The Burying Ground (11 page)

“I doubt it,” Luke said. “They didn't in Montreal — there would have been far too much explaining to do if they had. There were never enough cadavers to go around. I know some of them must have come from resurrectionists. I expect it's the same situation here. But Dr. Christie might know better than I about the records.”

“Let's consult Christie and we'll see where we go from there,” Thaddeus said. He flipped idly through the rest of the book, taking note of the kind of information the cemetery recorded. Dates of death. Names, although in one or two instances even these were missing. Occupations, when known. Occasionally a date or place of birth. He suspected that these more complete entries were made in cases where a church maintained no cemetery of its own and used the Burying Ground instead.

The very first entry in the book was for Mary Carfrae, the infant daughter of Thomas Carfrae, alderman, customs collector, harbourmaster, and one of the early proponents of a non-denominational cemetery. The Carfraes had lent dignity to the potter's field they supported by burying their own in it. The name appeared a number of times in the record, the last entry being for Thomas himself, who died in 1841.

“Well,” he said, handing the ledger back across the table. “I think we should visit the African churches and the medical school, but I have to leave in the morning so it will have to wait until I get back. And now I'd like to visit my bed again, unless Morgan can think of anything else I should see.”

“Nothing that I know of,” Morgan said. “Thank you for doing this. I know it must not seem that important to anyone else, but it is to me.”

“There's no guarantee we'll ever be able to make any sense of it,” Thaddeus said. “But at least now we have a place to start.”

The reinterment of a dead body at the Strangers' Burying Ground seemed to Luke to be only the final episode in what had been an altogether bizarre evening. How many people lived in Toronto? Thirty thousand perhaps? Maybe more. Streets and streets of shops and factories and houses that stretched as far as the eye could see. And yet he had inadvertently wandered into the home of the one man in the city who might wish him harm.

As he tossed and turned in an effort to find sleep, he went around and around the events that had led him to the Van Hansels' drawing room. It had seemed a chance encounter. Any stranger might have stopped to assist a young woman in distress. What were the odds that it would be Luke Lewis? He wondered if Van Hansel had known he was in the area, and engineered the circumstances in order to snare him. But he couldn't see how this could have been done. If Hands knew of Luke's whereabouts, he had a whole cadre of thugs who would be perfectly happy to waylay him at a street corner and deliver him up for punishment. Besides, it hadn't been Luke who had fired the shot that night. He was merely present. And it was his father who had written to Anthony Hawke. He was told that Van Hansel was a vindictive man, but would he go that far to exact his revenge?

No. It had to be coincidence that had brought them face to face. “Coincidences as strange happen every day without anyone taking the slightest notice” his father was fond of saying, and Luke supposed he was right. Still, he found it all rather alarming.

Less dangerous, but more disturbing, was his encounter with Perry Biddulph. Luke really couldn't ascribe any sinister construction to their meeting. The drawing room had been full of people, and Perry had obviously been invited along to accompany the singer. And it was only natural, in a roomful of women, that two young men should seek each other's company. What Luke did find surprising was Perry's willingness to lead him to the tavern, and his directness about his designs. Was it so obvious? Was it something in the way Luke walked or talked or presented himself that signalled what he was? Ben had known. And so had Perry. Could everyone see it, or just those who were looking for it?

In any event, he had no intention of seeing Perry again. He had closed the door on his history with Ben. That was in the past, and he resolved to keep knowledge of it firmly locked away.

So much for his foray into Toronto's social life. The two connections he managed to make were both impossible. Perhaps, he thought, it would be best if he stayed in Yorkville only long enough to replenish his coffers and gain a little experience. Then he could return to Huron, where his life had been far simpler. He would look after cows and pigs and horses and farmers and spend his days discussing the price of potash and the year's yield of wheat with his brothers, and give no one reason to speculate about why the local doctor remained so firmly a bachelor.

And with that decided, he finally fell into a deep sleep.

The second incident at the Burying Ground dominated the breakfast-table talk the next morning. Luke was grateful that Christie's attention was diverted from asking about the Van Hansels' party, but he did think that Christie's questions about the disturbed grave took an odd turn.

