Legend of the Paymaster's Gold Read online

  Legend of the Paymaster’s Gold

  Jo Shawyer

  For Bruce, my partner in my literary adventures!

  Legend: noun — traditional story popularly regarded as historical, myth.

  Chapter

  One

  ANNIE WAREHAM, HER JOURNAL

  June 1811

  Finally we are here at our new place. It's my birthday! I am thirteen years old today. We walked all the way from the New York country to this new frontier in Upper Canada. Daisy and Bessie, our cows, walked all the way, too. Father and John, my older brother, and Cousin Ned are making us a shelter for the summer. But I like sleeping under the stars better. Cousin Ned shot a deer today. Mother and I spent all day smoking the meat. We smell like smoke! Father is glad that this land is on Commissioner’s Road. He says that farms and towns will develop quickly nearby. I hope so. I want to make some new friends. Father and Mother are pleased to be here in a British colony. And so is John. But Cousin Ned who came with us to help us settle wishes that we had never left New York. Some Indians came by today and gave us some fish.

  “It’s weird. This house is really weird.” Eadie stood in the empty kitchen of the empty house, and looked around carefully. “From the outside, the house is square, but inside it’s not. There’s a whole chunk missing.” She turned to look at her twin brother, Sam, and her parents, Tom and Liz Jackson. “How can that be?”

  This was Sam and Eadie’s first visit to their new home. It was an old house on an old road at the edge of London, Ontario. They were moving in the next day. The house seemed odd right from the start.

  Tom agreed. “It is strange, Eadie. Your mum and I thought so, too, when we first came to look at this place. The room at the back corner of the house has no door connecting it with the rest of the house, not even to the kitchen. So, you can only enter from outside the house. I think it’s always been used as a shed.”

  “It seems pretty dumb to me,” grumbled Sam. “Why build a house and not connect all of the rooms?”

  Tom and Liz looked at each other and sighed. They were all feeling grumpy. They had loved their old house downtown and were still coming to terms with the fact that the city had expropriated it to widen the street. Forced to move, Tom and Liz had chosen this house at the edge of the city, close to the countryside, on a big piece of land, where they would have no risk of being expropriated again.

  They liked that it was an old house. Mrs. Foster, who had sold them the house, told them that it was built in 1865. And Commissioners Road was built very early in pioneer times. The Jacksons also liked the fact that the house was on the top of a hill, Reservoir Hill, with Reservoir Park across the road.

  From this house, it would be easy for their parents to commute to their jobs in the city. But it was harder for Sam and Eadie. They would have to change schools and leave their friends behind. It looked like a long, boring summer ahead.

  “I want to break down the wall between that shed-room and the kitchen,” Liz said. “That will make it part of the house. It could be a dining room or a sunroom.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Tom led the way through the kitchen and out the back door. Sam followed. At fourteen he was almost as tall as his father, but a lot thinner and with more hair — dark curly hair that tumbled in all directions.

  Eadie followed behind. She was tiny like her mother, and, like Sam, enjoyed sports. But even more, she liked to be curled up with a book, alone. She liked to write stories and always had a notebook handy to jot down ideas. Although she didn’t like moving house and having to change schools, she was at least glad that they had moved from one old house to another old house. Old houses have seen a lot of history. This house should have some stories to tell, she thought as she trailed along after Sam and her dad.

  Liz followed Eadie out the kitchen to the back of the house and then to the door leading into the shed-room. Short and energetic, she was determined that her family learn to like this house and the neighbourhood.

  Tom wrestled with the rusty old key and shouldered open the door to the shed-room. They peered inside. Having no windows, the room was dark. They pushed the door wide open to let some light in, and saw that it was full of junk. There was a big chair with its stuffing falling out, a table with one leg missing, paint cans, a couple of filthy carpets, some empty cardboard boxes, and many pieces of lumber. The walls were roughly plastered and very grimy. There were mouse droppings everywhere.

