Conor walked the American reporter to the door. A strange fellow, he thought. There was something distant about the man. Most reporters he knew were gregarious and rather fun to be with. Most were brimming with questions, on and off the record. This man was thoughtful, but barely inquisitive. He was almost blank and forgettable behind his cold eyes and greying beard.
He didn’t even say goodbye.
18
Downstairs, Mary McGee sat alone, lost in thought. Four years ago, her husband’s political supporters had presented him with a house on St. Catherine Street. He needed to be a landowner to hold political office. Their home was so dignified, so refined, so unlike D’Arcy. Few of the mementoes and gifts that overfilled the drawing room were of much value, except, perhaps, some of D’Arcy’s books. It was an Irish-Canadian room through and through. The heavy curtains had shamrocks woven into them, and there was an abundance of Irish colour: green upholstery, green carpet, green cushions. It was a lovely room, she thought, with a comforting fireplace and warm atmosphere. After years of barely making ends meet, her family finally had a real home.
The rebel lived—if he didn’t always act—like a gentleman.
She glanced down at the newspaper she was holding. On the front page was an account of the trouble at Jolicoeur’s Saloon. At the bottom of the page was a glowing article about John Macdonald joking that, as a professional cabinetmaker, he wished he had better wood to work with. John plays politics while D’Arcy wages war, she thought. She felt old and weary; her skin had weathered, her hair was greying and her smile had grown melancholy. It was all just getting too much for her. John Macdonald had a young, ambitious wife urging him on. D’Arcy, she thought, was not so lucky.
She scanned the article about her husband and realized she had been reading the first paragraph over and over, scarcely taking in a word. She looked up at the picture of the Holy Mother on the wall and uttered her deepest wish: that D’Arcy would give up fighting and settle down. He had stopped drinking, that was a blessing, but politics was just as intoxicating and just as lethal. For twenty years, he had served his passion for one cause after another. Without his fervent speeches, Confederation would never have come about—even Macdonald admitted as much. He had climbed his way up the pedestal, and now he stood on his tiptoes, tottering. In the newspaper article, he was called a firebrand. She wondered how many people had called him that over the years. A stubborn reformer. A renegade rebel. A hero. And now his own people in Griffintown were calling him a traitor. A traitor to what? Many of his colleagues were outspoken; his problem was his absolute faith in his convictions. He was obstinate and inflexible, bull-headed and unyielding, highstrung and … also the sweetest, most kind-hearted man she had ever known. That so many people failed to see that always amazed her. Maybe because they never saw him play with Frasa and young Peggy, or shared her grief when they mourned the deaths of their children.
Even agonizing memories were soothed by his words. She mouthed her favourite poem, written in those terrible days of exile:
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes
My heaven by day, my stars by night.
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life.
An outlaw—so I’m near her
To love to death my Irish wife.
Such strong love and such deep emotion; such pride and such persistence. This crusade he was leading against secret societies was something she respected, but it was so dangerous. Fenians, Orangemen, why couldn’t he leave them to squabble among themselves? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? For his sake. For his family’s sake. And hers.
Well, she had a secret of her own—one she dared not tell anyone. She wished more than anything that her husband would lose this infernal election. She would nurse him through the humiliation and help steer him through a change of careers. Surely, one of his admirers would help him get a respectable job.
Conor O’Dea was an amiable young man, but she resented the time her husband spent with him. In many ways, Conor reminded her of D’Arcy as a young man: full of ideas and bursting with promise. She knew that each time D’Arcy berated Conor, he was trying to build his character. Years before, D’Arcy had looked up to the great Irish politician Daniel O’Connell in much the same way Conor looked up to him. Perhaps Conor rekindled the flame of those naive days, and that was why D’Arcy gave him so much of his time; precious time he could be spending with her and with his family.
While all eyes focused on him, who paid attention to her? It was always his mess of curls, his beautiful voice, his effortless prose, his causes; each cause more important than her.