“Did you see the corpse?” he asked. “Were there just bones, or was there still flesh on it?”

“I didn't look at it any more than I had to,” Thaddeus said as he took advantage of the doctor's momentary distraction to make a dive for the bacon. “We left that to Luke.”

“A great deal of the flesh was still intact,” Luke said. “Enough, at any rate, to tell that he was coloured.”

“An African? Really?”

“He'd also been dissected. The incisions were unmistakable.”

“Which brings me to a question you might be able to answer for us,” Thaddeus said. “Do you know if the medical schools keep records of their cadavers?”

“Do you mean in terms of where they were obtained?” Christie snatched the last two pieces of toast from the plate. “I‘m not sure. There would be records of any felons who were sent on, of course, but those may well be kept at the jail. The same would hold for unclaimed bodies delivered from the hospitals, but if the corpse arrived by any other means it would be madness for them to write anything down. There would be a vested interest in making sure that there was no written account of any body that was illegally obtained.”

“Would it be worth asking? There was very little information about either body in the ledger that's kept at the Burying Ground.”

Christie shrugged. “You can always ask, but don't be surprised if you get no answer.”

He turned to Luke. “Tell me more about the state of the body,” he said. “I've never seen coloured bones. Are they different from ours?”

“Not that I could see,” Luke replied. “Same composition. Same colour. Except for a scrap of intact skin and what was left of his hair, there was little to distinguish him from anyone else.”

“Did you look at the whole body?”

“Well, no,” Luke said. “The grave clothes had become disarranged and we had to put them back together, that's all. I wasn't there to make a full examination.”

“Unfortunate,” Christie said. “I'd have been very interested in the condition of a body that had been buried for that period of time. Perhaps, should it happen again, you might come and fetch me so I could have a look?”

“I don't think so,” Thaddeus said firmly. “It would just be a further violation of the poor soul.”

Christie seemed not at all put out by this. “I suppose you're right,” he said. “Pity. So there was nothing in common between the two corpses except that someone had tampered with their graves?”

“None that I can find, other than the fact that they both died several years ago and there was a longish stretch of time between their deaths and their burials. I'm heading up Yonge Street this morning, but when I get back I'll ask about them at the Medical School. And at the coloured churches. I've been wanting to visit the African Methodist Episcopal Chapel anyway.”

“Excellent idea. They may well be able to tell you something.”

“Only if someone there remembers an Isaiah Marshall.”

“They might,” Christie said. “There's been an influx recently because of the troubles in the States, of course, but there has always been quite a close-knit coloured population here. When I arrived in the 30s they were already well-established in St. John's Ward. Industrious bunch. Blacksmiths and carpenters and shoemakers. Far less trouble than the Irish — the coloureds never seem to ask for anything.” Christie chewed a mouthful of toast thoughtfully. “Except once, that I can recall. They petitioned the mayor of Toronto to prevent a circus performance.”

“Why was that?” Luke was intrigued that such a harmless diversion could be a point of contention.

“The circus included a minstrelsy act and the coloureds took offence at the way these shows always portray them as dim-witted and lazy.”

“Then I can't say I blame them for objecting,” Thaddeus said. “What did the mayor do?”

“Why, he shut the circus down, of course. Silly entertainment anyway, if you ask me, with their plantation songs and fast-talking Yankees. Actors should all be hanged. I hope nothing of the sort comprised the repertoire of last evening.”

Luke was startled at the sudden shift of focus to his own activities. “No … it wasn't like that at all,” he stammered. “It was a singer and a pianist. They performed a number of songs — popular ones, I'm guessing, although I had no familiarity with them.” He hesitated for a moment while he tried to recall the music he had heard. “There was one about a sweet rose of somewhere.”

Christie's face lit up. “Sweet Rose of Allendale?”

“Yes, that's it,” Luke said.

“Excellent choice of material!”

Christie suddenly burst into song.

