“It’s no worse today, dear. It may just be that you’re feeling a bit under the weather.”
“No, I’m fit as a fiddle.” And, he thought, three fingers of whisky would be just the ticket right now.
Agnes Macdonald knew the day’s schedule by heart. Her brother, Hewitt Bernard, was her husband’s private secretary, and they often conspired to free some of his time for her. Lunch with his cabinet would mean drinks with his cabinet, so she had convinced Hewitt to book him a few hours of rest in the afternoon. But one afternoon meeting with an insistent policeman could not be moved. “Irish business,” her brother said. And she resented it.
She looked her husband over judiciously. A peculiar face, she thought, but one that emanated distinctive charm. Or devilish charm. He loved dressing well and had somewhat flamboyant tastes, at least in Agnes’s view. Today he could indulge his love of colour. He was dressed in full formal regalia: bright red jacket with gold embroidery. A sword was sheathed treacherously by his side. She thought he looked a bit wobbly this morning.
“Watch your step or you’ll trip,” she warned. “You don’t know what you may cut off.”
He took a few practice steps, trying not to let the sword swing. Deftly, Agnes moved the sword out of harm’s way. “What did you ever do without me?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know,” he answered, clutching his sword. “I really don’t know.”
There were many things John A. Macdonald didn’t know on that sunny July morning. He was uncertain about the political union he was forging. Was there really the will to build a nation? He was unsure of the West. Would he be able to talk British Columbia into entering Confederation if he could build a railway? And could they build a road through those infernal mountains? He was nervous about the East. Nova Scotia was talking of leaving before they had even started. He knew he had practically bought the New Brunswick election. Could he talk the East into helping fund the railway? He was always doubtful about his own political power. Would he stay one step ahead of his enemies? Could he control the factions in this land of religious and language divisions? He had won more battles than he had lost, but there were many ahead. What compromises, what chicanery would be needed to stay the course?
He grimaced and closed his eyes to relieve the pain.
He knew it would be a day of both celebration and mourning—festivities and funerals staged side by side, buildings covered in flags confronting buildings draped in black. Amid the cheers and toasts of the new Canadians, there were many who preferred being Nova Scotians, New Brunswickers, Ontarians or Quebecers. They had not asked for this political union, and they didn’t care if it lived or died. Distinct, squabbling, practically ungovernable British colonies would be pasted together today. It would be his job as the first prime minister of Canada to make the glue stick.
And there was something else he didn’t know. When he and his wife left Quadrilateral, they had no idea that they were being watched. The newly laid-out streets of Sandy Hill, just east and a little south of Parliament Hill, were filled with people from all walks of life—gentry, servants, shopkeepers—so John Macdonald paid no attention to a man lingering across the street.
As he helped her into the carriage, Agnes Macdonald whispered demurely, “I can lean on no other arm like yours.” Macdonald sat back contentedly and called out to the driver, “Buckley, take us to the office.”
It would have been simple, the man across the street thought, lifting the collar of his old grey coat. A flick of the blade and a slit throat. So easy. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet.
He pulled from his pocket the piece of paper that the insufferable colonel had given him. He checked the address on Sussex Street and the name. “O’Dea.” He decided he had best hurry.
2
Conor O’Dea looked at his timepiece. It didn’t work properly, but it gave an approximation of the hour. And it looked sophisticated. Parliament Hill was starting to fill with people, but to his dismay they were mainly common folks who were happy to stay outside and enjoy the weather. He needed a contact, someone to get him in the building. From afar he spotted Will Trotter, in his formal pageboy outfit, and a plan came into shape.
“Will, how are you?” In their fraying black suits with tails, starched collars propping their heads up, Conor thought the pageboys looked like penguins, and he often told them so.
“I’m fine, Conor. What are you doing here? Do you have an invitation to go inside?”
“Not exactly, but you might help.” He flashed a smile.
As a pageboy, young Will had a pass into the Centre Block. He was only sixteen years old, but he had influence beyond his position and his age because he had long been a favourite of John Macdonald’s. Rumour had it that Will served Macdonald gin in his water goblet during long debates.
