As always, Mrs. Trotter was full of questions. She wanted to know chapter and verse about the Montreal election. McGee edited out much of the detail, saying barely a word about Jolicoeur’s or the Mechanics’ Hall incident. Meg pushed for information, and he admitted a man had been killed. “But after we had left,” Conor clarified.
Will added his share of meaningless information. He was still quite fascinated with this game of base ball; Conor wasn’t. Meg talked about the latest series of essays she had read by Ralph Emerson. “Do you know he studies Buddhist and Hindu religions?” Conor didn’t, and he didn’t much care. He just wanted the everlasting meal to end so he could be alone with Meg.
After dinner, McGee retired to his room to read and Conor offered to help Meg and her mother with the dishes. Anything to hurry them along. When they could finally steal a moment, Conor said, loudly enough for her mother to hear, “Meg, would you like to go for a walk? The stars should be spectacular tonight.” He didn’t want to be accused of an impropriety.
As they walked along Sparks Street, she took Conor’s arm. “About a month ago, the Offord House shut down,” Meg said. “Mother simply runs a better hotel. I think we are starting to do quite well.” Without discussing where they were going, they turned toward the river.
Conor noticed that Meg often looked over her shoulder.
“I remember you from when I was a younger, you know,” he said. “But I didn’t think you ever saw me.”
“I saw you, always with your face in a book. Afraid to look up.”
“Winters in the lumber camps can make you rather shy, especially with someone much more worldly.”
Worldly? In Ottawa? The thought made her laugh. And she added, “Conor, you don’t sound like the other Irish boys, or people from up the valley. How did you lose your accent?”
“Work, practice and more practice.” Then he broke into a lumberjack’s sing-song speech: “I’ll be goin’ up the line this winter. I knows the pay is to be good, by jeezes.”
“Is that why you were so quiet? You didn’t want to sound like that?”
“I never wanted to sound like that. And I guess I just wasn’t ready to talk.”
They passed the East Block and continued west along the path on the river’s ridge. Lovers’ Walk. There were still scatterings of logs left in the water from the spring and summer log drive. Meg shivered, imagining the work the loggers did and, not for the first time, thinking that Conor had never really had a childhood.
“Tell me about the logging camps,” she urged softly.
“What’s there to tell? My father kept me away from the dangerous work, and I learned how to cook and wash the dishes. A skill I employed tonight, you might have noticed.”
She smiled. He hated to talk about his youth.
“My main memory is smoke and sweat and darkness. I’m not really complaining, because I wasn’t outside felling trees in the freezing cold. But the camboose was its own kind of hell.”
“Camboose?”
“The men lived in shanties, in lines of bunks, surrounding an inside cooking fire. That was the camboose—a square of logs where we cooked. The only ventilation was the hole in the roof where some of the smoke went. The cooks and I manned the kettles and pots and kept the fire going.” He left the nickname he hated out of his description. “It was a world of extremes, frigid outside and swelteringly hot inside. I worked in a pit of dried sweat, boiling pots and choking smoke. That’s what I remember.”
There was someone following them. She sensed it. But he hadn’t noticed. “Did you learn how to shoot a gun?” she asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice.
“Sure. The cooks and I would go out and hunt for rabbits, grouse, any creature stupid enough to come nearby and tasty enough to add to a soup.”
She took another look over her shoulder.
Meg had decided not to tell Conor that she had been threatened, or “warned,” by the Orange gang. He might want to retaliate. She didn’t want to start a spiral of futile violence. But she did want protection.
“Will you teach me?” she asked. She took another look over her shoulder. “Will you teach me to shoot?”
“WILL you teach me to shoot?”
That night, Conor couldn’t get Meg’s words out of his mind. He had answered, “Yes, I guess,” but he hadn’t meant it. He was proficient with a rifle. He had learned from loggers who would throw an axe at a hapless squirrel just for fun and thought nothing of gunning down an angry bear. As a cook’s assistant, he had been relegated to chasing down smaller animals, and he actually became a very good shot. He just didn’t like it. He took no delight in killing and saw no sport in the hunt. Some men felt power when they held a gun; Conor felt afraid of the weapon’s power. And anyway, women shouldn’t be firing guns. What was Meg asking this for?