She knew that D’Arcy had been talking about the old days with that reporter. Young Ireland. Famine. Rebellion. Exile. The memory haunted her, a nightmare she never wanted to live again: abandoned as her husband took on the role of Irish folk hero. They love their rebels in Ireland. They tell glorious tales about them and write plaintive ballads about them. But they leech their stories of blood and agony, and they forget about those left at home.
Yes, the old days. He escaped to the United States to become a famous newspaperman while she stayed at home, practically penniless, bringing up their daughter. He wrote her beautiful letters of love, but they only made her yearn for him more. Eventually, he earned enough money to pay for their passage over to America, and they joined him in Brooklyn. Finally, they could try to build a life together.
Mary was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. She groaned as she pulled herself out of the chair. What is it this time? An angry constituent? A man in search of a job for his son? A friend in need of money? A postman handed her a special delivery letter. Probably an invitation to make another speech, she thought, so he can get into even more trouble. She smiled at her little witticism as she opened the envelope. She looked at the letter and let out a silent, hollow gasp. Then, as if she suddenly found her lost vocal cords, a horrifying wail gathered in her throat and her screaming echoed through the house.
CONOR had lingered in McGee’s library, looking up passages on Young Ireland. He came rushing into the front room when he heard her scream. D’Arcy McGee struggled out of bed as fast as his swollen leg would allow. Dr. O’Brien followed, confused and out of place. Mary stood like a statue, transfixed by the words on the paper. Conor took the letter from her stiff hands. The short letter was printed in simple, childlike block letters: “If you say any more against Fenians, you will die.” It was unsigned. Instead, at the bottom of the page was a crude drawing of a gallows and a coffin.
By now, D’Arcy McGee had hobbled down the stairs. Conor was about to hide the letter from him, but he knew better. Without comment, he handed it to him. McGee read it grimly, showing no emotion at all. He looked at Mary and rubbed his hand through his hair, then, like a military commander, turned to Conor and issued an order: “Get down to The Gazette and have this letter published immediately. Tell the editor I will spend the rest of the week preparing an article for the paper, called …” He stopped to think. “‘The Attempts to Establish Fenianism in Montreal.’ Tell him I will pull no punches. I will name names. And damn the guilty.”
In his bedclothes, leaning against the wall for support, he looked frail and vulnerable, but his eyes were alive with rage. “No more stories of the past, Conor. We’ve got a fight on our hands.” He turned toward the stairs and bellowed, “I won’t stand for this. I can’t.”
Mary watched her husband limp upstairs. She was still shivering with cold dread. No one had paid her any attention. Old words kept swirling in her mind: “To love … to love to death … to love to death my Irish wife.”
19
In Ottawa, Meg Trotter was helping her mother prepare ice cream. The day before, in the back kitchen of the Toronto House, they had made a hot custard of milk, sugar, eggs and vanilla. They had let it cool overnight. Now, Mary Ann Trotter was adding ice and salt while her daughter steadily turned the machine’s handle. Meg kept her hair tied back
to keep it out of her eyes.
“Do you know that people in town call you the Widow Trotter?” Meg asked her mother.
“Of course, and I don’t mind. I loved your father very much.”
“But can’t you be known for who you are now, not who you married?”
“What do you mean, Meg?” Mary Ann Trotter knew there was something else on her daughter’s mind.
“Why does everyone judge a woman by her companion?”
“Are you thinking of Conor?”
“People have been treating me strangely. You know, different religions, different backgrounds.”
Her mother nodded. She had worried about this.
“People are condemning me, but you don’t mind, Mother. You haven’t told me not to see Conor.”
“Well, the Widow Trotter has some modern views,” her mother answered, smiling, adding more ice. “But I will tell you something plainly, Meg: I will not allow anyone to hurt you. Not anyone. We will go back to Toronto—or wherever—if there is even the hint of trouble.”