“Where’s Mr. McGee?” Will asked. “I didn’t see him this morning.”
“He’s in Toronto. That’s why I’m here.” Conor built on his story, knowing Will would go along with whatever he said. “Mr. McGee couldn’t be here, so he wanted me to take his place. Be his representative. He just never got around to getting me a pass.”
Will Trotter knew D’Arcy McGee well. McGee rented a room at his mother’s boarding house when he was in Ottawa. He looked at Conor with mocked sternness. “Are you lying?” he asked.
“Of course.” Conor smiled impishly.
Will grinned back at him. “In that case, follow me. I’ll get you in.”
“You wouldn’t have a flask of water handy, would you?” Conor asked mischievously as they entered the Centre Block.
JOHN and Agnes Macdonald arrived on Parliament Hill just before eleven o’clock. They paused outside, greeting people and smiling at the crowd until the other politicians and dignitaries had arrived. She was escorted off to sit with the ladies and he waited outside, chatting with Buckley. Macdonald wanted to be the last person to enter the building, to create a grand entrance, and he wanted a little more time for the headache potion to take effect before he had to meet his colleagues. Even today, someone was sure to say something that would only make his head ache even more.
Inside the foyer, there was a stir of excitement. A police constable pushed Conor O’Dea aside. It was approaching eleven; the procession was beginning. Conor held his ground and watched as each politician entered. The July sun glowed like a spotlight on them, but as they entered the building, they faded into darkness.
George-Étienne Cartier, the lawyer and great nation builder from Canada East (or Quebec, as it would now officially be called), arrived first. He looked very much in charge: his back straight, his eyes fixed forward, and his manner at once cavalier and dignified. Conor was always surprised at how short he was. The talk of his mistress in Montreal who wore trousers and smoked cigars intrigued Conor. The portly Alexander Galt strutted a bit. Macdonald often joked that Galt’s constituents were the rich and the powerful, but Conor knew it was Galt who had come up with the original design for Confederation nine long years ago. He had the right to strut a bit. Leonard Tilley, the teetotaller from New Brunswick, followed as if sprinkling the holy water of religious calm and resolve. The parade continued. One bewhiskered gentleman after another.
Finally, John A. Macdonald entered, walking jauntily but still seeming to take his time. While his eyes adjusted to the darker hall, he winked at friendly faces and waved to admirers. With each step, he did his best not to damage himself with his ceremonial sword. Meanwhile, his head continued to pound, steadily and unrelentingly.
Conor savoured the performance. Macdonald did more than acknowledge the crowd; he befriended it, played to it and rose above it. Most of the so-called Fathers of Confederation ambled into the building as if going to a meeting. They were businesslike and dutiful. Macdonald swept in, clearly the leading man. Politics was his stage play. Parliament was his theatre. He loved being the star.
Conor knew you shouldn’t always believe John Macdonald, you couldn’t always trust him, but you had to admir
e him.
CONOR passed by young Will Trotter standing at the entrance. He really did look like a penguin in an ill-fitting uniform. “Cheers,” he declared, as he entered the stone building. “I owe you one, Willy.”
The politicians had assembled. Fourteen members of Canada’s first cabinet, with a beaming John A. Macdonald, “The First of Equals,” standing in the forefront. Conor studied them with a critical eye. D’Arcy McGee had told him to assess a scene as if he were a newspaper reporter. Think how a Tory paper would write it up. Then imagine how the Grits would see it. Conservatives vs. Liberals. Look at it from all perspectives. But report it as you see it.
So what did he think? Not a bad group overall, but not the best. Within Her Majesty’s first Canadian Privy Council, there were a few glaring omissions. Charles Tupper, who had fought so hard to convince Nova Scotia to enter the union, was in Halifax, waiting for different political awards. George Brown, Macdonald’s arch-rival but Confederation’s indispensable supporter, was back in Toronto, ensuring that his newspaper, The Globe, gave him and not Macdonald full credit. Their exclusion from cabinet didn’t bother Conor. After all, Tupper was better off chasing skirts in Nova Scotia, and Brown, the steadfast Liberal, or Grit, would never stand being in Macdonald’s shadow. Brown and Macdonald had worked together for this one great cause and were more comfortable as enemies again.
