Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  McMicken could be a stuffed shirt, in Macdonald’s view—not the sort of man he would want to socialize with—but he was extremely loyal to Macdonald, and there was nothing the prime minister admired more than people who admired him.

  John Macdonald had come to British North America when he was five years old with his kindly, but not very successful, father. The family settled in Kingston amidst a welcoming contingent of relatives. Gilbert McMicken had emigrated on his own when he was nineteen. He settled in the Niagara region, just across the American border. Macdonald had only the trace of the Scottish brogue in his voice. McMicken spoke with a pronounced accent. Macdonald was clean-shaven with a cheerful smile. McMicken’s beard was thick and heavy, his nose looked as if it had been broken a few times and his yellowing teeth were barely visible in a mouth that rarely smiled.

  “McMicken, I wonder if God ever made a man as earnest as you look?” Macdonald said, glancing dramatically, and uselessly, at the clock. “May I offer you a wee glass of sherry?”

  “Not while I’m on duty,” McMicken answered and watched with interest as Macdonald topped his glass to the brim.

  “It’s been a great day,” declared the prime minister.

  “That it has.” Small talk was not a part of McMicken’s social armour. And this was no social call.

  Macdonald chuckled to himself. He got the message. “All right, man, you’ve taken me away from a rare afternoon rest, so get on with it. What do you have to report?”

  Irish extremists had recently staged a series of invasions, the so-called Fenian raids. The first, on New Brunswick’s Campobello Island, had been quickly checked, but in early June 1866 almost a thousand Fenians had crossed the Niagara River and actually captured Fort Erie. At the ensuing Battle of Ridgeway, ten British—or Canadians—were killed and thirty wounded before the Fenians fled back to Buffalo. The same day, there were two other attacks in Quebec.

  To add real insult, it took five full days for the American government to denounce the raid. It was well known that William Seward, the influential American secretary of state, wanted to see the Stars and Stripes fly up to the North Pole. Seward had often said that British North America’s absorption by the United States was as inevitable as the Mississippi flowing south. President Andrew Johnson was not as vocal in his ambitions—he had enough trouble just staying in office—but Macdonald had never forgiven Johnson for taking so long to condemn the Fenian raid.

  Macdonald responded to the Fenian threat in two ways, one public and one private. Publicly, he used the threat of an Irish-American invasion as a key argument for Confederation. “We are in a state of semi-war,” he would tell his audiences. “We must gather together, if only for protection.” This was for show and political purpose. Privately, he ordered the real work. He commissioned McMicken to find out how serious the Fenian threat really was. McMicken had all the resources he needed, and he used them well, building a spy ring that impressed even Macdonald, who in his darkest moments felt the Fenians were a society too cold and sinister ever to penetrate. About six months ago, one of McMicken’s men had actually infiltrated a cell in New York. He faced possible torture and certain death if discovered. On the first day of Confederation, McMicken insisted on delivering the first substantive report from his undercover agent. “The news is not good, Mr. Macdonald,” he began. “I mean, Sir John.” Macdonald waved his hand impatiently. This was no social call, indeed.

  “The reports we’ve been getting from the United States indicate that the movement is spreading and the Yankee government is turning a blind eye to the treason.”

  The prime minister knew this, so why the meeting?

  “The Fenians have renewed vigour,” McMicken continued. “The New Jersey officer who led the Ridgeway invasion—”

  “Raid,” Macdonald objected.

  “Sir, John O’Neill, who led the soldiers across the border into Canada last year—and I remind you, took Fort Erie—has been named president of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. He also has some fanatical people advising him and urging him on. They have actually started calling themselves the Irish Republican Army.”

  “A republic, is it?”

  “Yes, and an army, and one well connected to a Republican president.”

  Macdonald dismissed this. “President Johnson has other problems on his plate.” But the prime minister’s eyes were alert and probing. “You said the movement is spreading. Well, by how much?”

