Letters to Lucretia

By Edward Clinch

During the American Revolution, Peter Clinch was one of many Loyalists who were asked to settle in Canada near the colonial boarder to claim land the new colonies wanted. Peter landed with forty men, all Royal Fencible Americans, in November, with awful tides, cold weather and timber so thick you could not walk a straight line. The place was at Magagusdavic Bay which is near St. George.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477202340

Edward Clinch

One of my interests is documenting and teaching genealogy. The story about Peter, one of my ancestors, is fiction and yet his youth could have been like mine. Maybe this is my legacy. You will learn about me reading “Letters to Lucretia.” Edward Clinch

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© 2012 Edward Clinch. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/5/2012

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012907781

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0235-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0233-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0234-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgement

Foreword

CHAPTER 1

Where it begins

(A Treasure Found)

CHAPTER 2

Beginning To Work for Money

CHAPTER 3

Going Off to School

CHAPTER 4

The Military Years

CHAPTER 5

The Fleet Sets Sail

CHAPTER 6

The Colonies

CHAPTER 7

St. John, New Brunswick

CHAPTER 8

Living in My dream Place

Genealogy Search

In Remembrance

Acknowledgement

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Letters to Lucretia was started more than ten years ago. The first name was Magagusdavic, a Mic-Mac Indian name for Place with big eels. James Rasmussen began working with me on that work. The plan changed after eight years to its present name and format. Mary Campbell, I am indebted to for placing the comas and also for wonderful comments. Both James and Mary have encouraged my writing and I want to thank them.

Foreword

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When I first thought to write this story it was supposed to be about my life. But I began to have second thoughts about sharing my own personal thoughts and experiences. Although I felt I had the strength of mind to be completely honest, I realized that it might be uncomfortable for others to read, and that perhaps it would be best to say what I wanted to say indirectly. Since I had been doing some genealogy and had become intrigued by Peter Clinch (1752/53—1816), with whom I felt a close affinity, I thought that if I told a story about him that also incorporated elements of my own life, my story could be told in a way that I and my readers would find more comfortable.

I have tried often to think about why I feel such a particular connection to Peter. In part it may actually be because I can see so little of his life. Neither I nor any of my relatives who have researched Peter can find anything about the first 30 or so years of his life, before he came to the New World and became a prominent citizen of New Brunswick, Canada. We have a few leads and a few possibilities, but nothing definite. There was room here, I thought, for me to imagine creatively his early life and use material from my own experiences and my own reflections on life.

Another part of why I feel so close to Peter is because of the experiences of my own childhood and early adulthood—even though I know nothing of Peter’s life when he was that age. My earliest memory is as a baby in a basket, hearing people talk who were picking blueberries. I also remember seeing a barn burning when I was one. I remember being in a class of children at age three singing at the Methodist Church I was brought up in. I remember the World War II movies showing terrible tortures, both with the Germans and the Japanese. I remember having the freedom to travel into Boston by myself, from the age of eight, and then either traveling to my mother’s or my grandparents’ home, depending on whether it was spring or fall. I was adopted twice: once at age five and then again at age sixteen. I never walked down a road holding a man’s hand. I never had a father.

It is this that makes me think of Peter. I don’t know anything about his family except that we have no record of his having any contact with them after he came to the New World. He was a man alone, who created his own life. I have felt that way, too.

I remember not fitting into anyone’s life, but needing a place to stay kept me behaving well. I never wanted someone to discard me because I acted badly. I remember the whip and a strong hard hand. I remember violent words being said deep into the night. I was fortunate in being white and clever and, with the ability to work hard, I could find I was needed. I was a loner and with help from some unknown hand guiding me I became lucky in my youth.

Many times in my life I have wanted to run away since I felt no child should have to live like this. I knew that if I had children they would never have to worry about a place to live or wonder if they are loved. Unfortunately, I had to learn how to be a loving, caring person through seeing some other families that were. Needless to say, my feelings were hurt many times when I thought some people were caring, but in fact only wanted something from me.

When I came back from serving in the Peace Corps in Africa I happened to move more than one thousand miles from family members. I felt a great freedom with this cushion of distance. Maybe Peter needed a similar distance from his family, and maybe the Atlantic Ocean was a cushion for him. Because I can imagine myself in Peter’s position, or can imagine him in mine, I have decided to write a story about both of us. Please forgive me for using Peter in this way but I feel that he could have had some of the same experiences or feelings I have had.

What I have written here is in two parts. The first part provides an imaginative recreation of Peter’s early life, drawing partly on what little information we have about him, partly on my own experiences, but mostly on my imagination and my reflections about life. Peter’s life is told inside a frame story (with a fictional letter writer as an editor) that tells a story of its own. I wanted to do this to emphasize how much the story of any individual is bound up in the larger story of his family. As you read it, please keep in mind that most of it is entirely fictional, but also that the issues I have tried to raise are issues that I care about and that I have experienced to one degree or another.

