Books: Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher
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William Henry Withrow >> Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher
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On the present occasion, Elder Ryan gave a rousing exhortation,
like the address of a general on the eve of a battle, that
inspired courage in every heart. Then followed a few hours of
deliberation and mutual council on the course to be adopted in the
critical circumstances of the time. Certain prudential
arrangements were made for maintaining the connexional unity of
the Church under the stress of disorganizing influences, and
certain provisions effected for the unforeseen contingencies of
the war. Then, after commending one another to God in fervent
prayer, and invoking His guidance of their lives and His blessing
on their labours, they sang that noble battle hymn and marching
song of Charles Wesley's:--
In flesh we part awhile,
But still in spirit joined,
To embrace the happy toil
Thou hast to each assigned;
And while we do Thy blessed will,
We bear our heaven about us still.
They looked like a forlorn hope, like a despised and feeble
remnant, but they were animated with the spirit of a conquering
army. With many a hearty wring of the hand and fervent "God bless
you!" and, not without eyes suffused with tears, they took their
leave of one another, and fared forth on their lonely ways to
their remote and arduous fields of toil.
CHAPTER II.
THE EVE OF BATTLE.
The next scene of our story opens on the eve of an eventful day in
the annals of Canada. About sunset in an October afternoon,
Neville Trueman reached The Holms, after a long and weary ride
from the western end of his circuit, which reached nearly to the
head of Lake Ontario. The forest was gorgeous in its autumnal
foliage, like Joseph in his coat of many colours. The corn still
stood thick, in serried ranks, in the fields, no longer plumed and
tasseled like an Indian chief, but rustling, weird-like, as an
army of spectres in the gathering gloom. The great yellow pumpkins
gleamed like huge nuggets of gold in some forest Eldorado. The
crimson patches of ripened buckwheat looked like a blood-stained
field of battle: alas! too true an image of the deeper stains
which were soon to dye the greensward of the neighbouring height.
The change from the bleak moor, over which swept the chill north
wind from the lonely lake, to the genial warmth of Squire
Drayton's hospitable kitchen was most agreeable. A merry fire of
hickory wood on the ample hearth--it was long before the time of
your close, black, surly-looking kitchen stoves--snapped and
sparkled its hearty welcome to the travel-worn guest. It was a
rich Rembrant-like picture that greeted Neville as he entered the
room. The whole apartment was flooded with light from the leaping
flames which was flashed back from the brightly-scoured milk-pans
and brass kettles on the dresser--not unlike, thought he, to the
burnished shields and casques of the men-at-arms in an old feudal
hall.
The fair young mistress, clad in a warm stuff gown, with a snowy
collar and a crimson necktie, moved gracefully through the room,
preparing the evening meal. Savoury odours proceeded from a pan
upon the coals, in which were frying tender cutlets of venison--
now a luxury, then, in the season, an almost daily meal.
The burly squire basked in the genial blaze, seated in a rude
home-made armchair, the rather uncomfortable-looking back and arms
of which were made of cedar roots, with the bark removed, like our
garden rustic seats. Such a chair has Cowper in his "Task"
described,--
"Three legs upholding firm
A messy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms:
And such in ancient halls may still be found."
At his feet crouched Lion, the huge staghound, at times half
growling in his sleep, as if in dreams he chased the deer, and
then, starting up, he licked his master's hand and went to sleep
again.
On the opposite side of the hearth, Zenas was crouched upon the
floor, laboriously shaping an ox-yoke with a spoke-shave. For in
those days Canadian farmers were obliged to make or mend almost
everything they used upon the farms.
Necessity, which is the mother of invention, made them deft and
handy with axe and adze, bradawl and waxed end, anvil and forge.
The squire himself was no mean blacksmith, and could shoe a horse,
or forge a plough coulter, or set a tire as well as the village
Vulcan at Niagara.
"Right welcome," said the squire, as he made room for Neville near
the fireplace, while Katherine gave him a quieter greeting and
politely relieved him of his wrappings. "Well, what's the news
outside?" he continued, we must explain that as Niagara, next to
York and Kingston, was the largest settlement in the province, it
rather looked down upon the population away from "the front," as
it was called, as outsiders almost beyond the pale of
civilization.
"No news at all," replied Neville, "but a great anxiety to hear
some. When I return from the front, they almost devour me with
questions."
