The Burying Ground. Janet Kellough
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in the 1837 Rebellion. Like Mackenzie, he escaped to the United States before he could be arrested for treason. Unlike Mackenzie, he had fared well there. He was a surveyor, and found work building the Erie Canal. It must have been profitable, Thaddeus thought, if he could now afford to build a mansion.
“And farther up the line?” he asked. “What can I expect there?”
“More of the same, I’m afraid,” Daniel replied. “You might do well in Langstaff, but I’m not sure it’s even worth your while to stop at Thorne’s Hill. Not with the cult that’s sprung up around Holy Ann.”
“Holy Ann? And who would that be? It sounds like something that belongs more rightly with the Catholic Church.”
“No, no she’s a Methodist. Wesleyan. But a very strange one. They say she has the second sight and can perform miracles in answer to prayers.”
“Only God can do that.” Thaddeus was immediately on the alert. He had experience with women who claimed miracles and turned out to be charlatans.
“I know, I know,” Daniel said. “Just try and tell that to the ignorant folk who traipse up to Thorne’s Hill to drink from her well, all of them expecting to be cured of their ailments.”
“Who exactly is she?”
“Her name is Ann Preston. She’s a poor, ignorant Irish girl, brought to this country by Dr. Reid as a servant. She seems to be particularly adept at locating lost articles, just by praying to God for guidance, but I don’t think anyone took her seriously until the Reids’ well went dry.”
“What happened then?”
“She prayed to God, of course, and fetched up two buckets of the purest water,” Daniel replied.
“Was it raining at the time?” Thaddeus wanted to know, and Daniel looked at him in astonishment, then started to laugh.
“I’ve wanted to ask that question myself,” he said. “Good for you.” And then he grew serious again. “There’s a great deal of work for you to do here, Thaddeus. I’m afraid it’s not the easy circuit you might have been led to believe it was.”
“I’ve had harder,” Thaddeus replied. “I took on a whole nest of Universalists near Rideau one time.” But he was beginning to understand why Bishop Smith had been so anxious to have him return to the travelling connection. The Methodist Episcopal Church was fighting for survival.
He discovered how correct Daniel Cummer’s assessment was as he trotted north. There were only three women waiting to meet him at the general store in Newtonbrook. And as his weary pony trotted into Thorne’s Hill, he passed a knot of people clustered around a wellhead. Supplicants to Holy Ann, hoping she could cure them or reform them or make their chickens lay, he expected. And when he reached the wagoner’s cottage where he was supposed to conduct a class, there was no one there but the apologetic owner. It was hard for an ordinary preacher to compete with miracles, he reflected, when all he had to offer was a sermon or two.
He was cheered somewhat by the number of people in attendance at the meetings in Langstaff. There were three Methodists at the men’s class and five at the women’s, and they all came again in the evening to hear him preach. Oddly, there were no taverns in Langstaff and Thaddeus hoped that the lack of liquor was as a result of the influence of the church, but he was afraid that it was more due to the lack of prosperity in the small settlement.
Langstaff was where his boundary ended, the villages farther north more properly part of the Markham or Vaughan Circuits, so he arranged times and places for his return, then turned the cart to work his way southwest through sparsely scattered settlements as far as the Humber River. From there he would circle around to Yorkville and take a day or so to visit with his son. It wouldn’t be the same as going home to Betsy, but it would do.
Even though Yonge Street was by no means the largest circuit he had ever ridden, and in fact he hadn’t had to cover it on horseback as he had in the old days, Thaddeus found that disappointment had exhausted him by the time he reached Luke’s. He felt none of the exhilaration that came from preaching to overflowing halls or counting up new converts on this first round. He had accomplished nothing more than the humdrum exercise of reaffirming the faith of the already committed.
He was given a good dinner at the end of his last class meeting, however, so when he reached Dr. Christie’s yellow brick house on Scollard Street he was content to go straight upstairs and sink into a deep sleep on the daybed in Luke’s sitting room.
The next morning he found his way to the dining room, where a place had been set for him. Christie seemed pleased that he was there.
“More the merrier,” he said, beaming. “When Luke asked if you would be welcome, my one question was whether or not you were capable of intelligent dinner conversation. He assured me that you were, and I suppose that applies to breakfast as well. I’m hoping it will compensate for the inelegant presentation of the meal. Never mind, here comes Mrs. Dunphy. Dig in.”
Mrs. Dunphy turned out to be a rather large woman with a heavy gait and a dour expression. She stomped in from the kitchen and thumped down a gigantic bowl of porridge. Thaddeus filled his bowl, then looked in vain for a jug of milk and some sugar to go with it. Christie ladled out a huge serving for himself, sprinkled it liberally with salt, and then handed the saltcellar to Thaddeus. “Get yourself around a bowl of oatmeal every morning and you’re content for the rest of the day, isn’t that right, Luke, my boy?”
Apparently they were expected to eat their oatmeal Scottish-style: plain porridge with salt and nothing more.
“Wait,” Luke said to his father, and a few moments later Mrs. Dunphy returned with a platter of scrambled eggs and side bacon. Thaddeus was relieved. There was a time when he would have been happy enough with a bowl of plain oatmeal, but he had since been spoiled by Sophie’s cooking. Mrs. Dunphy’s food didn’t appear to be quite up to the standards of the Temperance House Hotel, but it was served hot and looked reasonably edible.
“Methodist Episcopal, eh?” Christie said between mouthfuls of porridge. “Not many of those around here.”
“I’m finding that,” Thaddeus replied. “I have my work cut out for me.”
“Always found Methodist services a little hysterical for my taste — all that shouting and so forth. I’m a John Knox man myself, or at least I was raised that way. Some seem to like the excitement though. The Cummers up yonder, of course. And the Africans down along Richmond Street, but I expect, being in the city, they’re not really part of your circuit.”
“No, they’re not. The African Methodist Episcopal Church is actually a separate body from us. It was organized by the coloureds themselves. They don’t even fall under the jurisdiction of the Canadian Conference.”
“Interesting that they’ve found their way here, isn’t it?” Christie mused.
There had always been a small coloured population in Toronto, Thaddeus knew, but now their community had burgeoned, swelled by new laws in the United States. Local authorities, even in the anti-slavery northern states, were now required to assist in the recovery of runaway slaves. Since all that was required on the part of the slave owner was an affidavit confirming that a coloured person was his property, many free Africans in the northern cities were being scooped up and sent south to the plantations. Many of them deemed it wiser to exit the country entirely.
“Execrable business, this slavery stuff,” Christie said, polishing off his porridge and reaching for the platter of bacon and eggs. “Slave owners should all be hanged. That would put an end to it, then, wouldn’t it?” He suddenly glared in the direction of the kitchen door. “Mrs. Dunphy! Tea!” he shouted.
“You’ll get it when it’s ready!” Mrs. Dunphy shouted back. “You can’t make it steep any faster by yelling at it!”
Christie looked at Luke and Thaddeus and smiled. “There you go. Tea’s on the way. By the way, Luke, I wonder if you might attend the office this morning? I have some rather pressing