The second part is a compilation of my memories and reflections of the two and a half years I spent in the Peace Corps. I have chosen that period of time because, despite being so short, it has made a deep impression on me and on how I think about the world. I spent four years in the military and Peter spent several years in the military.

Those years made a deep impression on me, also, as it must have made on him. The years in the Peace Corps, however, are still alive in my memory and it sometimes seems to me that it had to have been more than just two and a half years! I believe I have experienced more than most—not only in the Peace Corps but over the course of my life—and only now in my later years do I feel the desire and the ability to share some of those experiences with loved ones.

—Edward Clinch

CHAPTER 1

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Where it begins

(A Treasure Found)

G uy, we have to go to your grandfather Peter and grandmother Lucretia’s home to go through the last of their things, says Patrick. It is sad but now respectful with two years gone since they died. How wonderful that he had such a good will so that the estate was divided properly. I especially liked the way your Aunt Sarah received my share as we did not need anything, where she was in need. Interesting how they died just one day apart. Dad, what was grandpa’s history? "Son, as much time as I have spent with him through the years, I know almost nothing about his education or family except he came from Ireland. Son, we know that he knew surveying and government. We also know he had a good knowledge of business and was a leader in the community. I knew him as a soldier when I was a boy and later he was in the General Assembly.

"Son, your grandfather taught me the business of running the country store we have. I learned to buy and sell products as well as to trade for goods and keep accounts. He taught me to learn about people and to be honest with everyone. Your grandfather was ordered while a soldier in St. John to survey all these lands near us. During that surveying time, he found this land that would become our home, son. So you see I did know something about your grandfather.

"When we look through these last things in their home, we might find something, son.

We have a job to do so let’s get it done before it gets dark. Who knows what we will find, as most things are gone except some things in the attic. No one wanted to bother with the attic and left it to me. Maybe, father, we could go to St. John and look in the archives and find out something about grandfather, says Guy. That is a good idea, son, but first we have a job to do here.

It’s been a long day, father, and all that is left in the attic is this old ship’s trunk. Let’s lift it down, son, and see what’s in it. Oh, it’s full of old books and his uniform from the military. Look, father, he was a Captain, says Guy. Yes, and he was also the leader of the local militia for many years after his discharge. I remember him leaving us as children to do his duty as a soldier guarding our town.

Father, the trunk is empty. Can we go home? Let’s move the trunk out of the way, and we can leave. Son, this trunk is still heavy. Let’s look a little closer. I remember hearing that some trunks have a false bottom. The travelers in the old days did what they could to keep things safe, son. Let’s put things back in the trunk, load it on the wagon and take it home. It is late today so tomorrow we can see if there is a false bottom.

Guy is awake early as the excitement of opening that trunk kept him tossing all night. Ann, James and Anthony, who heard the news of the trunk, were waiting for father, which seems like forever this morning. My chores are done. When can we open this trunk? asks Guy. The sun is just coming up and I have two hours to get to the store, says Patrick. Let’s have some fun. It took no time to empty the books and clothing and get to the bottom of the trunk. Carefully they look at the edges of the bottom of the trunk and finally see how one end had a latch. We need a hook like the one your mother uses to tighten her shoes, says father. Guy quickly finds the hook and Patrick lifts up the lid to a treasure. Mother couldn’t help looking over Patrick’s shoulder.

All of grandpa’s medals and records from the military are neatly stacked in one corner. Bundles of papers fill the rest of the space. All the papers prove to be sorted by date. The papers are letters to be mailed to Lucretia, my mother, says a surprised Patrick. Guy asks why his grandfather didn’t mail these letters. Well, son, I don’t know. When we read them, we will maybe find out, says father.

Father, hurry and read these letters, implores Guy. Of course, son. I will read you these letters but we will do it in the evenings after work is done. All the kids yell with delight. Tonight will be the start of our adventure into the writings of your grandfather, says Patrick. Now all of you finish your chores and off to school. The children couldn’t help but gossip with friends all day long about the find.

Guy thought the day would never end and then there was supper to be finished. Okay, father, Guy says. Let’s read grandfather’s letters! Mother says she will do the dishes tonight. Now go and enjoy, children. All the children cluster around father.

With gentle hands, father takes the first from the stack of letters and begins to read.

Dear Lucretia,September 2, 1783

We have been apart for just a short time, Lucretia, and the days seem lonely in this far North Country. The war has been going on for so long that the soldiers arriving in St. John long for peace. Most of the men spend their time off duty drinking in the local pubs. It is difficult for me, since drinking is not a part of my life. This not drinking makes me so different from the men that my time seems long and boring, especially during the evening hours. The men like to drink to all hours and they chatter about the simplest of things, it seems endlessly, and have the crudest of thoughts about women and the Mic-Mac Indians. We will be apart for some time and I must think of something to do to occupy my mind or I will go crazy or be like my men.

