Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  “You know, Conor, if I had been able to spend more time there, I bet you I would have won,” he said. And maybe it was true. The heated battle against Barney Devlin had sapped his energy, and his poor health had restricted his travel, but the fact remained that he had suffered his first electoral defeat and could no longer claim invincibility. D’Arcy McGee now knew the acrid taste of losing, and he didn’t much like it.

  Montreal was next. The two-day vote was held a week after the Prescott election. Barney Devlin was running like a man half his age—or, as McGee told Conor, “like a man with half a brain.” At Cutler’s Tavern, he called McGee a turncoat; in Victoria Square, he said he was a troublemaker; in front of the post office, he had a chance to condemn McGee to his face. It was really just a coincidence—McGee was there to post a letter and found himself face to face with his adversary. For a second, they looked at each other like prizefighters in a ring, then McGee tipped his hat with a simple, friendly gesture of greeting. Devlin spat in his face and stormed off.

  That was the mood in post-Confederation Montreal.

  McGee tried to keep a brave face in front of Conor and his family, but he was clearly nervous. He joked, “Devlin’s got the spit, but I’ve got the polish.”

  On the first day of voting, McGee’s margin was tight, but he was ahead. The bad news, though, was that Devlin was leading in Griffintown. If McGee were to lose this election, it would be the Irish-Catholic voters who threw him out.

  The final vote was counted the next day. The wait for the results was excruciating. Finally, the news came: McGee had won, but by fewer than two hundred votes. The little Irishman fell into his chair, exhausted and relieved. The vote was clearly a slap in the face, but it was not a knockout punch. There would be time later to evaluate the problems and assess the reasons for the drop in his support.

  “Mary, we should go to the Mechanics’ Hall and thank the workers,” he said, adding uncharacteristically, “but we mustn’t stay too long.” In times past, he would have been the life of the party, leading everyone in song and dance. But there was no joy this night. He was suffering far too much pain in his leg—and in his heart—for celebration.

  Conor was the first person to meet the McGees at the Mechanics’ Hall door. This had been their campaign headquarters, and he had been helping organize the party. He firmly grasped McGee’s hand. “Congratulations, sir. You won again.” He noticed McGee’s grip was not as strong as usual. A rousing chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” drowned out McGee’s response. With Mary firmly supporting him, McGee limped to the stage, shaking hands along the way.

  D’Arcy McGee scrutinized the crowd of friendly, admiring faces and winked at his wife, standing by his side. “Isn’t it nice, Mary,” he began his acceptance speech, “to be among friends and not to be heckled and booed when I start to speak?”

  Someone yelled, “We’re with you, D’Arcy!”

  Over the applause, McGee ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He felt weak and leaned more heavily on Mary. “I am here to tell you that I will not give in, either to Fenians or to their agents. Free speech is more important than one man’s election. I will defend it on the streets of Montreal and in the rows of Parliament.”

  Mary whispered in his ear, “That’s enough for tonight, dear.”

  He knew she was right, but he added one more sentence: “We are fighting in Griffintown the battle for Irish equality—equality among everyone in Canada.” Mary nudged him again. “We’ve enough fights ahead, my friends,” he concluded. “Drink heartily and have a great time; you’ve earned it. Thank you all, and God bless.”

  Conor helped guide them out of the hall. “Let’s leave through the back door,” he advised them. “It will be faster.” That was only half the truth. While McGee was speaking, Conor noticed that a crowd was gathering outside the front door. Barney Devlin’s boys were still spoiling for a fight.

  D’Arcy and Mary McGee were safely travelling homeward in a carriage when trouble broke out. With a crash, all the windows of the hall were shattered by a barrage of rocks. The people inside were terrified. It was like a siege. The door started to creak as the mob pushed to get in. Barney Devlin’s boys wanted blood. “Bring us McGee!” the voices yelled through the door. A thud. A crash of a foot striking wood. And the front door flew open. Within a second, the mob had poured into the hall. The siege turned into a barroom brawl. Fists flying. Furniture thrown. Some people fleeing. Others cowering. Someone smashed a chair over a man’s head. A knife blade flashed. A slingshot. Then, like a thunderbolt, a gun blast echoed through the room and a man fell. The mob turned and ran scared. The body on the ground lay motionless.

