Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  THOMAS O’Dea lay sprawled on an old hard-backed chair. He wondered what his childhood friends were doing in Ireland and how his family was getting on. He missed the patchwork fields of Connemara and the streets of Galway. Was it Ireland he longed for? Or those youthful days with his wife? It hardly mattered. He was now a wreck of a man, crushed by life and defeated by his adopted British country.

  Conor had asked him how his mother would have reacted. Thomas had to concede that was a good question. Maybe Margaret would have loved it here, found the newness of everything exciting, the harsh, untamed wilderness enchanting. But he knew better. There was nothing new about another British nation, and there was nothing enchanting about the tall white pines that towered up the Ottawa Valley—wood for ships’ masts and fine British homes. There was nothing good about the cheap wooden stakes he had hammered together to mark her grave.

  If she had lived, maybe they would have homesteaded; built a house, farmed some land, made a life. Instead, he had applied as a teamster upriver, hauling sleighs piled with timber from the cutting section to the river. He was a good worker, and that impressed the bosses. At times, he liked the challenge, piling as many as fifty huge white pine logs on one sleigh, and he admired the strength and stamina of the big Clydesdales. But it was perilous work trudging along icy skid roads, carefully balancing the logs, sitting on top of the precarious pyramid. Every day, he risked his neck up and down hills, in weather so cold he saw men cry in agony. It was winter work, and it kept him employed half a year. In the summers, while the raftsmen guided the logs downriver, he went downriver himself and tended bar. He would help his fellow lumbermen literally drink away their earnings.

  At first, he had to beg the bosses to let him keep Conor in the camp. Thomas was a good enough worker for them to accept his son as long as he didn’t eat too much or keep the men up at night. He never indulged Conor, but he did protect and shelter him. A sympathetic cook helped Thomas care for the growing boy, and he was soon put to work boiling salt pork, stirring thin, greasy soup, fetching hemlock to add some flavour to the tea. Conor worked hard, getting up without complaint at four o’clock every morning, and people liked him. If they didn’t they would have to face Thomas. One skidder, “Cockeye” George McNee from Arnprior, had it in for him. “There’s something high and mighty about that boy of yours,” he complained to Thomas. “Who does he think he is?” He said it only once, though. Thomas O’Dea was a hard man, too.

  Tex wandered into the camp when Conor was maybe twelve, an educated man from a wealthy family experiencing life by working as a labourer. He was slumming, as far as Thomas was concerned, and that was demeaning. But Conor adored him. Thomas considered keeping Conor away from him, but he knew he would be acting out of jealousy, so he paid Tex to work with his son on his reading and writing.

  What would Margaret think of that? She might think Thomas was brave and selfless. And a damn good father. What did Conor think? Thomas suspected he thought his father was an imbecile and not worthy to share a shanty with the likes of Tex.

  Then, one season, a widow-maker—a stray branch as thick as any tree he’d seen in Ireland—skidded off the sleigh and sent Thomas tumbling into six feet of snow. He almost suffocated. He couldn’t move; his leg was broken, his back wrenched and his usefulness to the logging company over. The cook couldn’t properly set his leg, and whatever the fall did to his back, the pain never left him.

  In Ottawa, any pride he had left was drowning in whisky. He watched his son slipping away from him, steadily and cruelly. Until the final break. Anger and bitterness now consumed him: he could feel it, taste it, smell it, even see it, until it nearly blinded him.

  He looked up at the gun he kept on the shelf under a cloth. It would be easy just to end it. Relief from the pain. Escape.

  And then his senses sharpened. He felt another presence in the room. In the dark corner, someone was standing there, silently staring at him. He hadn’t heard him enter.

  “Who are you?” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am an Irish patriot with a question for you, Thomas O’Dea: Do you love Ireland?”

  Thomas’s mind raced. The accent was city-Irish, from Dublin, but was this a British trick?

  “I understand you’re a man loyal to our cause,” the stranger continued. “And you’ve good reason for hating Canada.”

