A Toronto lawyer’s first military campaign, 1871

Following the repulse of the Fenian invasions in 1866, the government of the newly-created Dominion of Canada turned its attention to the military forces available for the defence of the new country. The volunteer militia, which were paid and equipped with federal funds, was increased from 19,000 to 40,000. Large camps of instruction were held at Thorold in 1866, Grimsby in 1870 and Niagara-on-the-Lake in June 1871.

Among the thousands of militiamen who attended (unwillingly, as we shall see) the Niagara camp was a newly-minted Toronto lawyer. He left a comical account of his experiences with the lengthy title My Campaign at Niagara. Being A very Veracious Account of Camp-Life and Its Vicissitudes, and the Experiences, Triumphs, Trials, and Sorrows of a Canadian Volunteer, which was illustrated with some delightful drawings.

He apparently started his account as a series of columns in Pure Gold, a humorous periodical published in Toronto, and later combined them into a booklet. Unfortunately, the author – “TW” as he signed himself, although he used the pseudonym “George Jones” in the little booklet – cannot be positively identified. His unit was either the 2nd Battalion (now The Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada) or the 10th Battalion (now The Royal Regiment of Canada).

TW – as he informs us – had just completed his final examinations in law school but had “not yet paid for the superb suit of black” in which he intended “to plead before the bar.” He had, however, rented an office in the “business section” of Toronto, with large windows that formed an admirable background for his name “which I had painted thereon.” He confessed that he would “pass and repass the frosted window with an apparently brisk and business-like air for an incredible number of times a day for the mere pleasure” of seeing his name emblazoned on it.

His first visitor, however, was not, as he had hoped, a potential client. It was his militia company sergeant, who informed TW that his battalion was “turned out” for active service to attend the training camp at Niagara. In vain, TW protested that he had not attended drill for many years and was no longer in the militia, to which the sergeant responded that since he had not submitted a formal resignation, he was therefore still liable for service.

After many protests and appeals (which fell on deaf ears) TW bowed to the inevitable and presented himself at the drill shed on Simcoe Street to be uniformed and equipped. Here he was issued with a dirty tunic, which was too short and nearly button-less, and was then “harnessed successively” with a waist-belt, a shoulder-belt, a water bottle, a haversack, a knapsack, and a great-coat. He was finally handed a .577 caliber Snider-Enfield rifle and told to report at 5:30 the next morning. Under this heavy load, our hero “staggered homeward – bent down – a wiser and sadder man, but still a soldier.”

The next morning TW roused himself in time and, with the help of his younger brothers and a porter, strapped on all his equipment and “marched off mid loud cheers.” He had staggered for about a mile when he realized that he had forgotten his rifle. There was nothing for it but to go back but, fortunately, he saw the porter coming after him with the weapon.

TW reached the drill shed “thoroughly exhausted” but there was little time for rest as, half an hour later, his battalion departed “to the inspiring strains of our fine band” marching “through the most suffocating dust I ever saw.” They were headed for the Queen’s Wharf at the foot of Bathurst Street to embark on a lake steamer for Niagara. TW was puzzled why they did not use the Yonge Street wharf which was much closer. It was only the first of many questions he would ask himself about orders from the superior ranks.

TW did not have an enjoyable voyage across Lake Ontario, which he refused to describe to readers. He found life in the camp held on Fort George Common very difficult. The men were lodged in bell tents, which would be crowded with the regulation eight soldiers but were almost impossible to move around inside with the thirteen men who were crammed into each tent. Reveille was at 5 a.m., followed by three hours of drill before breakfast and more drill throughout the day. TW disliked the constant marching and countermarching half-strangled with a tight-fitting tunic, a stock, and your accoutrements, is no light matter, I believe; though it might be instructive and entertaining enough to our Division officers, who used us pretty much in the same indifferent and playful manner as did that ancient king, who had the floor of a costly vestibule fitted up as a chess-board, with live men for pieces.

On June 9, a few days after arriving in camp, a large review was held on the Common. The men were roused at 4:30 a.m., and “dressing in a hurry shivering with cold and each one cursing all the rest” they managed to get on parade 15 minutes later. This, however, provided some relief from drill, guard duty and kitchen fatigues. The latter duty was despised and TW was actually engaged in scrubbing pots and pans on visitors’ day when his sweetheart came looking for him. He slunk into the undergrowth to hide but before he was able to do so, an amateur photographer took his picture, immortalizing what he considered a dishonourable sight for all eternity.