The early Methodist preachers, in the days when newspapers or
books were few and scarce, and travel almost unknown, were in one
respect not unlike the wandering minstrels or trouveres, not to
say the Homeric singers of an earlier day. Their stock of news,
their wider experience, their intelligent conversation, and their
sacred minstrelsy procured them often a warm welcome and a night's
lodging outside of Methodist circles. They diffused much useful
information, and their visits dispelled the mental stagnation
which is almost sure to settle upon an isolated community. The
whole household gathering around the evening fire, hung with eager
attention upon their lips as, from their well-stored minds, they
brought forth things new and old. Many an inquisitive boy or girl
experienced a mental awakening or quickening by contact with their
superior intelligence; and many a toil-worn man and woman renewed
the brighter memories of earlier years as the preacher brought
them glimpses of the outer world, or read from some well-worn
volume carried in his saddle-bags pages of some much-prized
English classic.
"Well, there has been news in plenty along the line here," said
the squire, "and likely soon to be more. The Americans have been
massing their forces at Forts Porter, Schlosser, and Niagara, and
we expect will be attempting a crossing somewhere along the river
soon."
"They'll go back quicker than they came, I guess, as they did at
Sandwich," said Zenas, who took an enthusiastically patriotic view
of the prowess of his countrymen.
"I reckon the 'Mericans feel purty sore over that business," said
Tom Loker, who, with Sandy McKay, had come in, and, in the
unconventional style of the period, had drawn up their seats to
the fire. "They calkilated they'd gobble up the hull of Canada;
but 'stead of that, they lost the hull State of Michigan an' their
great General Hull into the bargain," and he chuckled over his
play upon words, after the manner of a man who has uttered a
successful pun.
"You must tell us all about it," said Neville: "I have not heard
the particulars yet."
"After supper," said the squire. "We'll discuss the venison first
and the war afterwards," and there was a general move to the
table.
When ample justice had been done to the savoury repast, Miss
Katherine intimated that a good fire had been kindled in the
Franklin stove in the parlour, and, in honour of the guest,
proposed an adjournment thither.
The squire, however, looked at the leaping flames of the kitchen
fire as if reluctant to leave it, and Neville asked as a favour to
be allowed to bask, "like a cat in the sun," he said, before it.
"I'm glad you like the old-fashioned fires," said the farmer.
"They're a-most like the camp-fire beside which we used to bivouac
when I went a-sogering. I can't get the hang o' those new-fangled
Yankee notions," he continued, referring to the parlour stove,
named after the great philosopher whose name it bore.
A large semicircle of seats was drawn up around the hearth. The
squire took down from the mantel his long-stemmed "churchwarden"
pipe.
"I learned to smoke in Old Virginny," he said apologetically. "Had
the real virgin leaf. It had often to be both meat and drink when
I was campaigning there. I wish I could quit it; but, young man,"
addressing himself to Neville, "I'd advise you never to learn.
It's bad enough for an old sojer like me; but a smoking preacher I
don't admire."
Zenas, crouched by the chimney-jamb, roasting chestnuts and
"popping" corn; Sandy, with the characteristic thrift of his
countrymen, set about repairing a broken whip-stock and fitting it
with a new lash; Tom Loker idly whittled a stick, and Miss
Katharine drew up her low rocking-chair beside her father, and
proceeded to nimbly knit a stout-ribbed stocking, intended for his
comfort--for girls in those days knew how to knit, ay, and card
the wool and spin the yarn too.
"Now, Tom, tell us all about Hull's surrender," said Zenas, to
whom the stirring story was already an oft-told tale.
"Wall, after I seed you, three months agone," said Tom, nodding to
Neville, and taking a fresh stick to whittle, "we trudged on all
that day and the next to Long P'int, an' a mighty long p'int it
wuz to reach, too. Never wuz so tired in my life. Follering the
plough all day wuz nothing to it. But when we got to the P'int, we
found the Gineral there. An' he made us a rousin' speech that put
new life into every man of us, an' we felt that we could foller
him anywheres. As ther wuz no roads to speak of, and the Gineral
had considerable stores, he seized all the boats he could find."
"Requiseetioned, they ca' it," interjected Sandy.
"Wall, it's purty much the same, I reckon," continued Tom, "an' a
queer lot o' boats they wuz--fishin' boats, Durham boats, scows
[Footnote: In the absence of roads, boats were much used for
carrying corn and flour to and from the mills, and for the
conveyance of farm produce.]--a'most anythin' that 'ud float.