  “Perhaps I have,” Thomas responded, suspiciously. “But this is my room and you are uninvited, so I ask you again, who the hell are you?”

  “I am a soldier. From the brotherhood.”

  Thomas’s heart missed a beat. A soldier. An Irish soldier. He asked, “What do you want of me?”

  The stranger took off his coat and placed it on a chair. He still had not moved from the dark corner, so Thomas had yet to get a good look at his face.

  “I just need some friends in Ottawa,” he said faintly. “I need someone to assist me if I require it, to give me shelter if I ask for it.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Why?”

  The question was met with steely silence. He was to ask the questions, not Thomas O’Dea. He said simply, “Are you with me?”

  Thomas wasn’t sure. Was this man offering him a chance to do something with his shattered life? Or the opposite?

  “Your son works for McGee—”

  “I have no son,” Thomas interrupted. “Not anymore.”

  The mysterious man in the shadows grinned openly. Thomas caught a flash of yellowing teeth behind a half-grown beard.

  The mention of Conor had enraged him, and Thomas felt a surge of defiance. He and this man might have much in common. “Will you have a cup of tea?” Thomas asked, his Irish brogue sounding more pronounced than usual. “Or a whisky?”

  “No. I’ve work to do,” the stranger answered, throwing his coat back over his shoulders. But he added, “I’ll see you later … my friend.”

  This time when he closed the door, Thomas O’Dea heard the sound.

  WALKING along gaslit Sussex Street, the man in the grey coat allowed himself to relax. He was pleased, almost content. The election in Montreal had been a fiasco. McGee was faltering. Macdonald was scared. He had people in place in Montreal and Ottawa. And now he had a potential accomplice: Thomas O’Dea in his pathetic little room. It was perfect. Not only would O’Dea go along with everything he needed, but he was the ideal person to take the fall. After all, he had a motive: that wretched son of his. He smiled. Conor O’Dea. What an insignificant blunderer he was, going around asking anyone who knew the difference between a Jamesons and a Bushmills who was causing trouble in Montreal, and sitting there beside his darling McGee while he “interviewed” the turncoat. Well done, young Mr. O’Dea. What a detective you are. I may just give you more cases to investigate.

  He laughed out loud.

  IT was just a chance meeting, and it could easily have resulted in a quick, merciless death. The assassin had done the unthinkable: he had let his defences down and allowed his mind to wander. A few blocks from Thomas O’Dea’s room, he heard a sound from behind. “Hey, I know you. We met in Montreal.”

  His back stiffened like that of an alert dog. Who was this? Who knew him? He walked a bit faster, trying not to attract attention and pretending not to have heard the fool.

  “It’s me … Jim Whelan.”

  His fingers tightened around the knife in his coat pocket. The man was alongside him now.

  “We met in Jolicoeur’s, remember? We sure gave that bastard McGee a good run for his money.”

  He stopped and slowly turned to see who this babbling idiot was. The Irish accent was unmistakable, and yes, he did recognize the face. He was one of Barney Devlin’s boys. A pretty good tomato thrower, as he recalled.

  “Patrick James Whelan’s my name,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “Most people call me Jim.”

  The assassin shook his right hand, still clutching the knife in his pocket with his left.

&nb
sp; “I see you’re growing a beard.”

  He answered Whelan’s friendly chatter with a simple grunt.

  “What are you doing in Ottawa?” Whelan persisted.

  “Business,” the man in the grey coat muttered.

  He stared at this friendly man as a jaguar might study its prey. Whelan’s was not one of the names on the list the tedious colonel had given him, so he was not officially a Fenian, but he had taken note of this man when he was in Montreal. Whelan spent a lot of time with Irish patriots and seemed to seek people’s approval. That was interesting. He remembered that he had also said something at Jolicoeur’s Saloon about wanting to see McGee dead. That was useful.

  Whelan was of medium height and dressed rather well for this backwoods town. A bushy red beard took up much of his face. He looked at the world through eager but confused eyes. Still, all in all, he carried himself well. In the right light, under the proper conditions, it could be said that he and Whelan almost looked alike.

