Then the attack came.
In the corner of his eye, Conor caught a rustling in the bushes. He thought he heard someone yell, “All right, boys, that’s him.” It happened so fast that he wasn’t sure of the details. About ten people jumped out of the bushes. They started throwing—not tomatoes or eggs this time, but rocks and gravel. A rock hit McGee’s shoulder, and he faltered. Conor grabbed him. Together they tumbled to the ground. Conor screamed at the attackers, picked up the rock that had hit McGee and uselessly hurled it back. With D’Arcy McGee helpless and humiliated on the ground, and Conor trying to shelter him from attack, the mob ran away laughing and cheering.
It was not until later—after they dropped off McGee’s damning article at the newspaper office, after they hailed a hackney carriage to take them home, after McGee refused to go to the police, after they both suffered Mary McGee’s furious recrimination—that Conor had time to carefully reconstruct the attack. Someone had yelled from the bushes. He remembered the voice. An Irish accent. Was it the same voice as at the back of the hall at Jolicoeur’s? He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. During the attack, he thought he saw someone sneak away. Was that the person who started it? Maybe. It was hard to say. But he was familiar. And he wore a long grey coat.
21
In Ottawa, Sir John A. Macdonald was in a playful mood. He had handily won his seat in Kingston. His nemesis, George Brown, had been defeated in Toronto. “Go back to printing drivel, George,” he murmured merrily. “In your stuffed shirt with your rich wife, your earnest obsessions and your endless prattle about reform.” He avoided reading George Brown’s newspaper, The Globe, whenever possible.
God was indeed in his heaven, and he was in the premier’s chair. His position of power and prominence secure. Yes, his desk was still laden with problems, but they could wait until tomorrow. The rains were over and the muddy streets were now baking in sunlight. It was a splendid late-summer afternoon. He summoned Patrick Buckley to prepare the horse and carriage, and pulled Lady Macdonald away from her book.
The treeless Sandy Hill offered little shade during the dreadfully hot summer. “How overactive those loggers have been,” Agnes once remarked, to her husband’s great amusement. “The houses are built on sand, dear; hence the name. We’re plain-spoken here in Canada.” Sir John took her hand and escorted her into the carriage and they set off through the dusty, dry streets of the trussed-up lumber town.
Sir John was content to sit back and enjoy the ride, perhaps head out into the countryside, but Lady Macdonald had other matters on her mind. “What’s happening in Montreal is vile, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Yes,” he sighed, afraid of where her inquiry might lead. He knew she liked D’Arcy McGee more than most of the self-obsessed politicians she met in Ottawa. She and D’Arcy could talk for hours about poetry, books, even flowers. He had actually supported one of her chief causes, the new St. Alban’s Church on Daly Street. Imagine a Romanist donating five dollars toward the Church of England! Yes, he was a good sort in her view, especially now that he was off the bottle.
“Why don’t you help D’Arcy?”
“My dear, I’ve been busy in Kingston.”
“You know that isn’t an excuse. I understand you haven’t even written him a letter of support.”
Macdonald didn’t want to talk about this. Agnes could be worse than the hounds in the Opposition. He knew the embattled Irishman could use his help, but he simply couldn’t offer it. McGee was forever getting himself into these messes because he used his mouth like a Gatling gun. Weapons sometimes backfired, and Macdonald didn’t want to get wounded. Still, he cherished the times he and D’Arcy had shared on the floor in Parliament, in the parlour at the Russell House and in the back rooms at Lapierre’s. They had actually begun as political rivals. Initially, he had dismissed McGee as an unbecoming Irish runt, little more than a dilettante and an adventurer. But he would never forget McGee’s maiden speech in the legislature. The power of his words, the lilt in his voice, the sheer brilliance of his oratory. It was certainly not easy being attacked by D’Arcy McGee. Macdonald could remember his words by heart. “This is a government of corruption,” McGee proclaimed. “Their faith is in corruption. Their hope is in corruption. Their creed is in corruption.” A bit strong, Macdonald thought, but they were the words of a man who cared, not those of a dilettante. He decided to try to get this eloquent Irishman on his side.
