Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  McGee’s instructions came back to him: “If you want to know what’s going on, don’t just observe what’s happening; think about it and mull it over in your mind.” Conor knew something was certainly going on here.

  He was sure that Macdonald would be enraged by Lord Monck’s attire. He was dressed in an everyday business suit, while the members of Parliament were resplendent in full ceremonial garb. The governor general seemed to be treating Confederation as just another working day. But Macdonald was reacting to something else. It was something Monck had said. Conor watched carefully as the prime minister left Monck’s side. Macdonald turned to the crowd—the actor to his audience—and smiled at each familiar face. When his eyes met Conor’s, he looked astonished and slyly winked. Yes, something was happening, and Conor was determined to find out what.

  “Don’t just watch events,” McGee would say. “Wonder. Brood. Get out of the margins and into the page. Be curious. Never lose your curiosity.”

  “Someday that curiosity will get you into trouble,” his father had told him.

  It’s funny, Conor thought, how D’Arcy McGee and his father gave him such contrary advice.

  CONOR had met John Macdonald many times. There were few better places to find Macdonald and D’Arcy McGee on a cold winter evening—or any evening of the year, for that matter—than in the public houses and taverns around Ottawa. The Russell House, Macdonald’s favourite haunt, was stately and sophisticated. Lapierre’s, on Sussex Street, was shabby, simple and loud, more to McGee’s taste. Occasionally, when Macdonald wanted to prove that he too was a man of the people, he would join McGee under the flickering gas lights of Lapierre’s. The two men mingled with voters and held court surrounded by the sights and sounds—and smells—of Ottawa’s people.

  That’s where Conor first met the politicians.

  While his father tended bar at Lapierre’s, Conor earned extra money in the back, washing dishes and cleaning up. The former cook’s assistant was handy in a kitchen. To his father’s horror, Conor would sometimes sneak into the front to hear McGee and Macdonald spin their countless yarns. He was in a boyish trance as they exchanged quips and each tried to outdo the other’s last joke. As the hour got late, the conversation became spicier. Macdonald would beg McGee to sing the song McGee wrote, though it hardly took prodding for McGee to quote himself:

  I drank till quite mellow

  Then like a brave fellow

  Began for to bellow

  And shouted for more.

  His voice would build until he screamed “shouted for more.” Then Macdonald would join in:

  But my host held his stick up

  Which soon cured my hiccup

  As no cash could I pick up

  To pay off the score.

  To the applause of the room, Macdonald would roar, “You’ve got to quit drinking, McGee. This government can’t afford two drunkards.” Then he would wink. The same mischievous wink as today.

  Macdonald fascinated Conor. Cartoonists made fun of his bulbous nose, but Conor felt his eyes defined him. He used them to express his many moods. His eyes could be playful, pleading, melancholy or full of cheer. Macdonald was a careful man, his actions were almost always well planned and rehearsed, but the glint in his eye was spontaneous.

  “His eyes are shifty, it’s as simple as that,” Thomas growled one night after Conor had actually been invited to sit down at the same table as Macdonald and McGee. “Shifty and untrustworthy. Stay away from him.”

  To Thomas O’Dea, everything was simple: Macdonald was a Protestant, and that made him an oppressor. Protestants controlled the best jobs in Ontario and kept the Catholics down—especially Irish Catholics. “‘Romanists,’ they call us. ‘Papists.’ And don’t think they say it with any affection.” Thomas had spent too many hours working for low wages and Protestant bosses to ever forget. Or forgive. D’Arcy McGee’s sins were different, but no less enraging. To Thomas, McGee was the most damnable of creatures: a turncoat. McGee may have stayed true to his Catholic faith, but he had criticized Irish freedom fighters, so he had turned against his own people.

  Catholic traitor and Protestant oppressor—that was how Thomas O’Dea summed up two lives. At times, Conor wondered what his father thought of him, but he dared not ask.