Meg turned the handle with extra determination. She knew her mother meant it. She had always admired her mother’s strong will. She made her own judgments, set her own course in life—and always put her family first.
Watching the custard turn to ice cream, Mary Ann Trotter reflected on her life in Toronto. Her husband had been a blacksmith. To her surprise, he had proven to be a particularly good businessman, expanding his shop and investing in others. He was popular and gregarious, and handsome in a rugged, athletic way, if you didn’t mind the smell of dirt and horses about him. Mary Ann almost laughed to herself as she conjured up his image. Meg had inherited his thick black hair. Sometimes when she looked at her daughter, she could see him—just a fragment, a loving trace.
His death was so senseless. He had been struck by a stray bullet in a barroom fight. Two drunks—one a Protestant, the other a Catholic—fighting over some ancient and petty grievance, killing someone else by mistake.
“Being called the Widow Trotter reminds me of your father.”
“It reminds me of death. Everywhere I turn, people talk of hatred and death.”
MEG had been to the Byward Market many times, but she had rarely stopped to take in the tenement houses nearby. Some of the stone buildings had character and could be cleaned up, but the wooden houses looked like fire traps. She was amazed at how dirty Lowertown was: sewage in gutters by the wretched shacks; emaciated pigs wandering the streets, sniffing at the ever-present excrement. Her family had a milking cow in the back of the boarding house, so she was used to animals—but not in front. It was disgraceful. Was this the way these people wanted to live? No, of course not; this was the way they were forced to live. These homes were probably owned by her neighbours uptown, who came by only to collect the rent. She admired Conor all the more, thinking how hard he was working to escape the imprisonment of poverty.
Polly Ryan saw her coming. She had been keeping an eye on Conor O’Dea’s girlfriend, the Protestant from Sparks Street. There weren’t very many mixed relationships in Ottawa. If this one grew, there could be trouble. Her responsibility was to look out for trouble. She made sure the young girl didn’t notice her, but watched closely as Meg knocked on Thomas O’Dea’s door and he opened it.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he barked.
“My name is Meg Trotter,” she said, holding back her fear. “I would like to talk to you about Conor.”
Thomas stared at her, hardly believing her impudence. He could tell by her accent that she was of English stock and by her dress that she had come from Uppertown.
“May I come in?” she asked politely.
“What is your business?”
“Mr. O’Dea, Conor has told me about you. You must have worked dreadfully hard to have your son educated. You must love him very much.”
“So?”
She wanted to declare, “I think I love him, too,” but she dared not. She said, simply, “I just wanted to meet you.”
“Well, you’ve met me.” He tried to slam the door, but she boldly put her foot out and stopped it.
“Will you let me come in?”
So Conor was now with a Protestant girl, Thomas thought. He might as well be if he associated with Macdonald and McGee.
“I am hoping I can help you reconcile with Conor.”
He looked at her with fire in his eyes. “I have no son,” he said. “Now move your foot.”
Meg had never seen such intense anger. She recoiled, and Thomas O’Dea slammed the door in her face.
POLLY Ryan watched the pretty girl run up Sussex Street crying, her black hair flying behind her. She looked terrified. Polly wondered what had happened. How it might play in the wide picture. She would have to find out. He might want to know.
20
Conor O’Dea arrived at D’Arcy McGee’s bedroom door armed with a tray of salt fish, fried pork rinds and beans, a concoction that delighted the feisty Irishman.
“My God, Conor, you are a good cook.”
“I got a lot of practice in the lumber camps. I can boil you up a barley soup if you want, and I do wonders with molasses.”
“I suspect your backcountry soup was thin as water and molasses was all there was for taste.” He didn’t know how true that was. Just don’t start calling me Cookie, Conor thought.
