent for his sweetheart, Fiona Campbell. They had been wed in that cabin. That was before the preacher came and the Kirk had been built. An Anglican priest had been willing to perform the ceremony. “This will make it all the more right in the eyes of God,” he had said. Da always laughed when he told that part of the story. “I don’t know if the Anglican ceremony had anything to do with it,” he’d say, “but Mother and I
couldn’t have had it any better.”
Uncle Robbie had, soon thereafter, left the farm for town life and had joined the Toronto constabulary.
The trees which surrounded the cabin were gone; cut down and made into planks to build this house, but the log cabin still stood as the storage shed.
The two sat down at the scrubbed plank table, and were soon joined by Meg and Catherine, nine year old twins. Thirteen year old Mary sat down beside him. Isabel brought two mugs to the table and sat at her place beside Mother’s at the foot of the table.
Fiona MacPherson set down three mugs of cool cider, tousling Jamie’s hair as she sat down. She was the only one who could get away with that. Fifteen year old boys were practically men and didn’t have to stand for that kind of treatment.
Jamie’s mind wandered as his mother and father talked over some of the many details of daily farm work. He could not forget the anger in Thomas McCleary’s voice. He’d heard that anger before in the voices of men as they discussed politics. Ever since the Assembly had been dissolved last year and that disastrous election held, there had been anger. Jamie smiled at the recollection of Mr. McCleary’s version of the governor’s name. Thinking back, Jamie could well see why Mr. McCleary said what he did. Bond Head had interfered and had, in effect, called them traitors. Oh, he had been smart enough not to use the word, but it was quite clear what he had meant. Although he had been too young to vote, Jamie had listened to much of the talk. Da had, long ago, instilled in him a pride of country. Now his country seemed to be in danger. Of what, he didn’t know, but he needed to find out.
A loud, angry voice woke him. Jamie bolted upright, stifling a cry as he smacked his head on the rough beam. Da was coming into the barn. Quietly he crawled to the edge of the loft. How foolish to fall asleep. Da would be disappointed in him . . . again. Maybe he could still get down without being seen. Jamie peered over the edge. Too late! His father and Thomas McCleary, their next door neighbour, stood outlined in the doorway. Fortunately, it was dark inside the barn and it would take a while for their eyes to adjust. He slid back behind a beam. No sense in getting caught.
“We’ve got to do something!” Mr. McCleary was obviously agitated. “We can’t just let these English run all over us. Our illustrious new governor, Sir Frances Bonehead, is supposed to help us govern, not take over. He’s worse than the others. Before long we’ll be part of a dictatorship. How could King William send us a governor who doesn’t know enough to stay out of our affairs! ‘A vote for a Reformer is a vote against Britain.’ How dare he call us traitors?”
“Calm down, Thomas.” Da put his hand on Mr. McCleary’s shoulder. “No one is calling anyone a traitor. It was a foolish thing for him to say. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all! Why, Malcolm MacPherson, either you’re the most forgiving man on the face of God’s earth or you are the blindest! Bond Head’s interference cost us a Reform representation in the Assembly. Why, even Mackenzie lost his seat.”
Da ran a large, calloused hand through his dark, curly hair. “Aye, Thomas, so he did. But that hasn’t kept him quiet. Have you read the latest Constitution? Wee Willie has a new idea. Now he wants to set up Political Unions throughout the land.”
Jamie strained to hear Mr. McCleary’s reply but the men had moved off. He scurried down the ladder and out into the garden and picked up the hoe. What was Da talking about? Political Unions?
Jamie recalled what he knew about William Lyon Mackenzie. Although he had lost his seat in the last election because of Governor Bond Head’s meddling, the little newspaper editor was not defeated. He used his newspaper, Constitution, to continue his fight for reform.
Da came around the corner of the barn. “Och, lad, I see you didn’t get far.” He sounded disappointed. “It’s too hot for this kind of work now. Take a breather. You look like you could use one.”
Jamie didn’t object. The sun burned through his thin shirt and his parched throat ached for water. His short nap in the hayloft had only added to his discomfort. There was almost nothing worse than weeding. It was women’s work. A man had better things to do. He followed Da to the pump and held his head, face turned up and mouth gulping, under the cool stream while his father pumped. “Ah, that feels good.” As he straightened, the water coursed down his neck. He shook his copper hair soaking his shirt – and his father.
Da took his turn under the pump and returned Jamie’s shower two-fold.
The MacPhersons were a mixture of the black and red Scots. Jamie favoured his mother in colouring although he had his father’s stocky build and curly hair. His older sister, Isabel, had often teased him about those curls. “Any girl would be proud of that hair, our Jamie.”
“What was Mr. McCleary on about?” asked Jamie as the two continued on to the house.
“Oh, just the usual. He’s been listening to Mackenzie’s followers again and thinks all government men should be strung up.”
“But doesn’t he have just cause, Da? I’ve heard you talk reform, too. You’re just as set against the bad rule as Mr. McCleary and the Reformers.”
“Aye, son, something’s got to be done, but I’m not so sure Mackenzie’s way is the right one or that Mackenzie is the man to lead us.” Da held up his hand as he put his foot on the bottom step into the house. “Later.” Jamie nodded. He knew Da’s rule against political talk of any kind within earshot of the women folk.
They entered the kitchen through the open doorway. The tall maple just outside the door helped keep the house cool. Jamie was proud of his home, one of the finest in the district. His father and Uncle Robbie, Da’s brother, had worked hard to clear the purchase when they first came to Canada some twenty-five years ago. As soon as the crude log cabin was up, Da had sent for his sweetheart, Fiona Campbell. They had been wed in that cabin. That was before the preacher came and the Kirk had been built. An Anglican priest had been willing to perform the ceremony. “This will make it all the more right in the eyes of God,” he had said. Da always laughed when he told that part of the story. “I don’t know if the Anglican ceremony had anything to do with it,” he’d say, “but Mother and I
couldn’t have had it any better.”
Uncle Robbie had, soon thereafter, left the farm for town life and had joined the Toronto constabulary.
The trees which surrounded the cabin were gone; cut down and made into planks to build this house, but the log cabin still stood as the storage shed.
The two sat down at the scrubbed plank table, and were soon joined by Meg and Catherine, nine year old twins. Thirteen year old Mary sat down beside him. Isabel brought two mugs to the table and sat at her place beside Mother’s at the foot of the table.
Fiona MacPherson set down three mugs of cool cider, tousling Jamie’s hair as she sat down. She was the only one who could get away with that. Fifteen year old boys were practically men and didn’t have to stand for that kind of treatment.
Jamie’s mind wandered as his mother and father talked over some of the many details of daily farm work. He could not forget the anger in Thomas McCleary’s voice. He’d heard that anger before in the voices of men as they discussed politics. Ever since the Assembly had been dissolved last year and that disastrous election held, there had been anger. Jamie smiled at the recollection of Mr. McCleary’s version of the governor’s name. Thinking back, Jamie could well see why Mr. McCleary said what he did. Bond Head had interfered and had, in effect, called them traitors. Oh, he had been smart enough not to use the word, but it was quite clear what he had meant. Although he had been too young to vote, Jamie had listened to much of the talk. Da had, long ago, instilled in him a pride of country. Now his country seemed to be in danger. Of what, he didn’t know, but he needed to find out.