George-Étienne Cartier was not as easily impressed. McGee had actually defeated Macdonald’s political partner in a Montreal campaign. Cartier had to run again in a constituency in the Laurentian hills. It was a humiliation Cartier would never forget. He declared that the Irish electors in Montreal “could be bought for a barrel of flour apiece and some salt fish thrown in for the leaders.” McGee never said an angry word in response, but he could never seem to remember the name of Cartier’s new riding. He kept calling him “The Honourable Member from … ah … some country constituency.”
Politics, thought Macdonald. What sport!
Along the bumpy road to Confederation, it was clear to Macdonald that McGee had the passion to inspire the people, and it was clear to McGee that Macdonald had the political sense to turn his words into a reality. So they became colleagues, and as Agnes was reminding him, they became friends.
“So why,” she asked again, “won’t you help him?”
How could he explain it to her? He had survived as a politician because he knew how to fit the message to the audience. He knew when to speak up and when to keep his head down. McGee must have been away from school the day discretion was taught—or did they ever teach that in Ireland? Macdonald was by nature a cautious man (already he was called “Old Tomorrow” because he put off difficult decisions), and the row in Montreal was a fight he couldn’t win. Besides, it was an Irish fight, and he had no business entering it. D’Arcy would have to endure this one alone. It wasn’t practical to defend him now.
“Let’s say I know D’Arcy can handle it himself,” he finally declared, aware that that would not satisfy her.
“He has no choice,” she answered with a distinct tone of disgust. Agnes always got the last word. That was fine with Sir John, as long as it was the end of the subject.
With delight, he spotted a diversion. “Look. Speaking of McGee, there’s his assistant’s father.” It never ceased to astound Agnes what a wizard her husband was with faces and names. He ordered Buckley to stop the carriage as they came alongside Thomas O’Dea, who was shuffling along the boardwalk.
“Good afternoon to you, sir,” proclaimed the prime minister.
Thomas looked up, nodded at Buckley and scowled at Macdonald.
Sir John, oblivious to the slight, was always willing to talk to a potential voting man. “My good man, did God ever make a man as solemn as you look?” Thomas O’Dea continued to scowl and Macdonald continued to talk. “I just want to tell you that your son is doing marvellous work for the new Dominion. He’s an able worker for D’Arcy McGee and a credit to the British nation.”
Macdonald was in danger of making a speech, and Thomas O’Dea cut off his rhetoric with a brisk “Good day to you” and walked off rudely.
“What a sullen man,” Agnes said, watching Thomas walk away. She noticed that he was propping the small of his back with his right hand.
“Aye, he’s not too friendly a chap,” answered Sir John. “But he does pour a decent glass of whisky.” He was so used to insults dealing with the Liberals in Parliament that he had barely taken notice of Thomas’s attitude. “Still, he has every reason to be proud of that son of his. I like his spunk and spirit.”
A twinkle came to Macdonald’s eye. “Carry on,” he instructed Buckley. “Let’s go to the Russell House.” He looked at his wife with a mischievous grin. “For tea, dear. Only for tea.”
As the carriage churned ahead, it kicked up a cloud of dust that blew in Thomas O’Dea’s face. Standing in a veil of filth, watching the grand carriage drive away, he spit d
irt and swore aloud. What right does that Orangeman have telling me to be proud? My son “an able worker for McGee … a credit to the British nation.” Well, damn them all, he thought, rubbing dust from his eyes. Damn Macdonald and damn McGee! And damn this British nation!
THE Russell House Hotel was the height of elegance, at least by Ottawa’s standards. It was made of sturdy stone, not rotting wood. It towered four storeys, if you counted the attic. Inside this bit of Piccadilly on the Ottawa River, gentlemen chatted in large overstuffed chairs while smoking or chewing tobacco. Each chair had well-used ashtrays and spittoons handy. Lady Macdonald was pleased that chewing tobacco was one vice her husband hadn’t embraced. They were heading into the parlour when Macdonald spotted George-Étienne Cartier in the hallway.
“Cartier,” he bellowed, “why aren’t you fighting the good fight in Quebec?”