  Conor had watched it all from the back of the hall, horrified and helpless. What was happening to this country? It was falling apart right before his eyes.

  If he had still been here, they would have killed him, he thought. They meant to kill D’Arcy McGee.

  COLONEL Patrick O’Hagan walked sprightly along the boardwalk. He and General John O’Neill were headed to the White House. In his pocket, he proudly carried a week-old New York Herald. Its editorial urged the takeover of Canada. In his heart, he carried the conviction that he was about to lead a holy war against the English. He was certain that everything was falling into place.

  Doors had opened for O’Neill and him throughout the northern states. After all, O’Neill was a war hero, and he was a veteran, too. America owed them a debt, and O’Hagan was cashing in. All along the eastern seaboard, new Irish immigrants were cheering the plans to invade Canada. They had spent the day in Washington with three senators and two congressmen, all of whom supported the Fenian cause. And now they were about to meet William Seward, the powerful secretary of state. O’Hagan was sure that if they played their cards right, they would get Seward’s blessing. Seward had been one of Abraham Lincoln’s leading cabinet members during the Civil War. He proudly called himself an “expansionist.” Recently, he had looked north at the British provinces and declared, “You are building excellent states soon to be admitted into the Union.”

  It was only common sense.

  Lincoln was dead now and Seward held even more power under the new president, Andrew Johnson. Seward’s dreams of the Stars and Stripes flying from the equator to the North Pole merged with Fenian dreams of revenge. Under Seward’s leadership, the United States had just bought Alaska from the Russians for seven million dollars. Canada was not for sale, but it was ripe for annexation.

  It was Manifest Destiny.

  O’Hagan and O’Neill stood on the steps of the president’s mansion. The British had burned down the house in 1814. It was time for retaliation.

  Entering the White House, O’Hagan felt a glow of excitement, the same sensation he had experienced on the battlefield: the expectation of something momentous, something glorious or something terrible. They were quickly ushered into a waiting room, where they sat for barely a minute before Seward himself came out of an adjoining office to greet them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the secretary of state declared, reaching out to shake O’Neill’s hand first. “I have a little surprise for you.”

  He ushered them through the door. Sitting behind the tidy mahogany desk, smiling broadly, was President Johnson. O’Neill had met him in 1862, when Andrew Johnson was the military governor of Tennessee, but they had not seen each other since. O’Hagan stayed a step behind, clearly the lesser officer.

  Johnson enjoyed watching their surprised reactions. “Did you not think I support your cause?” he asked.

  “Well,” O’Neill stammered, “I hoped. But I thought, after the Ridgeway battle—”

  “I waited as long as I could,” Johnson interrupted. “Five days before denouncing your invasion. What in God’s name more did you want?”

  “We are better organized now.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “And we have a few surprises in the works up in Canada,” O’Hagan couldn’t resist adding.

  “
Probably we had better read about that after the fact,” Seward jumped in.

  The president agreed. “Yes, this issue is delicate.”

  Colonel O’Hagan smiled.

  “I will get to the point quickly,” the president continued. “The United States cannot openly support your aims. It would be against the Neutrality Laws.”

  “But not against your interests,” O’Neill declared.

  “We realize that. That’s why my message is not one that should anger you. Continue going about your business here without too much brashness, and you won’t be stopped; we’ll allow your cause to flourish without interference.”

  “Have you heard what’s happening to the government in Canada?” O’Hagan interjected. He knew he should defer to General O’Neill, but this was too important. Could they count on American support?

  “Yes, I’ve been staying in touch. It seems the country is running scared before it has even learned how to walk.”

