Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Why, then, was it all ashes in his mouth?

Saturday, October 21, 1837

Dearest Marc:

I received your brief note the day after your ship left Cobourg on October 13. By then we had already heard the disquieting news. I have waited a few days before writing back in order to marshal my thoughts and, in view of what has been happening here, offer you what comfort I can. First of all, you have nothing to apologize to me for. Our wedding, which we had every hope would take place tomorrow, has merely been postponed, not our love. I am twenty-five years old, and I have lived long enough in this world to know that we are not wholly responsible for what happens to us. Nor, I’m beginning to realize, is God. We are responsible only for what we feel and how we act upon what we feel, insofar as we are allowed to in a land simmering with hate and aggrieved hearts. I have come to know many of the ideals you hold and how bravely you try to act upon them. Those are the things I love in you. So, please do not be sorry that the mad governor has sent you off to fight in a war you did not make.

You may find it strange to hear me speak like this. I am finding it strange myself. But we are living in difficult and treacherous times. Forgive me if I burden you with matters close to home when you are-I shiver at the thought-bracing yourself for battle, but you must know that Thomas and Winnifred are in some serious trouble, possibly even in danger. I was shocked to discover that Thomas has not been off doing his road duty at all, but still attending radical meetings in the township and consorting with people who are talking and acting as if a farmers’ revolt is inevitable. That is, an armed insurrection. I do not know whether Winnifred knew or, if she did, whether she approved: she says little and broods much. But last week, Thomas came home quite shaken, and swearing that he was finished with politics for good. I overheard him telling Winnifred that he had almost shot some American fellow before he came to his senses and he fled. But now the poor man is terrified that one of his cohorts will betray him. Several of them-you remember Azel Stebbins, don’t you? — have been hauled in by the magistrates for questioning about subversive activities, and he fears one of them will rat on him to save his own skin. He and Winn are talking again about going west across the Mississippi to the Iowa Territory. But their grain is unsold, they are too proud to ask me for money, and Erastus would not lend them a farthing to abandon him and their home. Then, three days ago, we heard that a gang of Orangemen ambushed and beat up a dozen young men near Perry’s Corners, claiming they were “drilling”-with hoes and forks for guns! To top it all off, Aunt Catherine writes that her relative, George Revere, has run off to the States without explanation and that, this week, the windows on our shop were smashed by vandals.

Enough. I will write only happy news from now on. The thought of what you may have to do there, if there is a war, fills me with dread, but am I unforgivably selfish for thinking mainly of your safety, or your coming through such horrors whole and still able to smile at me? Believe this, my darling: I will be waiting for you when you come back. I live for your return. What I ask of you is equally simple: survive. Please.

All my love,

Beth