  A voice came out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?” Conor had been daydreaming. A firm tap on his shoulder brought him back to reality. He was not in McGee’s messy office, or in Lapierre’s dingy bar; he was in the Privy Council Chamber on Canada’s first day of business.

  “I said, what are you doing here, young man?” It was that man under the beaver hat. His voice was stern and authoritative. Before Conor could respond, John Macdonald himself stepped forward. “Don’t worry, Ambassador; this young gentleman is here representing a great Canadian.”

  And again, that wink.

  Conor looked at Macdonald, as he so often did, in sheer amazement. How did he know his purpose here? How was he able to come to his defence at the precise moment of need? Still, he had better watch his step. Ambassadors can be a touchy breed, and he was, after all, nothing more than a lowly assistant without an invitation to the event.

  The prime minister whispered in his ear, “You seem to have a knack for getting a front-row seat on history.” And he added wryly, “Tell D’Arcy we miss him.”

  “I will, Mr. Macdonald,” Conor answered respectfully.

  “Actually, you can soon call me John,” the prime minister said with a teasing smile. “Sir John.”

  So that was it. Macdonald would be knighted. That was what Governor General Monck had told him. “Don’t just observe, damn it, interpret.” There must have been some bad news, too, or Macdonald would not have also looked aghast. “Look at the story from all angles.” Maybe Galt had not been given an equal honour? Or Cartier?

  Sir John. He mouthed the words. It sounded right. Sir John A. Macdonald. He deserved it. Conor couldn’t imagine Confederation without him. He was the negotiator, the compromiser, the architect, and now he would be the administrator.

  George-Étienne Cartier might be a brilliant lawyer, but he was too much of a stuffed shirt to lead a new country. George Brown had played a crucial role in forging an alliance between the Liberals and Conservatives, but he was too abrasive to ever win a national election. Charles Tupper was too much of a bully, Leonard Tilley too sanctimonious and Alexander Galt far too impatient. As for McGee, his fame stretched as far as Macdonald’s, but he was simply too bombastic, too belligerent. His fiery eloquence could stir a crowd or sting an opponent, but too often his words left a wound. McGee’s rhetoric gave Confederation its soul, but Macdonald’s skill gave it skin and bones. Of all the politicians, John Macdonald was the most adaptable, the most pragmatic and the most politically astute.

  But that was Conor’s opinion. He knew Macdonald’s enemies would heartily disagree. Many thought that Macdonald degraded the political process; that he was a rogue in power and a rascal in private. Macdonald never disagreed with his detractors; he just deflected the blows. He once told George Brown, “The people would rather have me drunk than you sober.” And the polls proved him right.

  There was a story Macdonald loved to tell. A year or so ago—Macdonald was always unclear about dates in his anecdotes—he led a delegation to Washington. One evening at a reception in Georgetown, he struck up conversation with a senator’s wife. “I understand you have a very smart man up there in Canada,” she said. “John A. Macdonald.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we do.”

  “But they say he’s a dreadful man.”

  “Yes indeed, a perfect rascal.” Conor could picture Macdonald smiling wickedly as he toyed with her.

  “But why do you keep such a man in power?”

  “Well, you see, ma’am, Canadians just can’t seem to get along without him.”

  Apparently, at that moment, the senator arrived and said to his wife, “My dear, I see you have met John Macdonald.”

  The woman was aghast, b
ut Macdonald put her at ease. “Now, don’t apologize. All you’ve been saying is perfectly true, and it’s well known at home.”

  The Fathers of Confederation. It was a group of able men, but only Macdonald was essential. Conor looked into those watery eyes and proclaimed, “Congratulations, Sir John.”

  LIKE a cat, he prowled the backstreets of Ottawa’s Lowertown, his hand clutching a knife concealed in one of his coat’s deep pockets. Ready and alert. In case. Always just in case. He couldn’t stomach the thought of the pointless morning festivities on Parliament Hill. It was a national holiday, but he was at work. He had to get to know this dowdy, dusty town, learn the back alleys, understand the patterns and rhythms of the place.