“Sweet rose of Allendale

Sweet rose of Allendale

By far the sweetest flower there

Was the rose of Allendale.

“Reminds me of home, don't you know!” he said jovially before continuing.

“Oh the sky was clear, the morn was fair

No breath came o'er the sea

When Mary left her Highland home

And wandered forth with me …”

And he continued to hum happily around mouthfuls of buttered toast all the way through breakfast.

Thaddeus turned the events that had occurred at the Burying Ground over and over in his mind as his pony plodded up Yonge Street against the steady stream of traffic headed in the opposite direction. All on their way to the city, he assumed, to watch the parade march by. He doubted that many of them knew anything about the Orange Lodge or the significance of July 12, but the lure of a marching band was enough to draw them down from the outlying regions to the north. They would line the street and cheer for whoever was walking by.

He himself was not in a cheering frame of mind. The hot, suffocating heat of an Upper Canadian summer had settled over Toronto in the middle of June and now extended its hold into July. The muddy ruts on unimproved sections of road crumbled into dust with every step the pony took and swirled a cloud of fine particles into Thaddeus's face. He pulled his hat lower as a shield, but then he could feel the hot sun burning the back of his neck. His discomfort made it hard to think.

He could see little connection between the two corpses, other than the fact that they had both been men buried by charity. There was no clue to be found in their relative positions in the graveyard. One was on one side, one on the other. There were roughly two weeks between occurrences. The moon had been waning the night before, which meant that it had been a half moon, or close to it, on the first occasion. Thaddeus supposed that partial illumination was a better camouflage than a dark night. Any light that spilled from a shuttered lantern would be less noticeable under the veil of the shifting graveyard shadows. No help in determining the cause of the desecrations, but it might well be an indication of when the next might occur. Utilizing the phase of the moon would be dependent on the weather, of course, but he resolved to discuss this possibility with Morgan upon his return to Yorkville. Perhaps they could circumvent a third incident.

Poor Morgan, he thought, his ambition to join the ministerial ranks thwarted by his inability to wrestle the English language to the ground. This lack was difficult for Thaddeus to comprehend. Language and its efficacious use had always been one of his strengths as a preacher and his best tool as a teacher. He had been sure that he could bring Morgan along, and was distressed that he had apparently failed in this. On the other hand, he reflected, Morgan seemed resigned to his current position. No, not resigned, happy almost — and who wouldn't be happy with a girl like Sally and four fine children to spend his days with? Thaddeus was suddenly hit with a wave of grief at the loss of his wife. Hurriedly, he shoved the pain away, before it could take hold of him, but no sooner had he put this thought away than he realized with a start how much he missed his granddaughter Martha. She had always been good company for him and Betsy. She had a lively curiosity about everything and at times her observations were so shrewd that she took Thaddeus aback. When he had completed his duties on Yonge Street, he must speak to her father about her future. She should be educated beyond the basic rudiments offered at a village school.

When, dirty, thirsty, and bemused, Thaddeus finally reached his host's house in Davisville, he was only momentarily encouraged to discover that the women's class had attracted two new faces, both wives of men who worked at the potteries.

“I was brought up in the old Methodist Episcopal Church,” one of them said. “I remember hearing you preach at a camp meeting near Napanee. When I heard it was you taking the class, I was curious to come along. I thought you'd retired ages ago.”

“So had I,” Thaddeus allowed, making light of the comment. “But when the Lord calls, I have to answer.”

The exchange cast him down again and made him feel old, and he suddenly realized why he was taking so much delight in helping Morgan Spicer discover who was responsible for the raids on the Toronto Burying Ground — it made him feel like he was in the thick of things again, and that made him feel young, in spite of the fact that his arthritic knee still hurt from his misstep of the night before. Vanity, he knew, and the words from Ecclesiastes came to him:
Remove vexation from your heart and put away pain from your body, for youth and the dawn of life are vanity.
He could cast away the vexation, he knew, but putting away the pain of his body was proving far more troublesome.