He had let the matter drop, but something had happened to make her skittish. Right after the shooting remark, she asked him to walk her home. She held on to his hand tightly, almost desperately. When they entered the house, she said simply, “I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And rushed to her room.
“Will you teach me to shoot?” It went against everything she stood for. He didn’t fully understand her talk of humanism and transcendentalism, but he knew it didn’t involve guns and shooting. She was scared. Why? He fell asleep wondering.
THE news from Kingston shocked Sir John A. Macdonald. If he paid more attention to his finances, maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised, but that was never his style. He went from day to day, expecting the sun to shine. If it didn’t, he blamed the Opposition.
There was no sun shining on his bank account. The Commercial Bank of Canada had collapsed, leaving hundreds of people in dire financial straits. No one was affected more than the prime minister. The Kingston-based bank was his law practice’s main client. Although he had long ago let his practice fritter away, he was still one of the bank’s directors. Now he was $80,000 in debt. He would have to borrow to pay his bills that month. His only income was his salary as prime minister, and he wasn’t certain that would last for long.
The prime minister of Canada was nearly bankrupt. And he was drunk. He sat in his upstairs study, his head covering a mass of bills and correspondence, murmuring despair about life, money and politics. He would have to pull himself together for the next session of Parliament. But not yet. Blindly, he reached for the bottle and knocked it over.
Agnes heard the noise and peered into the office. She called these episodes his “attacks” or said that he “disappeared into the shadows.” It sounded romantic. Like Coleridge or Byron. But she hated these attacks; she dreaded the shadows. She stood at the doorway for a second, looking in on him sadly. She closed the door, said a quiet prayer and left him alone with his shattered bottle, his fears and his demons.
THE man named Marshall handed Jim Whelan another drink. A thick liquid in a small glass. Whelan gagged at the taste of it, but it made him light-headed. “What is this?” he asked.
“Think of it as a chaser to go with the whisky.”
“It’s that, to be sure,” Whelan giggled. He was having fun, even though there was something strange about Marshall. He was quiet and sullen, but he knew how to show him a good time in the burlesque theatres and back rooms on Clarence Street. Whelan didn’t really miss his wife in Montreal; in fact, it was nice to be away from her stern and sober ways. He was having a great time in Ottawa and making pretty good money. Marshall was actually his best customer, asking him to make up a variety of different jackets and waistcoats.
“Drink up. It’s medicine I take when I get a headache. It works well with a dram of Jamesons.” He watched as Whelan sipped the liquid opium. “We’ve got so many reasons to hate them.”
“What? Hate who?” Whelan was finding that the mix of whisky and opiate actually made him feel good about the world.
“Hate the English bastards,” he said. “Remember Oliver Cromwell? Killing Catholics by the score. And King Billy? Never forget King Wil
liam of Orange.”
Whelan wanted to please Marshall, to impress him. Marshall was giving him slogans to chew on, and he heartily ate them up: “Don’t forget our heroes.” “Sing praise on our martyrs.” “We can never forget.”
With burning intensity, Marshall asked, “Do you understand?”
Whelan nodded. The room was spinning pleasantly. He understood. At least, he thought he did.
25
Conor, you oversized drink of water get in here,” McGee sang out. “My St. Patrick’s Day speech is ready.”
“Another great oration?”
McGee smiled, feigning modesty. “Perhaps. Let’s just say it is enhanced with invincible logic and incredible artistry. Do you want to read it?”
“If I can be of help.”
McGee thoughtfully toyed with his walking stick and said, “Actually, no, you can’t. You’ll be there tonight. You can hear it with the others.” Conor was a little insulted.