“Railway meetings, John. Business doesn’t stop during elections.”
Macdonald had taken note that Cartier, his Quebec lieutenant and political partner, rarely called him Sir John. Cartier was still peeved that he hadn’t received the same honour on July 1. Your day will come, Macdonald thought. Be patient.
“I would ask you to join us, but I think the talk of business would bore you, Lady Macdonald,” Cartier said. He was a master of condescension. Macdonald hoped his young wife would ignore the insult. She didn’t.
“What do you think about the situation Mr. McGee faces in Montreal, Mr. Cartier?” she asked, sternly.
“A rambunctious rebel fighting off his rebellious countrymen, I suppose.”
She had expected a dismissive answer and was ready. “Strange coming from you, sir—one who rebelled against the Crown in ‘37 and was lucky to have been pardoned.”
“Agnes,” Macdonald jumped in, “that was a long time ago, and we must be moving on.” He smiled at Cartier, thinking that it served him right. “On with your business, George. I’ll drop by if I can.” Macdonald escorted his wife into the parlour and excused himself quickly. He wanted to see what Cartier was up to.
In the bar, the industrialist Hugh Allan held court, his long white beard glistening in the window light. The best seat in the house. Allan was the richest man in Canada: a financier, a shipping magnate and a railway baron. He ruled Montreal commerce from his mansion on the hill. Cartier had joined Allan and two others at the table, but Macdonald didn’t know the other two men. They must be concocting something. Not business of the state, or he would know about it. Or was he being left in the dark?
A foursome was playing cards at one table, a man was asleep with the Montreal Gazette draped on his chest at another and a heated conversation raged in the corner. Macdonald ignored them all and headed for the seat of power. “Hugh, how good to see you. What brings you to our humble Westminster?”
“Just trying to keep the wheels turning, Prime Minister,” he answered.
“You know, I don’t think we can print enough money for you to spend.”
Allan laughed, but without humour. Macdonald waited for a fuller explanation. None was offered. He looked at the two other men at the table. Functionaries, he assumed. And he ignored them.
Cartier broke the uncomfortable silence. “You make the promises, John; we try to see them realized.”
Another man joined the table. He was tall and stately, with long, well-groomed whiskers. “Prime Minister, how nice to see you,” Casimir Gzowski declared in a thick Polish accent. Macdonald smiled. He admired Colonel Gzowski. He combined the grace of the nobility and the initiative of a self-made man. His firm engineered bridges and surveyed railways, and he was even vying to pave Toronto’s Yonge Street.
Gzowski was welcomed to the table while Macdonald was left standing. The prime minister was starting to feel like a courtier in the presence of greater powers. He had better flex some muscle. He aimed at a target he could hit. “I’ll see you in cabinet, George,” signalling that he was about to leave their presence, that he had somewhere else to go.
“I’m still not pleased with our defences, Sir John,” Colonel Gzowski declared, surprising Macdonald with his bluntness. “You must establish a true military presence in this country.”
Macdonald had heard it all before. An army cost money, and there were better uses of the country’s limited resources. At least Gzowski had put his money where his mouth was and had started a volunteer regiment in Toronto.
“Working on it, Casimir. I can’t just snap my fingers and get things done.”
“No, you can’t,” Hugh Allan said, entering the discussion. “But you can put your hand up and be counted.”
That’s what money gives you: the power to tell anybody to go to hell, even the prime minister of Canada. Cartier seemed mildly amused, although in cabinet, Macdonald had never heard him advocate a stronger military presence. He would have to apologize to Cartier for what Agnes had said. It was true Cartier had fled Canada after the Rebellion of 1837. He could have faced the gallows for his part in the rebellion—others had—but Cartier was from a wealthy family, and his pleas for forgiveness and a change of heart were accepted. It was the right thing to do. He had served his province and country extraordinarily well since.
Casimir Gzowski was a former rebel, too. He had been part of a major uprising against the Russians in his youth, and then escaped to North America, where he had learned English and earned a fortune.