When he reached York Mills a number of people were lining up along the street. There was to be a small march, one of them said when he asked, to celebrate the glorious victory of King William at the Battle of the Boyne. Local Orangemen would parade through the street carrying banners. No band, of course, but an entertaining diversion nonetheless.

Even here, so far out of the city, they subscribe to this nonsense,
Thaddeus thought, although he did not share this thought out loud. The Methodist Episcopal Church apparently had few adherents in this place as it was, and he would not attract any more by criticizing out of turn. He couldn't resist a small piece of mischief, however, and asked a red-faced man which King William had been victorious, and where exactly was Boyne.

The man looked at him with suspicious confusion.

“Well, you know, good King William. And he put down the Catholics.”

When Thaddeus persisted in his questioning, the man had no answer but to say that he, for one, had no intention of being ruled by the Pope, and if that august personage should ever happen to wander into York Mills, he'd be given the pummelling he deserved.

Shaking his head at the ignorance of men, Thaddeus made his way to the cottage where he was to lead a women's class, only to discover that no one was there. Lined up along the street to watch the Orangemen, he supposed.

There was no one to meet him in Lansing either.

He was to preach the next day's sermon at Cummer's Chapel, so with relief he continued on to the Settlement. Again a number of Cummers were waiting at the meeting house for the men's class, among them Daniel, who as usual extended a dinner invitation and the offer of a bed for the night. The meal was excellent, and Thaddeus was cheered up a little by the unwavering support shown by the Cummer family.

After dinner he and Daniel sat out on the spacious farmhouse veranda to watch the setting sun, unmolested by the swarms of mosquitoes that would have pestered them earlier in the year.

“It's too dry for them,” Daniel said. “The bugs all seem to wither away as soon as the streams do. We desperately need some rain, but if it comes the skeeters will, too, no doubt.”

“How are the crops holding up?” Thaddeus knew that many of the Cummers had farms in the area.

“The wheat is definitely looking peaked. I'm not sure it matters. There's no market for it anyway. At least here we can keep the livestock and the kitchen garden watered — we have a spring-fed well and it has yet to run dry in the summer. ‘Look for willow trees, that's where you find the water' my father always said. Of course if wells go dry, people can draw from the mill pond, but even it's getting low.”

“Your father was a wise man.”

“He was. Sometimes I think it's as well he didn't live to see all this Orange Society nonsense that seems to have gripped the province. He was no supporter of the Pope, but he was always willing to accept the fact that there could be many ways to approach God.”

“There was a march in York Mills, of all places,” Thaddeus said.

“Ironic, given Prime Minister LaFontaine's close connection with York County.”

It was a Quaker sect, the Children of Peace at Sharon, who had led the way in 1841, Thaddeus recalled, when Robert Baldwin formed a coalition of reformers with Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine. The two men shared a vision of a Canada where French and English could flourish together under a government that was guided by the will of the people. When LaFontaine ran into difficulties in his Quebec riding, Baldwin asked the farmers and villagers of the fourth riding of York to elect him to a seat in the legislature. The local reform-minded voters, urged on by the leader of the Sharon Temple, had obliged. Later, LaFontaine returned the favour and found Baldwin a safe seat in Rimouski, a French riding east of Quebec City.

“Are the Reformers going to be able to hold the union together, or do you think it will fall apart after all?” Thaddeus asked.

Daniel took a few moments to answer. “I mislike the amount of influence Orangemen have in Toronto, but if the province was going to fall apart it would have happened when the Parliament buildings were torched.”

“My young lad was in Montreal when it happened,” Thaddeus said. “He doesn't talk about it much. Apparently it was an ugly scene.”

“And could have been much uglier if LaFontaine had been heavy-handed. I, for one, will put my faith in him and Mr. Baldwin. And God, of course, who surely must approve of their tolerant approach.”