“You’ve better things to do,” McGee said. “I’m going to have a nap. Spend some time with your raven-haired friend. I hear there’s a pretty good parade in town today.”
Conor smiled.
“Have some fun,” D’Arcy McGee said. “Life’s too short.”
ST. Patrick’s Day. Now it was the Irish Catholics’ turn to parade along the slushy Ottawa streets. When Conor was young and still upriver in March, every St. Patrick’s Day someone would magically produce a bottle, or ten, and a toast to Saint Paddy would become a drunken frenzy. He would hide away during those hours. When he returned to Ottawa to live year-round, he turned his back on Irish festivities, but now he wanted to share the spectacle, to take in the excitement—to belong. He also wanted to show Meg the difference between celebration and condemnation. This was a parade they could watch without venom.
He wondered whether his father would be there. He hoped so.
Conor had pinned a green ribbon on his jacket. A touch of Ireland. He was thinking he might soon be able to afford a better jacket. He’d heard there was a new Irish tailor in town. Maybe he could get a deal.
WHEN Conor and Meg left the boarding house, he didn’t sense a threat in the group of boys hovering nearby, nor did he notice that they followed them. But Meg did, and she clung to his arm.
PATRICK Buckley was the parade’s grand marshal this year. Macdonald’s driver had a stable full of horses, and he provided them for the parade. The week before, a man named James Whelan had approached Buckley and asked if he could help. Buckley didn’t know him, but Whelan’s red beard and heavy accent were good Irish calling cards. He needed someone to ride a horse at the back of the parade, so he welcomed the help. He even named Whelan a parade marshal and invited him to the banquet that night.
A parade marshal—it made Whelan proud. And it made him think of his new friend. Marshall—he never said what his first name was—had begged off. He said he was too busy to attend the parade, but he urged the tailor to participate.
THE St. Patrick’s Day Parade was certainly less earnest than the Orange victory march. More of a quick Irish jaunt and off to the pub, thought Conor. Mid-March was still chilly in the “arctic lumber village.” It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do to put his arm around Meg to keep her warm.
He nodded to Buckley leading the parade, and Buckley nodded back proudly. It was a real honour to be grand marshal. Conor greeted a few people he knew. But there was no sign of Thomas. He noticed Polly the washerwoman, though, dressed in a bright green dress—a little too flamboyant for Conor’s taste. She had been staring at Meg, taking her in, as if memorizing her.
Polly walked over to them. “Your father’s not here. He has to work.”
“Thanks,” Conor said and quickly looked away. Polly moved on.
“That was rude of you,” Meg protested.
“I don’t like her. I think she’s”—he searched for the phrase—“a fallen woman.”
“I’m sure it’s of great comfort to her that you care so much about her virtue.”
“There’s something weird about her. She’s a busybody. And she’s too close to my father.”
Meg let the matter drop. They watched the parade pass them by, taking little note of the man with the red beard proudly riding a horse at the back, sitting tall in a long grey coat.
THAT evening, D’Arcy McGee was the keynote speaker at the St. Patrick’s Day banquet. Sir John and Lady Macdonald were seated at the head table, blending his slight Scottish accent with the room’s symphony of Irish chatter. It made Conor think that maybe he had been too harsh in condemning Macdonald for attending the Orange celebration in July. Macdonald just never missed a large party and an open bar.
The prime minister called over to Patrick Buckley, feigning an Irish accent, “Praise be to the saints, Buckley, did God ever make a man as Irish as you look?” Buckley glowed with pride.
Conor had asked Meg to join him, but she said she had to help her mother. Maybe, he thought, she’d had enough Irish for one day. Conor sat at the back of the room with members of the press. He liked sitting with the newspapermen. He didn’t have to worry about his table manners—they certainly didn’t worry about theirs—and by and large they were a convivial lot. Their conversation was irreverent and salty, and their clothes were as old as his. Conor could relax.