  Children were playing lacrosse down a side street. A missed ball hurtled toward him. He stepped out of the way. Rather than pick up the ball and throw it back, he watched cautiously as one of the young boys ran past him to retrieve it.

  He had a decision to make. Whom should he choose first? He felt like God. He held the power of life and death.

  A tall, gangly man approached him on the street, disturbing his thoughts. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. Quickly, he readied his knife hand. “G’day to you, sir,” the tall man said with an Irish-infused Ottawa Valley twang. The man in the grey coat looked away and said nothing. The tall man thought how rude this stranger was, especially on this happy day. How was he to know that he had killed people for lesser crimes than a simple hello?

  The colonel—was he really a colonel, or did he just call himself that?—had talked of targets, and he considered the options. What would happen to Canada if Macdonald were found with a bullet in his skull? And what would happen to this fragile child they called Confederation if an Irish Catholic murdered him? What a pleasant thought. But what if McGee fell and his traitorous blood coloured the streets? That would send a clear message. Macdonald or McGee? Both scum. Both deserving to die. The self-important colonel had hired him to create confusion and anarchy. “A reign of terror,” he had said. His wish would be granted. But there was more to this than a job. He had a personal score to settle. He thought back on his childhood in Ireland and how a man’s eloquence had inspired him. He pictured his father dying in desperate, dreadful pain. A so-called martyr. He remembered his vow to his mother. And to his father’s memory. Yes, there would be revenge; sweet revenge. He knew his first target. The colonel would approve. He smiled at the prospect, wondering, was there ever any doubt?

  4

  For a week, Ottawa’s townspeople had been collecting material to burn: stray wood, packing cases, tar barrels, old newspapers, anything. They had assembled it all in a gigantic pyramid in Major’s Hill Park, overlooking the river to the east of the Parliament Buildings. At exactly noon it was set ablaze. At the same time, from their drill shed in Lowertown, the Ottawa Field Battery fired a 101-gun salute. It looked like an inferno and sounded like war.

  Conor watched the fire and wondered what to do next. He probably should simply go home, hang up his suit, read a bit and try his luck at a Confederation party that night. Or maybe he should help his father out at the bar, give the old man a rest and make some money in tips.

  Then everything stopped.

  In the fire’s glow, he saw a girl with shimmering black hair weave through the crowd. She was tall, stately and alluring. He was spellbound. She was dressed in a hoop skirt pulled tightly around her waist. Stylish and modern, definitely not a dress made by an Ottawa seamstress. She stopped to talk to … Conor craned his neck to see who it was … It was Will Trotter. Why was she talking to him? Her right hand brushed her hair, and he glimpsed her profile. But only for a tantalizing second. My God, she is beautiful, he thought. He summoned his courage.

  “Will, what’s next?” he called and moved toward them.

  “Conor, how are you? Say, have you met my sister, Meg?”

  So that’s who this vision was—Meg Trotter. She had changed so much that he hadn’t recognized her. He tried not to stare. He hadn’t seen her in years; he wondered if she would remember him, or if she had ever noticed him.

  Thomas O’Dea had worked upriver from October to April and, like many loggers, moved to Ottawa in the off-season, so Conor had spent most of his summers in town. But he had never really been part of any “crowd.” He was quiet and shy and had accumulated few friends. He spent the summers reading, doing odd jobs and trying to keep Thomas away from the bottle. And, of course, he studied the people who lived in Uppertown, people like Meg Trotter. She had always been one of the prettiest girls in Ottawa, but now she was stunning. Her long black hair struggling to pull free of the combs framed a face both strong and delicate. Porcelain, Conor thought, was the word they used for her kind of complexion. Her eyes were sky blue, an uncommon colour with such black hair, but there was nothing common about this woman. She had a wise, inquisitive pout, which he desperately wanted to transform into a smile. He affected a tone of confidence. “Hello, Meg. We may have met last year …” She returned his gaze with those blue eyes that commanded attention, and his confidence withered.