Thaddeus wasn't sure he agreed with Daniel Cummer's assessment. It seemed to him that there were too many divisions in Canada. Protestant against Catholic; English against French. Everybody, it seemed, against the Irish. Even the Methodist Church, never united in the first place, continued to splinter into fragments. Methodist Episcopals, Wesleyan Methodists, Protestant Methodists, New Connection Methodists, Primitive Methodists, Bible Christians, African Methodists.…

Perhaps it would be better if they were all one, he reflected — if they could all put our differences aside and concentrate on the work at hand. Methodist schisms were odd things, in many cases ruptures occurring not due to different interpretations of the scripture, but along the fault lines that opened over political and organizational considerations. Maybe it would make more sense to take a page from the Baldwin-LaFontaine book and work toward a common goal.

It was an ironic conclusion to reach, given the fact that he had toiled so steadfastly for the Methodist Episcopals in the past and was now working so hard to lure people into their fold. If the Methodists ever became one church, he would no longer need to trot his pony along Yonge Street preaching to an ever-diminishing handful of people. He found that he was not in the least distressed by this notion.

In light of these ruminations and the events of the previous day, he chose to base his Sunday sermon on the subject of tolerance. It wouldn't be a popular choice, he knew, but he had followed his conscience before and, no doubt, he would do so again. He noted that there were several new faces in the congregation. Perhaps he could do some good work on this circuit after all.

He drew from Matthew for his text: “Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.

“And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”

Here and there he saw a downcast face, which told him his words had hit the mark, but if he had to sum up the general response to his sermon, he would say it was one of puzzlement and disinterest. Maybe it was a mistake after all.

His mood darkened even further when he reached Newtonbrook to discover only three people waiting to hear his service, delivered in the yard of a local farmer. It was as though the clock was cranked back fifty years, to when the Methodist Episcopal circuit riders travelled from farm to farm, cabin to cabin, buffeted by intemperate weather, indifference, and hostility.

He hoped for a breeze as he travelled northward. Yonge Street climbed steadily uphill from the city, taking him away from the steamy heat near Lake Ontario; but even though he reached a greater elevation, the wind died away to nothing. He was soon boiling from the sun and thirsty from the dust. Daniel Cummer had provided him with a jug of water to speed his travels, but when Thaddeus reached for it, he realized that it was already empty.

He looked in vain for a stream where he could stop and fill it. Here and there brooks and rills had dried away to stagnant puddles and he could find no fresh-running creek that invited him to scoop up a palmful of water. Best to wait, then, until he reached Thorne's Hill.

His knee was paining him badly, as well, from the effort of bracing his legs against the footboard of the buggy as it rumbled over the more poorly graded sections of the road. It was with relief that he finally reached the wagoner's house at Thorne's Hill, where he hoped to hold a men's class.

When he stepped down from the buggy he felt a sharp pain in his knee, as if there was a shard of glass embedded in the joint, and at the same time his leg gave way. He was saved from a tumble in the dust only by reaching out at the last moment and steadying himself on the buggy's dashboard. He waited for a few moments and then took a tentative step on his bad leg. The pain was still there. He limped over to the front door of the house and knocked, but no one answered. He knocked a second time and waited, but with the same result. There appeared to be no one at home. He peeked in through the windows, but it was clear that the man had forgotten that he was to host a meeting. Either that or he had changed his mind, Thaddeus thought, and was too embarrassed to say so directly. The class promised to be sparsely attended anyway, as there was no one else waiting to gain entry.

His throat felt scratchy and parched and he knew that he had to find a drink before he could continue on his way to Langstaff. He returned to the main street, but the only public well he could find appeared to be the one that attracted a line of supplicants — Holy Ann's Well — the well that was said to be the site of a miracle. He didn't believe in miracles of that nature, but surely the water itself would be good enough, he thought. He would get his drink there and be on his way.

The woman waiting in front of him was inclined to be friendly and struck up a conversation with Thaddeus as soon as he joined the line.

“I'm hoping Holy Ann water will cure my goiter,” she said. She had a huge lump at the front of her throat that bulged past the scarf she had wrapped around her neck to hide it. “It just keeps getting bigger and bigger and nothing seems to work. I've been taking Syrup of Naptha and Oriental Balsam for years, but it just keeps growing. My sister-in-law said that maybe Holy Ann could help.”