He watched McGee and Macdonald sitting politely together and wondered what they were talking about. McGee was sipping on a glass of water, while Macdonald was gulping down the wine. The prime minister ignored the intricate rituals of checking the wine in the light and savouring the complexities of the grape. His procedure was to fill the glass, drink the contents and fill it again. Their conversation seemed almost businesslike, not like the songs and toasts at Lapierre’s, when they both drank and talked with gusto.
Conor asked for a refill of wine. A few of the reporters were almost keeping up with the prime minister’s drinking. It was St. Patrick’s Day, after all. He told his tablemates stories of McGee and Macdonald at Lapierre’s, and recited some drinking songs McGee had written.
McGee looked down at the press table with interest. Conor O’Dea was the life of the table. Good for him.
Macdonald rose to speak and surprised Conor by saying, “I share the regret that Mr. McGee is not a minister of the Crown. Yet never was he greater or more esteemed in the affections of the public than at the present day.” That’s probably what they had been talking about at the table, Conor thought—McGee making some subtle yet clear jab about his seat in the back benches. Conor thought Macdonald spoke rather awkwardly. This really wasn’t his crowd. After a few more forgettable words, he handed the podium over to McGee.
D’Arcy McGee rose to speak confidently. “May I thank you,” he began, “for allowing me to say a word on behalf of that ancient and illustrious island.”
“Darn right,” someone yelled.
McGee smiled. It was encouragement, not heckling. And it gave him a cue to deliver his message. “For those of us who dwell in Canada,” he declared, “there is no better way to serve Ireland than by burying out of sight our old feuds and factions. That will be worth all the revolvers that were ever stolen from a Cork gun shop and all the republican chemicals that were ever smuggled out of New York.”
Conor thought the speech went well. The former rebel stated his case against Fenians without saying the word. Macdonald thought it was too inflammatory, but he kept his opinion to himself. Among parade marshals the response was mixed. Patrick Buckley paid more attention to the admiring glances Sir John A. Macdonald passed his way. James Whelan thought the references to Cork and New York were insulting. He wondered what Marshall would think. But Marshall wasn’t there.
MARSHALL—he was getting used to being called that—found the starched, ministerial collar uncomfortable. He was taking more precautions these days not to be recognized. Today, he had covered his head in a top hat, dyed his beard blond and looked the very picture of an upright, ardent young Methodist preacher. He considered his little army in Ottawa. Som
e would help him willingly; others would help him unknowingly.
He stiffly walked into the telegraph office and sent a message to New York. One word: “Soon.”
AT the Fenian Brotherhood’s New York headquarters, Colonel Patrick O’Hagan received the message and smiled. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote General O’Neill,
I suggest that we should get our men in readiness. If we delay, then we are guilty of neglect.
Yours fraternally,
Patrick O’Hagan
26
April 6, 1868. The Dominion of Canada was two hundred and seventy-nine days old. It was a cloudless early-spring night, and the full moon shone so brightly that the city fathers decided to save money and not light the gas lamps. There was still a winter chill in the air, though, and some snow patches on the ground. Inside the Parliament Buildings, a large crowd had gathered long before the late sitting began. There was always a good turnout for a D’Arcy McGee speech. Conor proudly walked past the people who had lined up.
Nova Scotia was the problem this April night. A delegation led by Joseph Howe was in England, trying to take the province out of the union. “Confederation is artificial,” Howe was arguing. “It is like a child trying to walk on stilts. What Nova Scotia needs is to come back down to earth.” With the possible exception of Charles Tupper, whom Howe hated with burning passion, Joseph Howe was the greatest Nova Scotian politician of his day. Before July 1, he called Confederation the “Botheration Scheme.” Afterward, he worked diligently to see its repeal. His ardent opposition was serious indeed.
McGee liked Joe Howe and always thought the Nova Scotian’s real problem with Confederation was that it was someone else’s idea. McGee felt it was important for him to speak to this issue. National unity was too fragile, and Canada had too many enemies for its friends to remain silent. Joseph Howe wouldn’t be there to hear him, but he would get reports.
Man in the Shadows Page 17