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Homeward Bound

Hosted by the Mitton Farm: 14561 Longwoods Rd, Thamesville, ON
Painted by the Glencoe Rotary
If not for the kindness of Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry, I know not what would become of me or my poor twin infants. Instead, we have been given money and a wagon to take us home to our family in Amherstburg.

Moraviantown is no more. It had been our home briefly until it was set ablaze by the Americans.

The defeat left us again homeless and in a state of terror, rending the air with sobs and lamentations. We were a war-worn group and as I wandered aimlessly with a baby on each hip, I encountered an enemy officer. Unbeknownst to me, he retold my plight to the Commodore and I was provided with money and a wagon to transport us home to Amherstburg, a distance of more than 100 miles.

“May God bless and prosper him. He is the kindest and most generous gentleman in the world and has been an angel of mercy to me and my poor babies. He has not only paid this man to take us home but has given me all this money for these dear little ones.”  We are, at last, homeward bound!

By Anne Carruthers, February 2012


Source: In the Midst of Alarms; The Untold Story of Women and the War of 1812, Dianne Graves, 2007, Robin Brass Studio Inc., Montreal, Que. Pg.285-286
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Memory

Memory, Curran Farms, 13689 Longwoods Road, Thamesville ON

Hosted by Curran Farms, 13689 Longwoods Rd Thamesville,  Chatham-Kent,  ON 

Painted by the Bothwell Boy Scouts Troup  and Families

Word has reached our farm that the Americans are coming this way. I hide in a thicket a distance from the house in hopes that I am invisible to their keen, hungry eyes. It gives me time to gather my thoughts of times gone by.

Memories of leaving an old country for a new one, across a vast ocean.  Memories of departing again, for a beginning in a newer, better country. Memories of working side by side with my husband to clear our very own land. Memories of my first garden with the fragrant scent of lily-of-the valley but also the cabbages, onions and squash that kept us over the long winter. Memories of evenings with the family, keeping warm by the blazing hearth. Memories of two tiny graves in a clearing in the woods. Memories of the first whispers of war which we were reluctant to believe. Now they are memories no more, but a cold, cruel reality.

I am disinclined to leave my home and especially, those tiny graves, but if I must, I will rely on my happy memories to sustain me.

Written by Anne Carruthers, Melbourne.  February 2012