John D. Smith, before referred to as the owner of the mill at Smith’s Creek (now Port Hope), was a man of means, and being very stirring, was influential at the time of the rebellion. All the able-bodied men in the neighborhood were enrolled en masse at Smith’s Creek. The company was drawn up, answering to their names as they were called. The Colonel stood at the head of the line listening to the names and responses as the word passed down the line. These men were to march to York very shortly, to be ready for any emergency. John D. Smith happened along somehow, whether designedly or not I cannot discover. Waiting, he heard the name “Ephraim Gifford” called. Smith knew Gifford well—knew him to be a hard-working, stay-at-home man, a good chopper, engaged in clearing the forest. Stepping up to the Colonel, Smith said, “There, Colonel, take out Gifford and put in Smadgers there. Smadgers is no good anyway, he won’t work, and Gifford will chop a place for fall wheat and raise a crop. Put in Smadgers.” And Smadgers was put in the ranks accordingly, while Gifford went away home to his chopping.
The times of the outbreak also brought tragedies home to the lives of many of the settlers—losses which no money indemnity could replace or the bereaved ones forget.
Thomas Conant, the author’s grandfather, happened on or about February 15th, 1838, to be walking alone on the Kingston Road, about midway between Oshawa and Bowmanville. It was quite common in those days for persons to walk or go on horseback, the roads being usually very bad for wheeled vehicles. He was an old man, unarmed, and proceeding about his ordinary business. Coming in his walk eastward
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towards Bowmanville, he saw a man named Cummings sitting on his horse before the tavern door, then situated on the south side of the Kingston Road, on lot twenty-six, in the second concession of Darlington. Conant had not quite reached the hotel, but clearly saw Cummings, as he sat on his horse, partake of two stirrup cups, when he started to ride on westward towards Oshawa. Accosting him, Conant (who knew him well) said: “Good day, Cummings; drunk again, as usual!”
Cummings, who was a dragoon and a despatch bearer, dreaded, above all things, to be reported drunk when carrying despatches, and fired up in an instant. Putting spurs to his steed he attempted to ride Conant down; but Conant was too quick for him, and caught the horse by the bridle as he approached, whereupon Cummings raised his sword, and, without a word of warning, struck the old man on the head, fracturing his skull (see [page 193]). Death followed a few hours after. Coroner Scott held an informal inquest, but because the three witnesses of the murder were looking out of the tavern window, through the glass of the window, the evidence was not admitted, and Cummings went unpunished. But the proverbial “sword of Damocles” hung over him all the remainder of his days. Living about Port Hope he became a confirmed drunkard, and at last fell under the wheels of a loaded waggon and was crushed to death. Such is the tragic story of the murder of the author’s grandfather. Not a friend of his dared to utter a protest against the murderous deed or perversion of justice. He was buried on the Kingston Road, about four miles easterly from the murder scene, on lot No. 6, in the second concession of the township of East Whitby. Do I blame the authorities of that day? Indeed I certainly do, and with good reason. But the fact is, that a few persons who exercised the supreme authority, as the rebellion waned, used it most arbitrarily. Good came in the end, and to-day Upper Canada is the peer of all self-governing countries, and one which I love for its own sake. Why shouldn’t I? Does it not enshrine the bones of my grandfather, who fell a victim to Family Compact misrule?
Although our country is almost too young to possess a stock of legends, there are some tales and many local incidents that have been handed down from father to son as fireside tales.