  “Twenty-one Fenian regiments have been allowed to parade this spring without being bothered by any authorities.”

  Again the prime minister was unimpressed. “Children can parade.”

  “These are not children, Prime Minister.” McMicken was not the kind of man to overstate a case, or have his reports dismissed, even by his patron. “They brag in Massachusetts that there are enough men in Boston alone to ensure a successful invasion. In Chicago two thousand men are armed. In all—”

  “Enough. I get the point.”

  “With respect, sir, you must hear the rest. They claim to have six hundred circles—or cells, as they call them.” He paused to give full effect to his next sentence. “Twenty of them are here in Canada.” Macdonald’s eyes dropped, and with them, much of his spirit. He asked with some trepidation, “How many men do you think they could assemble for an invasion?”

  McMicken noted that the prime minister was now saying invasion and not raid.

  “Forty, maybe fifty thousand are ready.”

  Macdonald did not need to check the arithmetic to know that if that number was accurate, and the attack was well planned, it could—no, it would—succeed. He guessed the Fenian strength was much exaggerated, and he was certain there was more bravado than substance to their claims. Still, he thought, what if they did attack? Even with twenty thousand men? Would there be Fenians in Canada to welcome them with open arms? Would the American government, and that damn meddler Seward, rush to the Fenians’ side? Did this weak, defenceless thing called Canada really stand a chance?

  He had recently received a dispatch from Great Britain. His fellow Conservative Benjamin Disraeli had declared, “It can never be our policy to defend the Canadian frontier against the United States. What is the use of colonial dead weights which we do not govern?” So British help was out of the question. That was what McGee had been telling him for years. British North America must learn to stand alone.

  “Have you heard of any invasion plans?” Macdonald asked calmly. There was no reason to let McMicken know the full extent of his fears.

  “Yes, Sir. The plan is to attack at three places simultaneously. Where, we’re not sure.”

  “And I suppose you don’t know when.”

  “This is the shocking news,” he responded, almost sounding sympathetic. “After a rash of assassinations.”

  “You mean murders?” the prime minister asked, in astonishment.

  “Yes, sir. We have reason to believe there is a man in Canada right now whose purpose is to start what they call ‘a reign of terror.’”

  Macdonald looked dazed.

  “If our informant is correct, your life and the lives of your colleagues are most seriously threatened. He is as dangerous as a poisonous snake.”

  The prime minister did not say a word. He glanced around the room as if seeking another opinion, searching for someone with more comforting words to offer. He took a long, hard drink from his sherry glass.

  McMicken noticed the decanter was empty.

  6

  Will Trotter had asked Conor to watch the Confederation night fireworks on Major’s Hill Park with him and his mother. Meg smiled demurely and offered, “I might join you.”

  Conor had hung up his wet clothes and eaten a questionable piece of chicken for dinner. He agonized over what to wear. Even if his suit dried out, was it too formal? What do you wear to a fireworks display? What would he sit on? He couldn’t ask Thomas. His father was still at the bar, and he would simply bark, “Don’t go.”

  Luckily,
he had taken his suit jacket off before diving into the water, so it wasn’t wet. The jacket might cover his ragged pants. Looking right, sounding right, acting right—it was such a lot of work.

  At the corner of Rideau and Sussex, Mrs. Trotter greeted Conor warmly. “You are my hero,” she said.

  “Mother,” said Meg, “Conor saves damsels in distress every day, I’m sure.” Meg had tied her hair back, but ribbons couldn’t control the curls. He wanted to run his hands through the wild tangle, and he found himself staring, again.

  Will broke the moment’s spell. “Let’s sit over there,” he said. Conor was relieved to see that Will was carrying a blanket.

