“For a long time before the rising I did not go very often to the Mackenzies, for they thought I would spy on them, and father thought I had better leave them alone anyway. We had supported Mackenzie strongly, like the rest of the farmers, before he went to England, and my father and his friends took their turn in watching him for fear the Compact people would spirit him away; but that was when he was all for reform and agitating for our rights. Whatever it was happened to him in England turned everything into fighting, and father wasn’t going to fight against his country. That Mackenzie was the craziest man you ever did see. He wore a wig, and when he got excited—he was always excited, for the matter of that—he would throw it on the floor, or throw it at you if he felt extra pleasant. You’ve heard of the time he was brought home with cheering and torches and great doings, and given the gold chain?[6] A fine chain it was, long and thick, and he was very pleased and worked up. He saw me standing by, laughing—for I was excited, too—and he cried at me, ‘Ah, Mary!’ and quick as lightning threw the chain at me and the wig on the floor, and then he flung his arms round his mother’s neck and kissed her.
“Every market day, when business was all done, and before the farmers went home, there would be a crowd round him as he talked from the top of a waggon. He made great speeches, I can tell you. I happened to be there once through a friend of his, who was staying in his house and wanted to hear him, and would not go alone. We turned down by the church, and waited at the market corner below King Street, where Mackenzie was standing in a waggon, talking, and you should have seen how the people listened. Perhaps you know that the Compact had a lot of hangers-on who would do anything they were told for the soup, clothes, and stuff that was given them, and we used to call them ‘soupets,’ like the bits of bread you put in soup to sop it up. As Mackenzie was talking, suddenly the vestry door was thrown open, and out rushed a crowd of soupets, caught hold of the tongue of Mackenzie’s waggon, and ran off with him towards the bay. He just stood there, waiting, I suppose, till the farmers got over their surprise. But the soupets nearly had him ducked in the bay before the farmers came to their senses.”
However, there were some whose principles were not changed by Mackenzie’s bloodthirstiness; we have one (Mrs. Dew, then Miss Betty Duffield) who is still proud to tell the tale of how she pinned on the white badges. “I was staying with the Leonard Watsons, who lived near Montgomery’s tavern, when the troubles came to a head, and with my own hands I tied on the badges of white cotton worn by some of our fighting men. On that Wednesday morning I saw Mackenzie ride from the direction of the tavern just as the sound of music was heard coming from the city. Mackenzie halted near our house and exclaimed, ‘Are these our friends?’ meaning those whom he expected from the other districts; but he was soon convinced that the music belonged to the loyalist militia coming up Yonge Street. I am sorry to say that while Mackenzie never could be accused of cowardice in so far as his tongue was concerned, his fighting qualities were not so assured, for I myself saw him fling off his cloak and gallop away.[7] Mr. Leonard Watson found it necessary to try to make his escape. Mrs. Watson and the daughters went to a neighbour’s, carrying some of their valuables with them, as they were afraid the militia would burn the house down. Peter Watson eventually reached the United States. But I stood by the house, and when the militia came up they riddled it with bullets; they ransacked everything, upset anything they touched, and broke nearly all the furniture. But part of this damage was probably done by ruffians who had taken the opportunity to follow the militia for the sake of plunder. Watson’s horses were appropriated, a tall dark man taking one, and a short red-headed man another. Someone proposed burning the house down, and very likely this would have been done had I not happened to notice an officer riding up. I accosted him, and he turned out to be one of the Governor’s aides. He drew the attention of his superior, who kindly asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted protection to the property. He immediately told me to get him paper, which I did, and handed to him as he sat in his saddle. He wrote, “Do no further injury to this house,” signed his name, and told me to show it to anyone offering further molestation. A few days afterwards I went to Darlington in behalf of the Watson family, carrying money for Peter Watson to enable him to reach the States from there. I had to walk part of the way, and I remember when passing a large block of woods a man came out and timidly inquired if I had seen anyone on the road. He looked the picture of misery and nearly starved. The woods were being scoured on each side of the road by men on horseback, and I suppose that poor fellow was captured.