  “Why are you in Ottawa?” he finally asked.

  “I work here now.” Whelan was relieved to be asked a question. “I left the wife in Montreal so I could make some money when Parliament’s in session. The politicians will be coming back soon.” Whelan remembered that this man was not much of a talker, and he rather regretted stopping him, but he was lonely in Ottawa and it was nice to see a familiar face. “I’m a tailor, you see,” Whelan continued, “and there’s lots of work here with those politicians always trying to look their best.” He chuckled at his own joke while the man in the grey coat studied him. A friendly creature, he thought. Friendly to a fault.

  “I don’t think I caught your name,” Whelan prodded.

  “Marshall,” he responded. And he smiled. Incredibly, this was the second time he had smiled in one night.

  He could use a backup, and this tailor would do nicely. A Barney Devlin boy here in Ottawa—one who was never too shy, or too quiet, about his hatred of McGee. Yes, it was a perfect fit. Maybe better than Thomas O’Dea.

  He released the knife from his grip and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Whelan, let me buy you a drink.”

  SHE didn’t want him to go. He was still too weak and he needed time to rest and heal, but Mary McGee could not control her husband. If Parliament was in session, he had to be there. She knew she was no match against the pull of duty and the attraction of Parliament’s theatre. They were standing on the platform, waiting for the train to be called.

  As the train to Ottawa rumbled into the station, he whispered in her ear, “One year. That’s all I want. I will resign my seat in a year.”

  She looked at him in disbelief.

  “I just want to make sure this Confederation adventure stays on track.”

  “Should I believe you, D’Arcy?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I really think I do.”

  He squeezed her right arm softly, kissed her more politely than passionately, then called out, “Conor, you whiskered dawdler, let’s go.”

  Conor, who had been hovering a few yards away to give husband and wife private time together, looked at Mary McGee sympathetically, as if to say, “Going to Ottawa … It’s not my fault.”

  And he left with D’Arcy McGee.

  PART FOUR

  September 1867–April 1868

  The fate of our land

  God hath placed in your hand;

  He hath made you to know

  The heart of your foe,

  And the schemes he hath plann’d

  Sir John A. Macdonald sat in the audience, sunning himself, ostensibly enjoying the visiting classics professor’s speech. It was a lovely summer’s day in Kingston, so the lecture was held outside on Queen’s University’s new campus. Half-constructed limestone buildings surrounded them, blossoming with promise. The professor from Oxford University felt trapped in the provincial backwoods and longed for civilization, but Macdonald glowed with pride. Kingston was growing into a sophisticated centre of learning. Maybe, he thought, his constituency could become the Athens of Canada.

  Occasionally, the prime minister glanced across the lake to the United States, where the guns had not long ended their fury. There were so many urgent problems today, and this tedious professor droned on and on about problems people had faced long before the birth of Christ. About Sparta. Or was it Crete? About Pericles. Or was it Horodites? Or maybe Herodotus? Macdonald didn’t have the faintest idea. The entire speech was in ancient Greek.

  Lady Macdonald, harking back to her classical education, could follow fairly well; still, she occasionally drifted off, unable to keep up with the rhetoric. But Sir John appeared to listen intently. He laughed at some clever witticism and nodded appropriately at a particularly wise observation—not understanding a single word. At the end of the speech, Sir John was one of the first to congratulate the Oxford professor. “Well done, sir,” he said, shaking his hand and quickly retreating before an involved discussion could begin.

  The prime minister strolled over to the gathering of newspapermen. “Didn’t you think the professor was brilliant? I particularly admired the bit about the development of Athenian culture. Kind of reminds one of Kingston, don’t you think?” None of the reporters had understood the speech, but each took note of Sir John’s comparison: Kingston, a burgeoning academic centre comparable to ancient Athens—that could make interesting copy.

  As Sir John moved through the crowd, shaking hands and back-slapping, Agnes whispered in his ear. “I didn’t know you understood Greek.”