McGee attacked the food with vigour. Lying in bed, blankets up to his neck, his unruly hair almost filling the pillow, he looked rather comical, but he was intent on his article about the Fenians and still upset about the trouble at Jolicoeur’s. With his mouth full, he demanded, “Tell me about the mystery man. Should I challenge him to a duel?”
“You would have to find him first. No one seems to know him. I still can’t find out anything. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Very strange. If he were from around here, I would know him.” D’Arcy McGee had spent the week he was supposed to be convalescing propped up in bed, his leg suspended to ease the pain, furiously writing his article for The Gazette. Although his health was gradually improving, his temper was not. He harangued Dr. O’Brien for overreacting; he howled at Mary, complaining that he was chained to his bed; and, of course, he bellowed orders to Conor. Where were the statistics to embellish his arguments? He needed dates checked, names clarified. Why did everything take so long? Hurry up, damn you!
After the meal, McGee wiped his face with his sleeve and showed the finished article to Conor. He had charged that the Fenians dominated Montreal’s Irish societies and claimed that they had actually infiltrated the Montreal police force. In sharp and unyielding language, he accused Barney Devlin of financing his campaign with Fenian money from New York.
“Are you sure you want this published, sir?” Conor asked. “It may make matters worse for you.”
“I was denied the right to free speech, and then my life was threatened. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t back down.”
Conor studied the list of people McGee had called Fenian supporters. “Devlin’s name is not on the list.”
“No, because he’s not a Fenian. Devlin’s a damn fool and a dupe, that’s all. They’re using him to get at me.”
Conor knew the fuss the newspaper article would cause, but he also knew it was easier to float upstream on the Niagara than to try to stop D’Arcy McGee once he had set his mind on something. “I’ll take this right down to The Gazette,” he said.
“No, you won’t.” McGee dragged himself out of bed. “We’ll both go. It’s been a week since I’ve smelled the streets and tasted the sights. I’m ready for a walk. Tomorrow I’ll be fit to finish off this campaign, and that imbecile Devlin along the way. Come on, help me on with my clothes.”
AFTER the stale atmosphere of his sick room, even the thick city air was invigorating. Leaning heavily on Conor’s arm, McGee cheerfully waved his cane at people passing by. He soaked in the summer radiance. During the past week, McGee had been so preoccupied with present-day problems that Conor had not asked more ques
tions about the past, but this walk, and this summer afternoon, gave him a fresh opportunity.
“Are you, in any way, embarrassed by your rebel past?” he asked cautiously.
“No man needs blush at forty for the follies of one and twenty,” McGee answered. “In fact, you could use a little adventure yourself.” And he chuckled. “Look, we were reacting to the famine. We were young and angry. But we kept our struggle to Ireland. Not like these Fenians here.”
A constituent came up to them and shook McGee’s hand. “It’s a delight to see you up and about, Mr. McGee. Good health to you, sir.”
McGee beamed. “And good health to you, my friend.”
Something else had been concerning Conor. “What did you think of that reporter?”
“Rather a cold fish, I would say. But we have to get the message out in America that our Confederation is strong.”
Conor dropped the thought. Something troubled him about the reporter, but it wasn’t important.
“I don’t want to make everything look perfect up here,” McGee continued. “There’s much still to do. But I resent American indifference to our nation-building and their interference in our affairs.”
Conor was pleased that McGee was walking with a little more ease. Perhaps the exercise was stretching his sore leg. McGee waved to another constituent across the street. The man did not return the gesture. He pretended the insult had not happened and again took Conor’s arm for support. “Soon we are going to have to get back to the campaign. I’ve lost ground while lying in bed.”
“How do you think you are going to do?”
“I’ve never lost an election yet,” McGee answered, evasively. “I don’t know about my venture into Ontario, but here, in Montreal, yes, I’ll win. It’s just a few who have been causing all the trouble. But it doesn’t take many voices to sing a loud song.”
Conor noticed the man who would not return McGee’s wave still scowling at them from across the street. One of the few, he thought. They walked in silence
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