What has come to mind is writing about my life’s story that neither you nor anyone will ever know. My soldier’s trunk has a false bottom. It has come to me that this would be a safe place to put these letters to you, since you cannot read even if they were sent. The story will start from the beginning of my memories. Lucretia, it is strange recalling and seeing in my mind almost every conversation along with the vision of my life. Let me take you back to my childhood and write this story to you, but again you will never see these letters.

Let’s begin with a story I heard in parts. The reason for telling this story in parts is because through my childhood little parts of gossip and conversations gave me a story about my birth. No one ever said this story in one tale but this is something I put together over my earliest years. Lucretia, you will have to believe this is correct since there is no one alive in this new world to tell any other story about me. Now this story begins in Ireland about thirty miles distance from Dublin. Father was a good man and was beginning to become known as a businessman. We had a large farm and the gentry began depending on us for farm goods. Wealthy noblemen found that men like father could supply produce they needed cheaper than they could possibly raise it themselves.

The word spread quickly in our small village that the soldiers were coming. Every so often the soldiers from Dublin would travel into the countryside. Their job was to recruit men, buy and scavenge goods. Once the troops arrived in our parish they headed for our house and, thank goodness, father was away at the time for two weeks or he might have been killed or hurt. The captain in charge was a very distant cousin of mother and he grew up with mother in Dublin. The captain told mother he and the men would bunk at our farm for a few days. Mother knew that she and the children would be protected from any pillaging from the soldiers with the captain present. He then made himself at home.

In just those few days the soldiers took what they wished from the village and outlying area and left with wagons piled high with goods and a few recruits. It would be hard to take much without horses and wagons, so they were also taken to carry the loot. The peasants now would have to resort to the same thing that happened to them and become thieves. It had gotten to the point that no one could travel and be safe away from any town. The crown took a great deal of materials from the poor countryside peasants to provide the goods needed for the soldiers to travel to the colonies. I guess you might call these excursions into the countryside tax days. Things were going to be hard for some time to come for those poor folks around us.

That is enough for tonight. I must get some sleep as we have a busy day tomorrow.

Peter

Dear Lucretia,September 3, 1783

I think I saw someone I knew from Ireland today. There are so many arrivals from the colonies now that quarters are imperative with winter coming. Let’s see where I was writing last. Oh, yes.

Father came home the next week and was surprised and yet pleased that his family was not hurt. Nine months later I was born. My childhood was affected by who was my father. Never did father hold my hand or get close to me. Within me, I seemed to know that I was different, yet nobody outright was cruel to me. They just left me alone. Coming from a close family, Lucretia, you will never know the loneliness of not walking down the road holding a hand. Father needed me to help with the chores and hard work became a part of me. Looking back now, dearest, that hard work ethic made me wanted and I knew it and used it to my advantage.

Lucretia, there is a lot of time in this boring place. The children are growing without me around them. How thankful I am that your family is close at hand to help you. We have so much to do preparing this place for the thousands of loyalists who will be coming. In the next letter, let me tell you some more of my first memories.

Faithfully,

Peter

Well, son, this seems to be the beginning of answering your question about grandpa, says Patrick. Yes, says Guy as Ann, James and little Anthony tumble off to bed.

Morning comes early for Guy as his head is full of questions. When Guy sees his father he asks, Why was grandfather not close to his father? I think his father felt that he was not his father but that soldier who came to collect goods was his father. Oh, says Guy. It seems grandfather was a hard worker, says Guy. Yes, says Patrick. All his life he was a hard worker. I always thought being a soldier was an exciting life but from what grandfather said it wasn’t, says Guy.

The children go off to school.

What a day I had today, father, says Guy. What causes you to say something like that, son? asks Patrick. I told some friends about these letters and word just spread to all the kids at school including the teacher. I can see how that news would be interesting, says father. The children and mother are all ready to hear the next letter so dishes and chores are done without a word.

Patrick begins to read.

Dear Lucretia,September 5, 1783

We had a good day today with several small buildings going up, yet the harshness of the start of winter is unabating. Let’s see, more about my childhood. My first memory was hearing voices near me. The sun was shining in my eyes yet there was some shade from bushes overhead. As this story was told in later years, I learned the family was picking blueberries and had put me in a basket. I can still see the branches over my head shading me from the sunlight to this day, Lucretia. As my childhood progressed that wooded area would be a place deep in my heart.

Next to our home was a small horse barn about twenty feet square. It was not a neat barn, just a place to hold parts or junk. The barn burned down when I was one. One sister, Maude, would not believe me in later years remembering that structure. When I told of the window and described the structure inside and out she realized that such a complete story about all the things in the barn must be true. Another time my memory was challenged when I told of my sister Margaret’s boyfriend holding me as a baby in front of him while we rode through the countryside. Again my memory was challenged but when I told of the conversations they had and especially an argument, again they