  They sat to the side of the park, not with Ottawa’s elite and a bit too close to the “scruff section” for Conor’s taste. Mary Ann Trotter didn’t seem to care about issues of class and status, and this spot would give them a nice view of the fireworks. He saw people he knew: loggers enjoying the freedom of summer, some tradespeople, some patrons of Lapierre’s and that Ryan woman. That was her name. He remembered it now: Polly Ryan. He could tell she was watching him, but he avoided her stare.

  Conor saw John Macdonald sitting with Lord Monck in a box in the centre of the park. They were both with their wives. If the prime minister and the governor general were in attendance, the suit coat was the right choice, the company was appropriate, and this was the proper place to be. Good.

  Conor took the blanket from Will and placed it on the ground for the ladies. In the midst of his gallantry, he noted that there wasn’t enough room for them all. He wondered how hard it would be to remove grass stains from his old pants.

  It was a clear, star-filled night. A warm breeze softened the air. With the Parliament Buildings as a backdrop, the sky exploded in thunder and light, and the glow from the fireworks lit up Meg’s face. She gasped with each bolt of colour. Conor was mesmerized. He had given up trying not to look love-struck.

  Mary Ann Trotter watched him and smiled. People didn’t often see her smile. When her husband died, she was devastated. She moved her family from Toronto to Ottawa and opened a boarding house on Sparks Street. The capital seemed like a place that would grow and attract “the right sort.” She checked out many sites in Ottawa before settling on Sparks Street, in the Desbarats Block. Mr. Desbarats, the Queen’s printer, was a fair landlord and the building’s stone entranceway and thick wooden door spoke of substance. She named it the Toronto House. It was Meg’s idea. She said it would bring in clientele from the West. It was also a nod to Mary Ann’s sister in Toronto, who had married a banker and had been so generous to her family.

  The boarding house became a favourite of those who liked a lively debate. Mary Ann insisted that conversation around her dinner table be clever, informed and challenging. She was the instigator, moderator and sometimes judge and jury. D’Arcy McGee loved it and fit right in. Once he quit drinking, McGee stayed at her boarding house when Parliament was in session. He often said that she was an argument to give women the vote. Conor found her intimidating and was actually rather afraid of her. Tonight, though, the Widow Trotter treated him as one of the family.

  Mary Ann watched Conor gawk at her daughter. Men will always be boys, she thought. She suspected what Meg thought of him, but that was for this impressionable young man to find out, not for her to say.

  ACROSS the park, someone had brought a fiddle. Someone else had a flute. A few people were dancing a country jig. Meg’s blue eyes brightened and she turned to Conor. “Do you want to ask me to dance?”

  Conor had grown up watching Irish workers stomp to jigs on Saturday nights in the lumber camps. He could do a two-step, even a rough Morris dance, but that was country music, peasant music, West Coast Irish and Highland Scots. Meg was too sophisticated for that. But she took his hand and pulled him off the ground, toward the music.

  She manoeuvred her left hand around his waist, and before he knew it they were twirling to the scampering chords. When time came to change partners, Conor hesitated and lost the rhythm. Meg teasingly left him, and he found himself with a freckled Irish girl he knew from Lowertown. He moved with her to the music, remembering the pattern, faking some steps, improvising, having fun … and missing Meg. Soon she was back in his arms, just as the sky brightened with a blast of fireworks. They roared in laughter. And she was off, with a musical promise left in the air that she would soon be back. The musicians kept a steady, lively pace and the couples squared off, energetically dancing their rounds. The next time Meg was his partner, he held her a little tighter. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wilted in his arms and said, “I’m getting tired. Let’s join the others.”

  Conor sat back on the grass, still feeling the joy of the dance. His hands on her waist, turning her, holding her, touching her. A girl in his arms. A worldly, cultured girl. He realized he was practically swooning.

  SIR John A. Macdonald—that sounded nice to his ear: Sir John A. Macdonald—watched the fireworks from the makeshift splendour of the governor general’s box. Normally, he liked such spectacles. They were celebrations, friendly gatherings and a peaceful use of gunpowder. He imagined festivities like this across the county and smiled proudly to himself. Then he glanced over at one of the plain-clothed guards Gilbert McMicken had stationed nearby and thought of the country’s modest financial reserves. He took a discreet sip from a silver flask he had brought along, and growled, “It looks like a waste of ammunition to me.”