  “Gross,” Eadie said.

  “Double gross,” Sam said.

  Liz sighed. “This will need clearing out. More work.” She glanced at Sam and Eadie. “But not today.”

  “Let’s check out the park,” Sam suggested.

  Sam and Eadie left their parents to discuss renovations to the house. The twins crossed the road to the elaborate gate at the entrance to Reservoir Park. The gate was made of iron bars and hung on two sturdy stone gateposts. On each gatepost there was a sign.

  “What’s all this about?”muttered Sam.

  The sign on the gatepost on the right was dated 1920. It described the construction of the reservoir, which Sam and Eadie could see in the distance. It was a huge, circular, cement-covered area surrounded by a high embankment. Sam shrugged. “What a dumb park. It’s just a water reservoir where they collect water for the city. Are we supposed to get excited about the fact that it can hold …” he peered again at the plaque, “‘ten-million imperial gallons of water’?”

  “That was in 1920, Sam. Look at this other sign. The first reservoir was built in 1878. That’s more than 100 years ago.”

  “A historical water supply.” Sam shook his head. “Heritage, I guess.”

  “At least the park is free,” Eadie said as they entered through the gate. They followed the track around the edge of the reservoir when, suddenly, the track narrowed and they entered a thick woods. It was dark and silent.

  Eadie looked up at the tall trees where their branches met overhead. “This is more like a forest than a woods, Sam. Look how big around the trunks of the trees are. They must have been growing here since pioneer times.”

  “Maybe they’ve been here since the first reservoir was built. Anyway, it’s awfully gloomy.”

  The path led to a wooden shelter with open sides and a roof shaped like a mushroom. Here they could see that they were up very high, looking out over the valley of the Thames River below. But they couldn’t see the river itself because the large trees blocked the view.

  Eadie spied a historical plaque beside the wooden shelter. “Sam, look at this.”

  “The War of 1812”

  On August 30, 1814, on this section of Commissioner’s Road, a company of Middlesex Militia, led by Captain Daniel Rapelje, ambushed a party of some 70 mounted United States Rangers, guided by former Delaware resident, Andrew Westbrook. The Americans were returning to Amherstburg after a raid on Oxford Township (Ingersoll), where they had taken several prisoners, including 4 officers from the Oxford Militia. Such burn, destroy, and abduction raids were the enemy’s military strategy for this part of Upper Canada throughout 1814.

  Captain Rapelje became aware of the American presence in the area, and in anticipation, constructed a barricade across the ravine-like section of road. The ensuing ambush routed the Rangers, who fled eastward, leaving casualties on the field. All the prisoners escaped except Captain John Carroll of the Oxford Militia, who was killed.

  Funded in partnership with the London Advisory Committee on Heritage and the Save the Reservoir Hill Group

  Now Sam was all attention. “Cool!” He punched the air with his fist. “A war! A battle! It says right here, The War of 1812. An ambush on this section of Commissioners Road!”

  “And someone was
even killed! Poor Captain Carroll.” Eadie shivered.

  “This was a battlefield, Eadie. Right here, on Reservoir Hill.” Sam read the plaque carefully again. “Seventy Americans. That’s a big raiding party.”

  “I can’t believe it, Sam. I always thought that the Canadians were friends with the Americans.”

  “Not in the War of 1812, they weren’t,” a voice behind them said.

  Sam and Eadie spun around. There, facing them, was a boy about their age. Short, very skinny. Red hair and a mass of freckles.

  He grinned. “Hi. I’m Ben. You must be the new people in Mrs. Foster’s place.”

  Chapter

  Two

  July 1811

  Today is hot. Aunt Jessie gave me this book when we said goodbye to her in New York. She told me to practise writing in it because she knew that there would be no school here on this frontier. But there is never time to write in it. We found some grassy patches and dug them up to plant some potatoes and some wheat. We have to walk a distance to them. In between, it is all trees — huge trees — but Father and John and Cousin Ned are cutting them down to make us a small cabin for the winter. We will make a shelter for Daisy and Bessie, too.