  “Well said, sir.” O’Hagan smiled, choosing his next words carefully: “If this new country shows it cannot take care of itself, that it can barely run an election, that it is close to anarchy”—he paused for effect—“if the voters have lost respect for Canadian laws and its leaders, what would the United States government do then?”

  “I never answer questions that begin with the word ‘if,’” the president said. A standard answer. He glanced at Seward as if wondering how many cards he should play. Seward silently nodded. O’Hagan wondered if the secretary of state was really in charge, and Seward, watching O’Hagan lead the questioning, wondered who was really in charge of the Fenians. President Johnson walked over to the window and looked out on Pennsylvania Avenue. “Let me answer your inquiry this way: I personally will not court war with Britain, but it is not in the interest of the United States to have anarchy to our north.” He paused before continuing: “That said, the government of Great Britain has never acted as our friend; I see no reason why we should act as theirs.” Seward added pointedly, “Especially if the Canadians can’t keep their house in order.”

  The answer was convoluted. Johnson wanted the Irish vote and liked the idea of more land, but after the Civil War he wanted no more American casualties. Seward was more hawkish—or was he?

  General O’Neill surprised O’Hagan by asking a direct question of the president: “Sir, do you want Canada?”

  The president of the United States hesitated, but his secretary of state did not. Seward looked O’Neill straight in the eye and declared, “We will recognize accomplished fact.”

  O’Hagan smiled broadly. The people in the Irish neighbourhoods wanted revenge, and the government wanted Canada. He just had to deliver. The work of the man he had sent north was so important. He prayed he would accomplish his noble mission.

  Britain would pay for centuries of injustice.

  23

  Sir John A. Macdonald sat in his ornate Parliament Hill office and glanced around him. He didn’t much care for the floral wallpaper, but he loved the blue marble fireplace and kept a fire burning in it all winter. The office was decorated to impress, but also to deceive. There was a hidden compartment in the bottom left drawer of his large desk, where he kept an extra bottle of whisky. To the left of his desk was a concealed door, an escape route from pressing business. The desk, a gift like most of his possessions, came with an inscription that delighted him: “Dominion SecreTORY.”

  He pondered the future of this land called Canada.

  He had just heard about D’Arcy McGee’s narrow victory and the battle at his campaign headquarters. Someone had actually been killed. It had been a violent election across the land.

  In Ontario, the Liberal frontbencher and former stonemason, Alexander Mackenzie, was regularly shouted down. “His opponents showed good judgment,” Macdonald mumbled. “He’s as cold as block of granite.” But that wasn’t the point. This was supposed to be a peaceful, law-abiding nation, and it was behaving like an out-of-control child.

  In Nova Scotia, candidates opposing Confederation won every seat in Parliament except Charles Tupper’s. Thank God for the good doctor, Macdonald thought. I wonder what he’ll want in return? He glanced at the bottom drawer. Apparently, a mob had gathered in front of Tupper’s house and burned him in effigy. Macdonald reached into the drawer. He had been sent a newspaper clipping from Nova Scotia. The editorial regretted the incident in front of Tupper’s home, not because it happened, but because “he was not set afire himself!” Macdonald drank directly from the bottle. One swig. He looked at the secret exit, longing to escape. He put the bottle away and sighed. Now that he was thoroughly depressed, he felt in just the right mood to face Gilbert McMicken and hear the latest from the world of espionage.

  Macdonald showed no hint of concern when McMicken marched into his office. He greeted him warmly. “Are you here to cheer me up?” he asked.

  “I’m here to report to you, sir.”

  How could poor Gilbert ever have thought he had the personality for politics? the prime minster wondered. He is a man absolutely devoid of humour, much better suited as a spymaster. “Well, sit down and tell me about the Fenians,” Macdonald said. “I presume this time you will be talking about Canada.”

  “I understand you know what happened in Montreal,” McMicken began.

  “Yes, and I wonder whether D’Arcy caused a lot of it by working everybody into a frenzy.”