  Lady Macdonald sighed. The governor general ignored him. The electorate sat below him, unaware of his concerns. It was a fairly typical moment.

  It was Canada’s day—or his day, as Agnes had said. He had wrangled, cajoled and negotiated the governmental system he wanted: essential powers in finance and defence staying with the central government. The provinces got powers that didn’t really interest him, like social policy, education and health. He was no reformer. He had resisted any talk of secret ballots at elections. “Stand up and be counted,” he would say. “Don’t be afraid to state your views in the open.” Only those who owned property could vote, and Macdonald wholeheartedly supported that. He abhorred the idea of “mob rule” practised in the United States. People with a vested interest in the country, he felt, deserved power. “The shareholders have earned the right to choose their leaders.” After all, he had invested in this country, although not always wisely. He cringed at the thought of some of his business decisions.

  And there was the Senate. He certainly got what he wanted there: a British-style House of Lords with the prime minister—him, to be exact—controlling the gate. “The purpose of government is to protect minorities,” he quipped. “And there are fewer rich people.” The appointed Senate gave him control as long as he had the power, and he couldn’t imagine ever losing it. He still had elected members of Parliament to contend with, though. They could be unruly and undependable. He turned to Governor General Monck, who was avidly watching the fireworks. “Don’t you think I should be able to put members of Parliament in the penitentiary when I want?” The governor general pretended not to hear him, and Macdonald went on watching the spectacle, grumbling to himself about the cost and chuckling at his little joke.

  CONOR never wanted this day to end. He walked back to the boarding house with the Trotters, falling a little bit behind the others with Meg. He was gaining confidence by the stride, telling her about the morning, about Macdonald’s knighthood, about the ambassador he stood beside, everything. Along Wellington Street, down Metcalfe, across to the south side of Sparks to the Toronto House.

  Mrs. Trotter shooed Will inside with her, and Conor was left alone on the doorstep with Meg. He froze. This was not a moment to talk politics. This was a moment to—

  She softly touched his cheek. “Good night, Conor. And thanks.” Then she quickly went inside.

  A man in a long grey coat was standing on the corner of Sparks and Wellington, chewing tobacco and spitting on the boardwalk. He fit right in. They had walked by him, unaware. He had discreetly follow
ed them to the boarding house. He already knew the address. McGee’s address. He had checked out where the turncoat had started living when he was in Ottawa. A nice, dark street because the cheapskate politicians often failed to light the gas lamps. A nearby alley for escape. That must be the landlady and her children. He would have to find out who else boarded there. And he must discover who this young man was, standing in front of the boarding house like a proud peacock. He couldn’t quite see his face, but the girl called him Conor. An Irish name. A Catholic name. Wasn’t that also the name of Thomas O’Dea’s son? The girl certainly was pretty, but he had no time for that. Maybe later.

  AS Conor walked back along Sparks Street, pictures from the day flashed in his head. It was like the light cast by the fireworks or the magnesium the photographers used to capture an instant of life. An explosion, a blinding light and a clear picture. A flash—and he saw Macdonald savouring the excitement of the morning. Another flash—there was the cheering crowd, and again Conor felt the achievement of being a part of something bigger than himself. Yet another flash and an explosion—and Meg Trotter. Meg swimming. Meg talking to him. Meg holding his hand. Dancing. Holding her. Meg’s breath in his ear when she talked.

  It was possible that tonight would be the end of it, that she was just thanking him for the incident on the river. Possible. Maybe probable. But after just a few hours with Meg, he felt happier than he had in his life. He was more than an upstart posing in secondhand clothes; he was a man about town wooing a sophisticated lady.