Two rebels forming the very picture of the establishment, sitting like bookends beside the pillar of power from Montreal. Gzowski, the imposing son of a Polish nobleman, and George Cartier, the diminutive Quebec lawyer. Cartier might fiercely defend Quebec’s interests, but he looked as British as a bulldog with shirts from Jermyn Street, suits from Bond Street and a burning desire for a knighthood. Cartier also had a mistress he escorted about society, much to Agnes’s horror. Perhaps that was another reason for her jab at him. Macdonald actually pitied Cartier, locked in a loveless marriage, reaching out for attention and recognition.
He would rather the comfort of a glass of sherry, but his wife had already ordered tea and scones. He had better join her.
“I’VE been given your name and am told you’re with us.” Those were the only words the stranger uttered when Jimmy Brennan opened his front door. It was evening on the backstreets of Montreal’s Griffintown. Brennan, a young man barely out of his teens, was startled and scared.
“Who are you?” He tried to catch a view of the person’s face in the flickering gas light, but the man stayed in the shadows.
“Are you alone?” the stranger responded, ignoring his question.
“Yes,” Jimmy blurted out. “I’m alone.” That was his first mistake. The stranger brushed him aside and marched into his room. He already knew all about Jimmy Brennan: an aimless, unemployed young man, one of Barney Devlin’s more exuberant “boys.” Not the best man in a thoughtful discussion, but a good partner in a fight.
“Are you from the States? From the brotherhood?” Brennan asked.
The stranger stared at Jimmy. He wanted to study this creature. Did he have the stuff of a revolutionary? Could he be useful?
“I may need your help,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.
“So you are from the brotherhood.” Jimmy Brennan felt the beginnings of a nervous twitch.
The visitor took off his old grey coat and sat down, never taking his eyes off the anxious young man. He moved out of the shadows. It didn’t matter whether he was seen now. He had gone too far.
For a while, he just sat there. He enjoyed the silence. He hated talking. Even as a boy, he had always been known as the quiet one. He never had any friends, but no one ever bullied him. Unlike the other loners, he had been respected—and feared. “I’m here on a mission,” he eventually said. “I may need your help. You might have to assist me in the field, or give me a place to stay.” He stared at Jimmy with his intense, dark eyes. “I need to know if you’re loyal, if you’re a true soldier.”
“I’m loyal,” Jimmy said, probably a bit too quickly
. He didn’t know what to do. He was all for a bit of fun, like heckling McGee, picking a fight with a Protestant, breaking a window or two, but this man was … well, he was frightening. One night, someone had asked him if he was Fenian and he had said, “Yeah.” He wanted to teach the Orangemen a lesson. Why the hell not? Jimmy Brennan’s political philosophy was about as well developed as the scanty moustache he was trying to grow.
“Can I depend on you?” the stranger muttered, already knowing the answer.
Jimmy was now twitching incessantly. “I’m not sure.” He fumbled for words. “I’m … I don’t know what … I don’t want to get into any trouble.” Jimmy Brennan was flustered. That was his second mistake.
The stranger nodded. He stood and picked up his coat. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. Great, he thought, he’s going to go and find someone else. But Jimmy didn’t notice him put his hand in one of his coat pockets. That was his third, and final, mistake.
“Too bad, Jimmy. You just can’t be trusted.” He pulled a knife from the pocket. “And you saw my face.”
Jimmy Brennan was speechless, but then, he had already stumbled over his last words. The man grabbed him by his hair, yanked his head back and, with the precision of a surgeon, sliced his exposed throat. Jimmy Brennan died as he had lived: bewildered and belittled.
The stranger watched impassively as the lifeblood poured out of Jimmy’s arteries. It never ceased to amaze him how much blood there was in the human body—even one with no spine. He put on his coat and closed the door behind him. What a nuisance, he thought. He would have to enlist someone else. His business was finished in Montreal. It was time to get back to Ottawa. He would look for more recruits there.
22
The vote in Prescott was discouraging. D’Arcy McGee had spent very little time campaigning in the Ontario town, and though comfortable with the issues, he was unfamiliar with the local turf. His opponent chose “No Outsiders” as his campaign slogan. McGee, ever the outsider, fell to defeat.
Man in the Shadows Page 14