  “I don’t,” he answered. “But I understand politics.”

  24

  The train rumbled along the track, leaving Montreal behind. Their second-class compartment was luxurious enough, and D’Arcy McGee was content there, but Conor longed for first class. McGee kept his papers securely in front of him as he wrote furiously. He was always writing, as if he felt there wasn’t enough time in the day to get all his thoughts on paper.

  McGee stopped working and looked out the window, taking in the small farms and patches of fields passing by. He held on to the paper he had been writing on as the train shook. Conor thought he was contemplating a turn of phrase, or thinking of his family, and was surprised when he asked, “Still no word on the troublemaker?”

  “No,” Conor answered, “but it’s been quiet since the election.”

  McGee turned his attention back to the window. The farms were getting smaller and the seemingly endless forest was taking over. Conor knew never to bother McGee when he was writing, but he wanted to take advantage of this quiet moment. “You know how you tell me in a debate to put myself in the shoes of the other man? Imagine how he would argue his point, and prepare accordingly?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Even address his arguments before he gets a chance to make them?”

  “Anticipatory rebuttal, yes.” McGee was still gazing out the train window.

  “Well, I keep trying to guess this man’s actions, anticipate them, but I can’t figure him out.”

  “You know his motive. He’s a Fenian. He wants to discredit me.”

  “Yes, but the attack at the Mechanics’ Hall—”

  “Unrelated. It won’t happen again,” McGee interrupted sternly.

  Conor felt McGee was in denial about the attack and its tragic outcome, but he knew he could not say so.

  McGee shifted his attention from the window to Conor. “Let me give you the best advice I can offer: look inside your own heart; know yourself first, and then try …” He paused, to make sure he had Conor’s full attention. “Try to understand the heart of your foe.”

  Conor considered that for a moment. “But what,” he asked, “if he has no heart?”

  D’Arcy McGee was about to say something, but instead went back to work.

  CONOR saw her from a distance as the train sputtered into the station. Meg Trotter waiting for the Montreal train. She was wearing a light-green silk dress, pulled tight at the waist, expanding to a wide
hoop at the ankles. And it was cut a little lower at the neck than anything he’d seen her in before. He rushed down the train steps toward her, but he didn’t dare give her a hug in public. He held back awkwardly. She laughed, reached out and kissed him. “Stop being so proper,” she teased.

  Conor realized he had left D’Arcy McGee behind and went back to help him down the steps to the platform. McGee feigned astonishment when he saw Meg. “You didn’t inform me of this,” he said. Conor smiled bashfully. McGee added, “But of course, I knew.”

  Conor and Meg walked arm in arm to her mother’s boarding house. McGee kept pace; he was walking better, but still depending on his cane. “So what am I to think?” McGee asked, sounding amused but strangely parental.

  “Whatever you like,” Meg responded. “Mr. McGee, you will have your regular room, and, Conor, you can move in with Will.”

  “That’s a relief,” D’Arcy McGee said under his breath.

  Conor loved how playful she could be with McGee. And how she seemed to tame him.

  Conor had agonized over this reunion. Would they feel awkward in each other’s presence? Would Meg finally see him as he was: callow and unworthy? Was this a passing infatuation for her? A flirtation? But she seemed as happy to see him as he was to see her. He touched her hair, that wild mass of black curls. He felt at home. Almost at home. Walking along Sparks Street toward the Toronto House, Conor was painfully aware that he had turned his back on his own neighbourhood and his father’s tiny basement flat in Lowertown.

  THE Toronto House was not the preferred Ottawa address, but D’Arcy McGee had started staying with Mary Ann Trotter when he quit drinking because she limited the liquor on the premises. He also loved the spirited conversation at her dinner table and her inquiring mind.

  Tonight, McGee was the only guest at dinner. Hector Langevin had led a group of Quebec politicians to George-Étienne Cartier’s house around the corner on Maria Street. A few junior members of Parliament had just said their goodbyes and were probably already ensconced in the Russell’s bar, hoping to be seen and heard.