Ther' wuz three hundred of us at the start, an' we picked up more
on the way. Wall, we sailed an' paddled a matter o' two hundred
miles to Fort Malden, an' awful cramped it wuz, crouchin' all day
in them scows; an' every night we camped on shore, but sometimes
the bank wuz so steep an' the waves so high we had to sail on for
miles to find a creek we could run into, an' once we rowed all
night. As we weathered P'int Pelee, the surf nearly swamped us."
"What a gran' feed we got frae thae gallant Colonel Talbot!"
interjected Sandy McKay. "D'ye mind his bit log bothie perched
like a craw's nest atop o' yon cliff. The 'Castle o' Malahide,' he
ca'd it, no less. How he speered gin there were ony men frae
Malahide in the auld kintry wi' us! An' a prood man he was o' his
ancestry sax hunnerd years lang syne. Methinks he's the gran'est
o' the name himsel'--the laird o' a score o' toonships a' settled
by himsel'. Better yon than like the gran' Duke o' Sutherland
drivin' thae puir bodies frae hoose an' hame. Lang suld Canada
mind the gran' Colonel Talbot [Footnote: Posterity has not been
ungrateful to the gallant colonel. In the towns of St. Thomas and
Talbotville, his name is commemorated, and it is fondly cherished
in the grateful traditions of many an early settler's family. He
died at London, at the age of eighty, in 1853.] But was na it fey
that him as might hae the pick an' choice o' thae braw dames o'
Ireland suld live his lane, wi' out a woman's han' to cook his
kail or recht up his den, as he ca'd it."
"I've been at his castle," said Neville, "and very comfortable it
is: He lives like a feudal lord,--allots land, dispenses justice,
marries the settlers, reads prayers on Sunday, and rules the
settlement like a forest patriarch." "Tell about Tecumseh," said
Zenas, in whose eyes that distinguished chief divided the honours
with General Brock.
"Wall," continued Loker, "at Malden there wuz a grand pow-wow, an'
the Indians wore their war-paint and their medals, and Tecumseh
made a great harangue. He was glad, he said, their great father
across the sea had woke up from his long sleep an' sent his
warriors to help his red children, who would shed the last drop of
their blood in fighting against the 'Merican long knives." "And
they'll do it, too," chimed in Zenas, in unconscious prophecy of
the near approaching death of that brave chief and many of his
warriors.
"An' Tecumseh," continued the narrator, "drawed a map of Detroit
an' the 'Merican fort on a piece o' birch bark, as clever, I
heered the Gineral say, as an officer of engineers."
"But was na yon a gran' speech thae General made us when we were
tauld tae attack thae fort?" exclaimed Sandy with martial
enthusiasm. "Mon, it made me mind o' Wallace an' his 'Scots wham
Bruce hae aften led.' I could ha' followed him 'gainst ony odds,
though odds eneuch there were--near twa tae ane, an' thae big guns
an' thae fort tae their back."
"Wasn't I glad to see the white flag come from the fort as we
formed column for assault, instead o' the flash o' the big guns,
showin' their black muzzles there," Loker ingenuously confessed.
"I'm no coward, but it makes a feller feel skeery to see those
ugly-lookin' war dogs splttin' fire at him."
"Hae na I tell't ye," said Sandy, somewhat sardonically, "gin
ye're born tae be hangit, the bullet's no made that'll kill ye."
"Ye're as like to be hanged yerself," said Tom, somewhat
resentfully, giving the proverb a rather literal interpretation.
"Tush, mon, nae offence, its ony an auld Scotch saw, that. But an
angry mon was yon tall Captain Scott [Footnote: Afterwards Major-
General Scott, Commander-in-Chief of the United States army. The
prisoners were sent to Montreal and Quebec. Hull was subsequently
court-marshalled for cowardice and condemned to death, but he was
reprieved on account of Revolutionary service.] at thae surrender.
How he stamped an' raved an' broke his sword."
"I am sure the Gineral was very kind to them. On our march home,
the prisoners shared and fared as well as we did."
"I heard," said Neville, "that Hull was afraid the Indians would
massacre the women and children who had taken refuge in the fort."
"No fear of that," said Loker. "Tecumseh told the Gineral they had
sworn off liquor during the war. It's the fire-water that makes
the Indian a madman, an' the white man, too."
"Well, thank God," said Neville, "it is a great and bloodless
victory. I hope it will bring a speedy peace."