For Conor, there was a more painful omission: the Honourable Thomas D’Arcy McGee. And Conor wasn’t alone. Throughout Parliament Hill, questions were being asked. “Where’s D’Arcy?” “Where’s McGee?” “Where’s the Irishman?”
Conor eased his way to the front and settled beside a rather pompous man in an oversized beaver felt hat. A little warm for a summer’s day, Conor thought, but it was a celebration, and what’s more Canadian than a fur hat?
Conor knew where D’Arcy McGee was, and he knew why he wasn’t here. McGee had accepted a speaking engagement in Toronto, out of the limelight, away from the humiliation of watching others sworn into the cabinet. John A. Macdonald often said he was never much of carpenter but was a master cabinetmaker. A certain number of Protestants balanced by a certain number of Roman Catholics. A quota from Quebec, from Ontario, from the Maritimes. McGee and Tupper had agreed to decline posts in Canada’s first cabinet to make room for someone named Edward Kenney. Kenney was Irish, a Catholic and from Nova Scotia. Macdonald could, as he boasted, kill three birds with one stone. It was unfair, and Macdonald knew it. No harm or insult was intended. It was … well, it was politics. But it made Conor furious. McGee spoke for Conor and other Irish-Catholic Canadians. He represented Conor’s ideals and his aspirations.
Conor O’Dea had tied much of his ambition to D’Arcy McGee’s coattails. He liked to say he was a speechwriter and parliamentary assistant, but he was really McGee’s researcher and errand boy. He transcribed McGee’s essays and letters, acted as a sounding board for some of his speeches and helped prepare his frenzied days.
“You’re not qualified for the job,” McGee had told him. “But you’ve a good Irish name, a studious nature, a youngster’s eagerness, and best of all, you won’t cost me much money.”
Like an Irish labourer, Conor thought.
“And another thing, Conor,” McGee had bellowed. “You’re almost as ambitious as I was at your age. Not as smart, certainly not as handsome. Oh hell, you’re nothing like me. Now get back to work.”
Conor was determined to make something of his life. But what exactly? He might become a businessman, and his political contacts would serve him well. He might go into politics himself. What he really wanted was to become a newspaperman, and there were few people better able to teach him than D’Arcy McGee. McGee had edited and published his own newspapers. He had written, and was now revising, his Popular History of Ireland. But most important, he was easily the most eloquent orator Conor had ever heard. When he spoke, he lifted an audience out of the monotony of life, he thrilled and inspired, but patience was not a word in McGee’s vast vocabulary. He was temperamental, volatile and sometimes intolerant, but he liked to lecture, and Conor was eager to learn.
McGee was teaching him the language of power; Macdonald was showing him the ways of leadership. Soon he would need someone to help him fill his bank account. But not today. Today was a day of grandeur. It was … portentous. And, he thought, I wonder if I’m pronouncing it right?
Conor had invited himself to the ceremony on Parliament Hill because he wanted to see history being made, because he didn’t want to miss anything that might help fill his appetite for knowledge, but also because he wanted to honour his boss. He was there in the name of the greatest Irish-Catholic Canadian of the day: Thomas D’Arcy McGee. And no one was going to stop him.
Let people call him an upstart; he didn’t care. Let them think he was reaching beyond his grasp; his day would come. He smiled at the stuffy man in the fur hat. He didn’t smile back, but Conor didn’t expect him to.
3
By late morning, Thomas O’Dea was already wincing with pain. Tension, anxiety or that old ache from lifting one pine log too many, it didn’t matter. He stood behind the bar and braced his back.