  “In part,” admitted McMicken. “I suppose he might have handled it better, but he was trying to make people like you pay more attention.”

  Macdonald caught the remark’s implication and decided to let it drop. “You have my attention, so give me some information.”

  “The first thing is that Mr. McGee was right. We are convinced that the centre of Fenian activity has moved from Toronto to Montreal.”

  Macdonald did not respond. If he were a Fenian, he too would want to get out of Protestant Toronto, with its King and Queen Streets and rising army of busybody teetotallers.

  “It looked as if the Fenian movement was going to collapse. They went through a bitter leadership struggle and seemed to be coming apart over petty issues. Instead, they are rebuilding. Remember I told you that there was new leadership in the United States?”

  Macdonald nodded.

  “There are a few former Yankee officers going around the northern states, canvassing for donations and lobbying sympathetic politicians. They have breathed new life into what we hoped was a carcass.”

  “What I’ve seen from the Americans,” Macdonald exclaimed, “is nothing but encouragement for this sedition.”

  “The American authorities are turning a blind eye, to be sure. Our spies tell us the government is not actually helping the Fenians; it is simply allowing them to shake the tree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The New York Herald coined the expression. ‘There is no need for the government to shake the tree,’ the paper wrote. ‘Canada will fall like a ripe fruit into the American garden.’”

  Macdonald winced and said, almost under his breath, “Seward wants to free Canadians from British tyranny so brothers can feel free to kill each other in their next civil war.”

  McMicken listened politely and continued his prepared report. “Meanwhile, the Fenians continue to gather a militia. Mainly out-of-work soldiers looking for a bit of adventure.”

  “Back to what you said about Montreal,” Macdonald interrupted. “I thought you had a man on the inside there?”

  “We had, but he died.”

  Sir John just stared at his spymaster, his expression hardening.

  “I was going to get to that, sir,” McMicken explained. “You see, he was the person killed that night at McGee’s headquarters. Our man must have been exposed, and he was killed in the melee.”

  Sir John A. Macdonald’s eyes widened. He knew that when McMicken left, he would finish the bottle.

  MEG was about to post her letter to Conor when a hand reached out and grabbed her from behind. “It�
�s a letter to the Papist, isn’t it?” It was one of the boys who had earlier threatened her. She struggled, trying to pull her hand away, but he held tight. Two others appeared beside him. Three more lurked nearby.

  “We told you, Meg,” the one holding her arm said. “Forget Conor O’Dea, or there will be trouble.”

  He released her hand, and Conor’s letter fell to the ground.

  It was the same group as before. The leader of the pack was the son of a well-known Orangeman. She didn’t know any of them very well, except the drummer from the parade. He looked a little ashamed to be there. She was sure of his name now: Daniel. Aware of the power she had over boys, she turned directly to him. “Daniel, what right do you have to threaten me?”

  He cowered, but the one who had grabbed her answered, “We’re not threatening you, Meg. We’re just giving you some advice: stick to your own kind.”

  She felt a rush of bravery surge up her spine. It stabilized her and focused her mind. No one was going to hurt her just because she was seeing Conor. This was a civilized country. They would just call her names—but so what? She stood her ground. “Leave me alone,” she ordered, defiantly.

  The ringleader reached out and touched her hair. “You’re very beautiful, Meg. I don’t want to see you hurt.” He released her hair slowly, strand by strand. “Come on, lads, she’s got the message.” He started to walk away, casually, as if it had just been a friendly chat. The others followed.

  She called out to the one named Daniel, who lagged behind. “What do you think you are doing?” She knew she sounded like her mother, and she liked the sound of it.

  “Meg, people are really angry,” he said, sincerely. “We’re only trying to help. If you stay with him, you’ll … you’ll go to hell.”

  He turned and ran to catch up to the others. Those fools, Meg thought. Those stupid, bigoted fools! She bent over to pick up Conor’s letter and her hair fell in her eyes. As she pushed it back, she realized that her hand was shaking—in anger, and in fear.