“While those taken were in prison they amused themselves by carving various articles in wood, and I have yet in my possession a small maple box, beautifully made and finished, presented to me by Leonard Watson. On the cover is my name, some verses are on the sides, and on the bottom ‘April 12th, 1838, alas for Lount and Matthews.’”
“When Sir John’s order came for all the troops to be sent east, Colonel Foster remonstrated; but the troops had to go, and he was left in command of the sentries, sick soldiers, women and children at the Fort. Under these circumstances the militia came to the front, did their best, fired anywhere, and we were more afraid of them than of the enemy. We were retiring for the night when a loud noise attracted my attention, and I looked out of the window to see Colonel FitzGibbon on horseback half-way up our steps.” FitzGibbon omitted no chance to warn and thus save life and property. “He called out, ‘The rebels are upon us, and this is one of the houses marked for burning,’ and clattered off again. My husband and his son were soon on their way to the Fort. Our household was left undisturbed, but I had orders to answer the door myself should the rioters come; the servants were not to show themselves, and as I was young and fearless then I rather enjoyed the prospect of excitement. In fact, I was distinctly disappointed that nobody did come. For the next week my husband took what rest he could get on a gun-carriage at the Fort, and I was never in bed regularly myself during that period. He came to see us once, and I recall my amusement at watching him hungrily devour the leg of a goose, an utterly absurd sight when one remembers the style of man he was, and the many courses of his ordinary dinners. I was thankful we even had that leg to give him, as every bit of meat we could get might be seized for the hungry militia.
“I do not see why unpleasant remarks should have been made on the score of a boat having been provided for the safety of the Governor’s family. Lady Head seems to be mentioned very little in the history of her husband’s administration, no doubt owing to the quietness of the life she led. But she was extremely pleasant, and much liked by those who knew her.
“Mrs. Draper and I and some others declined to go on board the boat in the bay on which a good many families were hurried for safety. Another boat had been provided for some citizens’ families, but in the middle of the night despatches came down from Colonel Foster to be sent by boat to Sir John Colborne, and immediately everything was haste and dismay. The people and their boxes were unceremoniously bundled on the wharf, and all was confusion, while the boat went off on its errand. But those on the Government boat did not omit to make public the unpleasant predicament of their guard on board. The distinguished duty of protecting so many wives and families of officials was given to one gentleman. Some one on board was not too frightened to have spirit left to play a practical joke. The poor man’s clothes were removed after he had gone to bed, and then the alarm was sounded—you may imagine his discomfort of mind and body.”
Articles of apparel were frequently pressed into active and public service then and later, and Mrs. Ogle Gowan, notable as a true Deborah, conspicuously contributed her share in connection with the Rebellion Losses’ Bill; her enthusiasm had not grown cold in years. Lord Elgin, equally misunderstood with Durham and Sydenham, made a futile attempt to land at Brockville; a black flag, bearing the inscription in white letters, “Down with Elgin and his rebel-paying ministry,” was hoisted on the dock, a banner known then and ever since as Mrs. Gowan’s petticoat, but it is likely that it merely earned its name because designed and made by her. The lady was unconsciously making a link in the much-discussed history of the jacques, and illustrated one meaning of her husband’s paper, The Antidote. It is said the paper had as motto, “The Antidote is set afloat to cure poisonous treason.” Ogle R. Gowan, staunch Irish-Orange Tory as he was, was a herald of Responsible Government—and suffered for it—a prophet as to ’37, chief promoter in the first movement which resulted in Canadian volunteers, father and founder of Orangeism here, and although a strong supporter of Colborne was antagonistic to the methods of Francis Bond Head; in his military career he was chiefly conspicuous at Prescott, and carried the buckshot and bayonet record of that engagement to his grave. To such a man Mrs. Gowan, a womanly woman of great culture and heroic spirit, was a true helpmeet.
The heroic spirit was patent in many ways. A colonel prominent in the Canadian service received the following: “Mrs. M. wishes to be remembered to you, and prays that the day may come when your hands will place the British standard on the top of the citadel of Washington, the capital of the democratic mob.”