Lapierre’s was a typical Lowertown tavern. Nothing quaint about it. No pictures on the wall, just price lists, bottles and barrels. It was built for serious drinking. The dingy tavern was as dark as a jail cell, and Thomas O’Dea’s downcast expression didn’t make it much more inviting.
O’Dea took a yellowing sketch from his pocket and placed it on the bar. The crumbling drawing of his wife, Margaret, looked up at him. It was just a rough likeness drawn by Margaret’s cousin; they could never afford a daguerreotype or one of those new photographic pictures the rich were posing for. Still, like a miracle, the fading image smiled at him. The rugged lines on his face couldn’t resist the impulse; he smiled back at the innocent picture of youth. “I promised you he would get an education,” he told the picture. “I did it for you, but what has it done for me?” He was gently returning the picture to his pocket when a stranger walked into the bar, ordered a Jamesons and sat in the back.
The bar started filling up. In the daytime, most men—they were all men; no self-respecting woman would walk through those doors—drank beer with the occasional watered-down whisky chaser. Some customers would order “grunts,” or as much whisky as they could swallow in one swig. A grunt cost only pennies. The grunt drinkers were usually part of the nighttime crowd; the daytime patrons were either committed drinkers or people just too beaten down to face the day. Thomas passed a foaming beer across the counter to a rosy-cheeked regular who cheerfully raised his glass. “Will you toast the new Dominion?” he asked.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” Thomas answered firmly.
“Ah, not a believer,” the customer chuckled. “Well, I’ll drink to anything.” And he did, with a hearty gulp.
Across the smoky public house, the man in the back listened attentively. Thomas O’Dea was the first name on the list the colonel had given him. A “potential supporter,” it read. “Not confirmed, but worth pursuing.” He rubbed his fingers along his new black moustache and scrutinized this Irish bartender. He looked intelligent enough and he was obviously strong willed. Already, through various sources, he had learned that O’Dea had worked as a lumberjack up the Ottawa Valley for more than a decade, until a runaway log almost killed him. Since then, he’d tended bar here at Lapierre’s. It was backbreaking work in the lumber camps. Irish work. It could make any man bitter. He had also learned that O’Dea’s wife was dead and he still mourned her. He must find out more about her. That might be a way to get at him. The real mystery was the son. He apparently worked for D’Arcy McGee. That bastard McGee! His son might have the will of his father, but he must have the heart of a traitor.
“Stand easy,” the customer at the bar persisted. “All that’s happening is the Canadas are joining up with some other British colonies. It could be the start of something grand. More land. More people. The more the merrier
, I say.”
Thomas O’Dea looked the man straight in the eye. “Well, I don’t say so, sir, and I’m sure you won’t mind if I don’t share your enthusiasm.”
The man in the back raised an eyebrow. Thomas O’Dea was a man of conviction. Barmen usually just agreed with their customers. Keep them talking and they will keep buying beer. After all, conversation was cheap; the liquid costs the money. This man valued his beliefs. Interesting. Useful to know.
The customer banged his empty beer mug on the bar. “I think I’ll be off to Parliament Hill to catch the end of the party.” He paid his money and tipped his hat to Thomas, who was busy drying mugs. As the door closed, Thomas O’Dea muttered to himself, “My son is up there.”
The man in the shadows heard him and was curious. His son was up there. There was a complication here, so he should be leery. But maybe, just maybe, that complication could help him. Yes, there could be potential with this Thomas O’Dea.
“Would you like a drink over there?” Thomas shouted across the room. The customer waved his right hand, indicating no, while his left hand covered his face as if he were checking something in his eye. And he left. He knew Thomas O’Dea had barely seen his face. He would never remember the first time they had met. He also knew they would meet again.
THE dignitaries had moved into the Parliament Buildings’ Privy Council Chamber, their wives staying back with the select observers. Each cabinet appointee in turn swore his oath of office. Conor noticed Governor General Viscount Monck whispering something to John Macdonald. Monck’s long beard covered his mouth, and Conor couldn’t tell what he was saying, but it certainly got Macdonald’s attention. The prime minister smiled broadly, then almost gasped in horror.
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