"I am afraid not," said the squire, arousing from his doze in the
"ingle nook." "We had a seven years' struggle of it in the old
war, and I fear that there will have to be some blood-letting
before these bad humours are cufed. But we'll hope for the best.
Come, Katharine, bring us a flagon of your sweet cider."
The sturdy brown flagon was brought, and the gleaming pewter mugs
were filled--it was long before the days of Temperance Societies--
even the preacher thinking it no harm to take his mug of the
sweet, amber-coloured draught.
Neville read from the great family Bible that night the majestic
forty-sixth psalm, so grandly paraphrased in Luther's hymn,
"Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott;"
the favourite battle-hymn, chanting which the Protestant armies
marched to victory on many a hard-fought field--the hymn sung by
the host of Gustavus Adolphus on the eve of the fatal fight of
Lutzen.
As he read the closing verses of the psalm the young preacher's
voice assumed the triumphant tone of assured faith in the glorious
prophecy:
"He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of the earth; He breaketh
the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder; He burneth the chariot in
the fire.
"Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the
heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.
"The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge."
"Amen!" unconsciously but fervently responded the soft low voice
of Katherine Drayton to this prophecy of millennial peace, and
this solemn avowal of present confidence in the Most High.
Alas! before to-morrow's sun should set, her woman's heart should
bleed at the desolations of war brought home to her very
hearthstone.
CHAPTER III.
QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.
About seven miles from the mouth of the Niagara River, a bold
escarpment of rock, an old lake margin, runs across the country
from east to west, at a height of about three hundred feet above
the level of Lake Ontario. Through this the river, in the course
of ages, has worn a deep and gloomy gorge. At the foot of the
cliff and on its lower slopes, nestled on the western side the
hamlet of Queenston and on the eastern the American village of
Lewiston. On the Canadian side, where the ascent of the hill was
more abrupt, it was overcome by a road that by a series of sharp
zigzags gained the tableland at the top. Halfway up the height was
a battery mounting an 18-pound gun, and manned by twelve men, and
on the bank of the river, some distance below the village, was
another mounting a 24-pound carronade. On either side of the rocky
pass from which the river flows, the spiry spruces and cedars with
twisted roots grapple with the rocks and cling to the steep
slopes.
The river emerges from the narrow gorge, a dark and tortured
stream. For seven miles since its plunge over the great cataract,
it has been convulsed by raging rapids and rugged rocks and by a
seething whirlpool. As it here glides out into a wider channel, it
bears the evidences of its tumultuous course in the resistless
sweep of its waters and the dangerous eddies and "boilers" by
which its dark surface is disturbed. At this point is a favourite
fishing-ground. The schools of herring attempting to ascend the
river are here unable to overcome the swiftness of the current and
are caught in large quantities by the rude seines and nets of the
neighbouring fishermen, a waggon-load sometimes being caught in a
few hours. Notwithstanding the invasion of Canada by Hull and the
capture of Detroit by Brock, a sort of armed truce was observed
along the Niagara frontier; and Brock had orders from Sir George
Provost, Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General, to stand
strictly on the defensive. As the schools of fish at this season
of the year were running finely, the fishermen of the villages on
each side of the river were eagerly engaged in securing their
finny harvest, on which much of their winter food supply depended.
As this was a mutual necessity, each party, by a tacit consent,
was allowed to ply this peaceful avocation, for the most part,
undisturbed by hostile demonstrations of the other.
For the defence of the whole frontier of thirty-four miles from
Fort Erie to Fort George, Brock had only some fifteen hundred men,
of whom at least one-half were militiamen and Indians. On the
American side of the river, a force of over six thousand regulars
and militia were assembled for the invasion of Canada. These were
distributed along the river from Fort Niagara to Buffalo. Brock
was compelled, therefore, still further to weaken his already
scanty force by being on the alert at all points, as he knew not
at which one the attack would be made. Consequently there were
only some three hundred men, mostly militia, quartered at
Queenston at the time of which we write. They were billeted at the
inn and houses of the village and in the neighbouring farmhouses
and barns.
The morning of the thirteenth of October, a day ever memorable in
the annals of Canada, broke cold and stormy. Low hung clouds
mantled the sky and made the late dawn later still, and cast still
darker shadows on the sombre clumps of spruce and pines that
clothed the sides of the gorge, and on the sullen water that
flowed between. A couple of fishermen of the neighbourhood who
were serving in the militia had been permitted by the officer in
command to attend to their seines, with the injunction to keep a
sharp look-out at the same time, and to be ready at an instant's
summons to join the ranks. As the schools of herring were in full
run, they had remained all night in the little bothie or hut, made
of spruce boughs, down at the water-side, that they might at the
earliest dawn draw their seine and set it again unmolested by the
stray shots from the opposite side, which, notwithstanding the
truce, had of late occasionally been fired. At the same season of
the year, the same operation can still be witnessed at the same
place--the narrow ledge beneath the cliff, along the river-bank,
especially near the abutment of the broken Suspension Bridge.
