Don Gutteridge - Death of a Patriot

Briar Cottage

Toronto, Upper Canada

November 5, 1838

Dear Uncle Frederick:

Your October letter is happily received, and while you insist that I address the unpardonable omission of details political and military from recent correspondence, I must once again beg your indulgence and begin this report by bringing you up to date on matters much more compelling and germane to Clan Edwards.

The doctor has now confirmed what my darling Beth and I had already deduced: a new addition to the family is expected to make his or her debut sometime about the middle of April. Our joy at this prospect is tempered only by the regret that Uncle Jabez did not live long enough to celebrate the arrival with us, and that you are thousands of miles away in a foreign land. I trust that you have come to accept the irrefutable fact that I have become-with no malice aforethought-a permanent resident of this provincial dominion of the Crown. But you of all people will understand such a decision, having married your French sweetheart and settled with her in a far country. Certainly I was pleased to learn that you have been able to complete the probate of Uncle Jabez’s estate and return to Normandy and the bosom of your family. Josh Henchard is a good and honest man who will manage the property well in your absence. Also, your suggestion that Jean-Marie take up the “squiredom” when he comes of age seems a wise one: we don’t want the Edwards name to disappear entirely from Queen Victoria’s domain, do we?

I should tell you too that Beth has reopened her shop in the commercial property she inherited from her late father-in-law. The revived enterprise, proudly sporting the “Smallman’s” name over the window, provides dressmaking services to the town’s fashionable ladies and is unquestionably a going concern. At first I remonstrated with her, as tactfully as possible, but had little influence. What I have learned in my three and a half years here is that women, particularly those born and raised in rural settings, are independent and toughened by experience, both physically and mentally. They often do a man’s work in addition to their feminine responsibilities and demand to be respected for it. They even participate in political affairs, as you’ll recall my Beth has done. However, be assured that her role in the new enterprise is administrative and managerial: she feels obliged to use the premises on King Street to provide work for half a dozen local women and to honour the memory of her dear father-in-law. And I applaud both sentiments.

Finally, to round off this personal segment, I can say that I am thoroughly enjoying my legal studies. There’s much to be said for choosing a profession on one’s own. When not at home getting in Beth’s way or disrupting Charlene’s household routine, I divide my time between the reading room at Osgoode Hall and a cubicle in the far reaches of Robert Baldwin’s chambers on Front Street, with occasional sojourns to the high court of Chief Justice Robinson.

Now to meatier matters. The political situation is more precarious than ever. Two days ago, our best hope for a mediated solution to our problems resigned his commission and embarked for Britain from Quebec City. The measure of Lord Durham’s significance to these troubled provinces could not be better illustrated than by reference to the send-off he was given-in the capital city of the ancien régime and site of Montcalm’s defeat. Thousands of citizens, French and English, cheered his procession from the castle to the quay. People came from hundreds of miles away and camped out on the Plains of Abraham so that they could wave a handkerchief or a capote of farewell and genuine lament. (We had these details given us by a captain of the 34th, whose regiment passed through Quebec en route from New Brunswick to Toronto as part of the general buildup of regular troops here.) Our fervent wish is that he will be able to frame a report and present it to Parliament in Westminster before things fall apart on this side of the Atlantic. At the moment an eerie calm pervades the Canadas, as if we were holding our collective breath. The principal action is the dull rumbling of the rumour mill and the sight of fresh redcoats arriving daily. Spies are everywhere, according to both camps, spreading lies and half-truths.

What we do know is this: the threats being made upon our sovereignty from the United States are real. Early last March a group of self-styled “Patriots”-four hundred strong, mostly American “liberators” with a scattering of exiled Canadian rebels-crossed on the ice from Sandusky, Ohio, and bivouacked on the south shore of Pelee Island, just off the main coast of Lake Erie and within striking distance of our own fort at Amherstburg on the Detroit River. News soon reached Lieutenant-Colonel Maitland, who marched to the area with three hundred regulars and a handful of militia from the nearby town of St. Thomas. In an elegant flanking manoeuvre (which you, as a veteran of the Peninsular campaigns, will savour), Maitland took the main body of his outnumbered force around the island (on sleighs!) to the south side, where he expected to surprise the invaders and cut off their retreat. On the northern tip of the island, in dense bush, he stationed a force of seventy men under Captain Browne, whose task it was to pick off any of the enemy fleeing north to escape Maitland.

However, just before the latter reached his destination, a preposterous contingent of sleighs arrived from the American shore, full of excited Ohio gentlemen (and not a few “ladies”), come to enjoy a bit of Sunday morning melodrama. Espying the British regulars advancing through the mist, they elected to abandon their front-row seats and hightail it back to the land of liberty, taking a number of soldierly fainthearts with them. The invaders, alas, had already detected the presence of Maitland’s force and determined to plunge northward across the island. When Maitland arrived, the Yankee encampment was deserted. He set off in hot pursuit, but the invaders had already reached the north shore of Pelee, and a fierce encounter took place with Browne’s picket, hunkered down in the brush. Outnumbered three to one, Browne spaced his men a yard apart to give the illusion of a greater force and directed a steady fire at the attackers, who returned it in kind. Fearful of losing too many men in such a sustained series of volleys, Browne ordered them to fix bayonets and charge. As you know, nothing turns a man’s bowels to liquid quicker than the sight of a line of ululating redcoats advancing upon him. The invaders broke ranks and scampered off in several directions. Dozens were killed and eleven captured.

There was a local angle to this military victory. The St. Thomas militia, who fought with Browne at Pelee, were led by a Toronto man, Gideon Stanhope, even though his only connection with that area is a brother who farms nearby. Stanhope happened to be visiting when the call went out to the recently embodied militia unit. As he was a veteran of the 1812 hostilities (he’d been at Lundy’s Lane, though did not see action) and keen to participate, he was invited to head the unit. No doubt his being a prominent member of the Family Compact and the possessor of a fine horse influenced the choice. In any event, “Captain” Stanhope fought valiantly alongside Browne, rallied his green troops, and took part in the pursuit until a wound in his thigh compelled him to halt. Even so, as he was being evacuated later in the day, he spotted two figures on the ice just offshore, ordered his driver to stop, and proceeded to hobble out towards them, his worried ambulance men two steps behind. Coming up to the startled intruders, he drew his pistol and took them prisoner before they could recover their wits. The taller of the two Americans was none other than Thomas Jefferson Sutherland, the commander of the invasion force who had arrived late for his own battle and was ignominiously brought to heel by a man with one good leg. The upshot of this deed was that Gideon Stanhope, dry-goods importer, was given a hero’s welcome upon his return to Toronto in June, and thereafter dubbed the “Pelee Island Patriot”-in ironic salute to those misguided souls he helped defeat.