  A man came today from west of here and told us there is talk of war between these British colonies and America. It is something to do with a war between England and France. I don’t understand. Mother is very upset. We came from America to this British Colony. It would be terrible to find that we are at war with where we came from. We have relatives in America — Cousin Ned’s parents, Aunt Jessie, and Uncle William. “It is just men, wanting to fight,” Mother says.

  Sam and Eadie stared at Ben.

  “I’m Sam.”

  “I’m Eadie. Where do you live?”

  “Just over there, across the park, on the other side of the reservoir.”

  Sam got straight to the point. “So … what do you know about the War of 1812? Was there really a battle here? Right here? Is it true?”

  “Of course, it’s true. There were two battles here. Well, not really big battles with thousands of soldiers, but skirmishes — fights really, but with guns — between small groups of soldiers. One was this ambush,” Ben waved a hand at the historic plaque, “and the other was a skirmish involving General Procter. But there’s no plaque for that one.”

  “I thought the War of 1812 was only at Niagara,” Eadie said. She was thinking of a school trip that she had been on there. And Forts that they had visited.

  “It was everywhere: Nova Scotia, Quebec, and here. You’ll hear more about it at school. You can’t get through school around here without it,” Ben grinned. “War of 1812–1814. It lasted two years. Between us and America.”

  “Why isn’t there a plaque for the Procter skirmish?” Sam asked.

  “Because nobody knows whether it really happened. It’s a legend.” Ben paused for effect. “It’s called the Legend of the Paymaster’s Gold.”

  “This is getting better and better,” Sam exclaimed. “What’s the legend? What’s a paymaster? Whose gold was it?”

  There, standing in the park, by the plaque, Ben explained. “This plaque is about American raiders who came here in 1814 to harass the settlers. The local militia ambushed them and chased them off.” He turned back to Sam and Eadie. “That really happened and Captain Carroll really did get killed.”

  “But what about General Procter?” Sam was impatient.

  “The Legend of the Paymaster’s Gold is about General Henry Procter. That happened earlier in the war, in 1813. Procter was retreating from fighting the Americans at Detroit. He followed east along the Thames River, chased by the Americans. They caught up with him and they fought west of here, at Moraviantown, and Procter was totally beaten. He lost hundreds of men and Native allies. The famous Native leader, Tecumseh, died in that battle. That’s true, that battle really happened.”

  “What happened next?”

  Ben continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Procter beat it. With the few men who were left. They came along Commissioners Road, right past here, and the Americans caught up with them again right on Reservoir Hill. There was a skirmish. Captain Carroll fought off the Americans while Procter escaped and headed east toward Lake Ontario. And, somehow, some gold went missing. The story is that it was Procter’s paymaster who lost the gold. He was in charge of buying food for the men and horses so he must have been carrying a lot of money.”

  “And nobody’s ever found the gold?” Eadie asked.

  “No. Because it’s only a legend. No one has ever proved that the skirmish on Reservoir Hill ever happened. It’s just a story.”

  “So that’s why there’s no plaque for Procter?” Eadie asked.

  “Right.”

  “I can’t stand it!” Sam flung his arms in the air. “Either there was a skirmish on Reservoir Hill or there wasn’t. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that no one wrote anything down about it at the time. There’s no official report. No document to prove it.”

  “It’s just a story that people have told?”

  “Right. It’s just a story. A legend.”

  “Bummer,” said Sam.

  They stood on the path. Silent. Lost in thought. Then Eadie tucked her long black hair behind her ear and crossed her arms. She grinned at the boys. “But maybe they’re wrong. And maybe the legend is true. Maybe the gold really was lost.” She paused, and added quietly, “But then, of course, there wouldn’t be a legend.”

  “But then there would be gold!” Sam and Ben grinned at each other.