The elder of the two men was a sturdy Welshman--Jonas Evans by
name--a Methodist of the Lady Huntingdon connexion. The other, Jim
Larkins, was Canadian born, the son of a neighbouring farmer.
About four o'clock in the morning they emerged from their spruce
booth and began hauling with their rude windlass upon the seine,
heavily laden with fish.
"Hark!" exclaimed Jonas to his companion, "what noise is that? I
thought I heard the splash of oars."
"It is only the wash of the waves upon the shore or the sough of
the wind among the pines. You're likely to hear nothing else this
time o' day, or o' night rather."
"There it is again," said the old man, peering into the darkness,
"And I'm sure I heard the sound o' voices on the river. See
there!" he exclaimed as a long dark object was descried amid the
gloom. "There is a boat, and there behind it is another; and I
doubt not there are still others behind. Run, Jim, call out the
guard. The Lord hath placed us here to confound the devices of the
enemy."
Snatching from the booth his trusty Brown Bess musket, without
waiting to challenge, for he well knew that this was the vanguard
of the threatened invasion, he fired at the boat, more for the
purpose of giving the alarm than in the expectation of inflicting
any damage on the moving object in the uncertain light.
The sound of the musket shot echoed and re-echoed between the
rocky cliffs, and repeated in loud reverberations its thrilling
sound of warning.
"Curse him! we are discovered," exclaimed the steersman of the
foremost boat, with a brutal oath. "Spring to your oars, lads! We
must gain a footing before the guard turns out or it's all up with
us. Pull for your lives!"
No longer rowing cautiously with muffled oars, but with loud
shouts and fairly churning the surface of the water into foam,
they made the boat--a large flat-bottomed barge--bound through the
waves. Another and another emerged rapidly from the darkness, and
their prows successively grated upon the shingle as they were
forced upon the beach. The invading troops leaped lightly out with
a clash of arms, and at the quick, sharp word of command, formed
upon the beach.
Meanwhile, on the cliff above, the sharp challenge and reply of
the guard, the shrill _reveille_ of the bugle, and the quick
throbbing of the drums calling to arms is heard. The men turn out
with alacrity, and are soon seen, in the grey dawn, running from
their several billets to headquarters, buckling their belts and
adjusting their accoutrements as they run. Soon is heard the
measured tramp of armed men forming in companies to attack the
enemy. Sixty men of the 49th Grenadiers, under the command of
Captain Dennis, and Captain Halt's company of militia advance with
a light 3-pounder gun against the first division of the enemy,
under Colonel Van Renssclaer, who has formed his men on the beach
and is waiting the arrival of the next boats. These are seen
rapidly approaching, but to get them safely across the river is a
work of great difficulty and danger. The current is swift, and the
swirling eddies are strong and constantly changing their position.
On leaving the American shore, they were obliged to pull up stream
as far as possible. But when caught by the resistless sweep of the
current, they were borne rapidly down, their track being an acute
diagonal across the stream. To reach the only available landing-
place, they must again row up stream in the slack water on the
Canadian side, their whole course being thus like the outline of
the letter 'N'. [Footnote: The present writer has a vivid
remembrance of a night-passage of the river under circumstances of
some peril. It was in a small flat-bottomed scow. Shortly after
leaving the American shore, a tremendous storm of thunder,
lightning, rain, and hail burst over the river. The waves, crested
with snowy foam which gleamed ghastly in the dim light of our
lantern, threatened to engulf our frail bark. The boatman strained
every nerve and muscle, but was borne a mile down the river before
he made the land. That distance he had to retrace along the
rugged, boulder-strewn, and log-encumbered shore. We reached the
landing in a still more demoralized condition than the American
invaders, but met a warmly hospitable, not hostile, reception.]
Of the thirteen boats that left the American shore, three were
driven back by the British fire--the little three-pounder and the
two batteries doing good service as their hissing shots fell in
disagreeably close proximity to the boats, sometimes splashing
them with spray, and once ricocheting right over one of them.
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