  “Last year, I was in London,” she corrected him. “No, I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”

  While he was tripping over his words, she was looking him over. Red hair, green eyes—very Irish. Tall but not lanky; fashionable whiskers, she supposed, in an American sort of way. His clothes spoke more of Portobello Market than Savile Row, but he was clearly trying. There was something interesting about him. She surprised herself when she added, “I’m sure I would have remembered you.”

  “So, umm … how was London?” he said, trying to ignite conversation and recognizing that this was a feeble start. He wondered how she could afford such travel, but remembered Will saying something about a wealthy aunt.

  “London is like nowhere else,” she enthused. “It’s the centre of the world.”

  Conor wondered about the people she would have met there, the parties and balls, and considered the backwater she was in now. He started to feel like the low-rent son of a lumberman. He hated that. But he persevered. “Are they still building the statue of Lord Nelson in London?” He had read about the extraordinary construction.

  She looked at him, confused.

  “I think they were going to call it Trafalgar Square.”

  “Dear me,” she said. “That was finished years ago.” Unlike Will, she had a slight English accent. “It is quite magnificent.”

  Damn it, he thought. Why are my hand-me-down books and magazines so old? Sometimes he mispronounced words because he knew them only from seeing them in print. It made him sound ignorant. And now he wasn’t up to date. He stared at her, considering what to say next. Something current. Something upper-crust. She seemed to take some delight in watching him squirm.

  “The Queen,” he said, trying to restrain his Irish accent. “Queen Victoria. How is she? I mean, is she still in mourning for Prince Albert?”

  “Well, I didn’t actually look her up,” she said with an upturned eye. “But Her Majesty seems to be back in society a little more.”

  Nelson. Victoria and Albert. What else? He was babbling to fill time, to sound learned, but he was going blank. “And why were you in London?”

  “To study.”

  He could have asked, “To study what?” or “How long were you there?” or even “How did you like your studies?” But he was afraid to engage her in a conversation in which he couldn’t keep up. Instead, he turned to Will. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I don’t have to work. Some of us are going swimming.”

  Pause.

  “Maybe have a picnic by the river.”

  Another pause.

  “Do you want to come, Conor?”

  Finally!

  Conor regained his composure. “Will you be coming, Meg? I’d love to hear more about London.”

  Her eyes sparkled like sapphires and there was a glimmer of a smile. “You know, I might. I just might.”

  WALKING back to Lower
town, Conor was in a daze. Everything about the day’s political spectacle now seemed dulled compared to the moment he saw Meg Trotter. He had never felt sure of himself around girls. There weren’t any women up in the lumber camps. The women the loggers chased in the off-season were nothing like Meg. He would have to improve his performance if she was going to buy his act.

  But there were practical matters to deal with—endless practical matters. A picnic meant food. He could get some from his father at Lapierre’s. No, he’d pick something up at the Byward Market. Better yet, he would come late—fashionably late—and say he had already eaten. That would save him some money. A bathing costume? He’d never owned anything that unnecessary. Growing up in the North Country, you went into the cold river waters to wash, not play. And if you swam at all, you swam naked. A bit risqué for an Ottawa afternoon. He would just have to say he didn’t want to swim. He would bring a book, some bread and a beer. He would come armed with clever stories and bright repartee. He would not betray his simple background and clumsiness. And, most important, he would try not to babble on this time.

  THE market was still bustling with activity, but the smell had hardly improved. No regular night soil pickups here. The middle class would travel below the salt to Lowertown to shop for food and then retreat upwind as soon as they could. The upper class would send their servants. Conor was heading home.

  There was a lineup at a butcher’s stand. He looked at it with dismay. He hated waiting in line. One summer when he was about ten years old, his father took his hand and announced, “We’re going to get some new clothes for you.” Conor hoped that they would go to one of the new dry-goods stores on Rideau Street, or maybe a proper tailor shop, but they headed in the other direction, down Sussex to the Élisabeth Bruyère Church. The Grey Nuns were handing out used clothes to Ottawa’s poor. When Conor saw the line of people outside the church, he stopped. He yanked his hand from his father’s grip.