Mention of kitchen fatigues brings up the subject of food, as mealtimes are often the high point of a soldier’s day. For the first week there was a scarcity of rations, including butter for the hard bread. TW recalled that never before “did we imagine that dry bread and muddy coffee, and calcined beef and drowned potatoes and melancholy soup had such fascinating charms for the human palate.” The food gradually improved and our hero was particularly fascinated by the large kettles of soup that were issued to each tent:

It was almost painful to witness, the suspense that was general as we got through the “soup,” and approached the bottom of the camp-kettle, for we never knew what would be found there till then. Objects not of intrinsic value in themselves were regarded then with unwonted interest and solicitude, as they were brought up from their obscure depths to the light of day, and were examined with curiosity, and a tickling sensation in the pit of the stomach! Strange relics of a by-gone period they were, too, that would have made an old fossil hunter mad for joy, and rendered an Antiquarian society famous for ever. To Sergeant Biggs was deputed the responsible task of fishing them up. And amid an impressive silence the Explorer’s fork would go in; heavy betting would be made – Something would slowly come into view, – and those in feeble health would go outside for a few moments.

But TW admitted that the militiamen did have some fun. Army humour tends to be a bit raw, and the bell tents were excellent locales for practical jokes.

Some of them were boarded with rough planks laid – simply laid – on a crosswise piece of scantling; one plank, in particular, jutting out like a spring board a foot or two beyond the tent. To suddenly jump on the outer end of this plank, when there was a pile of potatoes, or a canteen of hot soup on the other end, was considered very good fun, and was usually followed by much diversion, and some “free” fights.

Another and still more excellent plan was to wait until some unsuspecting wight squatted on the inner end of that plank, with a tin of hot coffee (or soup) between his knees, and some strawberries and herring on a plate on his legs; then to lift up the outer end of the aforesaid plank – briskly!

This act was generally followed by the abrupt disappearance of the man at the other end, through the opening at the bottom of the tent!

Another popular but dangerous joke was blanket tossing. It apparently began using dogs as stations and soon there was not a canine to be seen in camp. The sport then progressed to unwilling human victims, among whom was the unfortunate author. He reports that he was “suddenly and violently seized from behind” and, although he “kicked, struck out madly with my hands, butted with my head, shouted, roared, implored” – all was in vain. TW was “grasped by a hundred hands and jerked into that horrid blanket, – a concussion, a gasping for breath, a passing lance of fiendish faces, – a whiz, – and the next moment” he was 25 feet high in the air. Our hero must have made a hard landing because he “didn’t recollect anything” until the following morning.

Such happy days always pass, however, and on June 20, 1871, the last day of camp, a mock battle was staged on Fort George Common. Eleven battalions of infantry, seven troops of cavalry and three batteries of field artillery were divided into two opposing forces and the fun began.

It is quite possible that someone knew what was going on but to the men like TW in the ranks, all was chaos and confusion. They were surrounded by the roar of the artillery, “the shrieks of the slaughtered enemy… the incessant volleys of the riflemen, the hoarse orders of the excited officers on horseback, the vile execrations of the officers who had fallen off.”

Displaying commendable initiative, TW’s comrades ran a hose down to the Niagara River, attached it to the village fire pump, and thus unleashed “a terrible deluge… a death-bearing cataract on the doomed and devoted foe.” This ended “the Great Battle of Niagara and who can tell of the slaughter” that resulted in hundreds of men being “drenched to the skin.”

That evening TW’s battalion left for Toronto on a lake steamer and arrived at the Yonge Street wharf at about 10 p.m. Instead of being dismissed, tired as they were, in that useful location, they were marched to Fort York to be dismissed there. “Truly,” TW commented on the military mind, “none knoweth the mysteries of these things.”

As for our hero, he “returned home covered with wounds and mud, and decorated with a discoloured eye,” his uniform “a mere shadow of its former self.” While he was thankful for his experiences of camp life, he preferred “another suit – a legal one; and although this was my first action, I hope it will not be my last – professionally speaking.”

Donald Graves is the editor or author of some 20 books in Canadian military history, including the definitive accounts of many campaigns in the War of 1812. His new history of The Lincoln and Welland Regiment is forthcoming.