  “Exactly,” said Eadie. “And nobody’s ever found it, so it must still be lost.” She looked around at the path, at the field where the reservoir was, and toward the edge of Reservoir Hill. “Somewhere. Here.”

  Sam turned to Ben. “Let’s search for the gold! What we need is a metal detector.”

  To Sam’s astonishment, Ben replied, “My dad’s got one.”

  “Cool! Have you ever found anything?”

  “Not any gold. But we found some musket balls. And some soldiers’ uniform buttons.”

  “This is getting better and better! Can we see them?”

  “Sure. They’re at my place.”

  Sam and Eadie followed Ben along the path through the woods to come out on the other side of the giant reservoir. They climbed over a fence and crossed a field to his house. It was more modern than Sam and Eadie’s house, but it, too, was set apart from other houses. Ben introduced them to his mother, Mrs. Matthews. She had flaming red hair, too. She was an artist and had a studio in their house. This intrigued Eadie who liked to draw and paint. But today she was more interested in musket balls and military buttons.

  Eadie followed Sam and Ben outside to the garage. Ben hauled a large box down from a shelf. “Here’s everything I’ve found. You find more junk than good stuff.” In the box were beer bottle caps, a can opener, a ring or two, some rusty nails, and some odd bits of metal. He lifted out a smaller box and opened it. Inside were six musket balls. As big as a large marble, dark and dull-coloured, their rounded surfaces a little irregular. Eadie picked one up. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “It’s made of lead,” Ben explained. “These were shot from muskets. Dad and I looked on the Web and they’re definitely from the War of 1812.”

  “Historically accurate?”

  “Absolutely. The musket was called the ‘Brown Bess.’ The soldier could load and fire three or four shots a minute.”

  Sam rolled a couple of musket balls in his hand. “I wonder how many a soldier carried. They’re heavy.”

  “So was the musket. It was almost five feet long and weighed about nine pounds.”

  “How far could it shoot?”

  “About 100 yards at most. It was only accurate up to about 75 yards.”

  Sam thought for a moment. “So, accurate to centre field in baseball? That’s not very far, really, if someone is pointing a musket straight at you….”

  “Or,” Eadie, a tennis playe
r, added, “accurate to the length of three tennis courts.”

  “Where’d you find the musket balls?” Sam asked.

  “They were in all different places. We didn’t find them all together.”

  “But did you find them in Reservoir Park or near Commissioners Road?” Eadie asked.

  “Yeah. We found them in these fields at the top of the hill, on this side of the reservoir. My dad says that it’s useless to look on the actual hillside because of the depth of the leaf mould and the gravitational slumpage of the soil down the hill.”

  Sam and Eadie stared at Ben.

  Ben grinned. “Yeah, well, that’s how my dad talks. He’s a biologist.”

  Sam and Eadie laughed.

  Ben opened another little box. There were three buttons. Small, dark, and battered. “They’re pewter. That’s a mixture of tin and lead.”

  “Didn’t the officers have fancy ones?”

  “Maybe. But this is all we found.”

  Eadie rubbed one of the buttons with her finger. “I wonder what happened to the soldier who lost these buttons?”

  “I’m more interested in gold than buttons,” Sam said.

  “But, Sam, the buttons and the musket balls are proof that there really was a skirmish here, even if no one wrote it down. Maybe the legend is not a legend at all.” She looked at the boys. “I think that Procter’s paymaster really did lose the gold.”

  Sam looked at Eadie and Ben. “I vote we search for the gold. When we find the gold, we’ll split it even, three ways.”

  Sam, Eadie, and Ben looked at each other and nodded.

  “Fair enough?” Sam said.

  “Done.” Ben agreed.

  They sealed the deal with high fives.

  Ben’s mother came into the garage, car keys in her hand. “Look,” she said, turning to Sam and Eadie. “If you want to know more about the War of 1812 here on Commissioners Road, go to the library. They’ve got loads of material. But right now, we’ve got to go to the dentist.”