Thomas D’Arcy McGee rose in the House of Commons with great purpose and considerable pride. He loved the cut and thrust of debate here and knew he had more friends than enemies in this chamber. He gently leaned his bad leg on a chair for comfort and support, and instinctively ran his fingers through his maze of tangled hair. He looked over the assemblage and silently thanked God that Barney Devlin’s boys were back in Montreal’s taverns. In this forum, a man could speak his mind freely.
“What we need above everything else is the healing influence of time,” he told the House. He was speaking of Nova Scotia, but also thinking about the Irish in Montreal. “Time will mellow. Its hands will heal. So let us give this enterprise a chance to grow. Let us give it time.”
McGee noticed Conor standing with Will Trotter and a few other pageboys. Conor shouldn’t be down there, McGee thought; he should be in the gallery. He certainly had a knack for getting close to the action.
McGee’s voice rose as he continued, “Our friends have nothing to fear but that Confederation will be administered with serious and even-handed justice. Its single action has to be fairness to each person and each province.” It was clear that the members of Parliament and the people in the gallery hung on McGee’s every word.
Conor smiled proudly. This was a vision of Canada he wished his father could appreciate.
Sir John A. Macdonald appeared to be listening intently, but his mind was actually wandering. He was thinking how much older D’Arcy looked: his hair slightly greyer, his voice not so strident, and he looked in pain. Still, he thought, McGee is a magician with words. It made him rather jealous. On St. Patrick’s Day, Macdonald thought McGee had delivered his remarks with bombast and exaggeration, but tonight he had the clarity of political purpose. His defence of Confederation was powerful and profound. McGee declared, “If we are a generation worthy to organize a nation, assuredly the materials are abundant and at hand.” And the prime minister thought, Well put, D’Arcy. Well put, indeed.
In the east gallery, a man watched D’Arcy McGee with contempt. Patrick James Whelan clasped his hand into a fist as McGee spoke of fairness and nation-building. Just listening to that Irish traitor infuriated him. Marshall had suggested he go to the House of Commons and watch McGee speak. Marshall had special plans for tonight. He had given Whelan a set of instructions but said it was best that he not know too much. It was clear that mischief was in the air. Perhaps some good sport, like at Jolicoeur’s.
“I call it a northern nation,” McGee continued. “For such it must become if all of us do our duty to the last.”
Whelan had stopped listening. Yes, he was up for some amusement, or whatever Marshall wanted, especially at McGee’s expense. Marshall had become a good friend—a comfort in this lonely city of pompous politicians. He was a strange but pleasant fellow, quiet and moody, and quite generous. He had even given him a new coat to wear. It was grey and long—just like his.
McGee ended with a flourish. “And I, who have been, and still am, Confederation’s warmest advocate, speak here not as a representative of any race or of any province, but as thoroughly and emphatically a Canadian.”
The House erupted in applause as McGee sat down, exhausted but beaming with pride. It was after midnight. The members continued pounding their desks in approval. When McGee spoke, it was like a reconfirmation of Canada; it made people feel a little more secure. McGee glanced over at Sir John, who winked and pretended to toast him with a glass of something that looked like water.
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Sir John A. Macdonald scurried up to McGee outside the chamber. He wanted to be the first to congratulate him. “D’Arcy, I’d sell my soul to the devil to be able to speak like you.”
“My friend, I can get them to listen; you get them to do what you want.”
“Did God ever make a man—”
“I think you can put that cliché to rest now, Sir John,” McGee interrupted.
Macdonald looked hurt but chuckled. “Agnes says the same thing.” They lit each other’s cigars and, through a cloud of smoke, shared a rare peaceful moment. Somehow it was hard for McGee to stay mad at Macdonald for very long. He would cast a spell with those sad, beguiling eyes, begging for understanding, and before McGee knew it, he was sympathizing with Macdonald for enduring such burdens of office.
In times past, they might have lingered at the House of Commons bar for a nightcap, but McGee was tired and his leg was sore. He suppressed a yawn and instructed the prime minister to go home to his wife. Macdonald said he would oblige him soon. He knew that Agnes would be waiting up for him. She could never understand why Parliament had to sit so late. “What in the world do you have to talk about for so long?” she would ask. And he would be hard pressed for an answer.
McGee waved goodbye to Macdonald somewhat wistfully. He called out for Conor, who was hovering nearby. “Come, you rascal,” he ordered. “Help me on with my coat.”
As Conor held his rather tattered overcoat for him, he whispered, “I think your speech impressed the prime minister, sir.”
McGee placed a white silk hat over his black curls and smiled. “Thanks, Conor. And don’t dawdle—it’s still an early start tomorrow.” Normally, Conor would have walked home with D’Arcy McGee. After all, they were staying at the same boarding house. But he had promised to wait for Will, who was taking longer than usual changing out of his pageboy uniform. So Conor watched as McGee limped away, leaning heavily on his bamboo walking stick. Even under his shining white hat, Conor thought McGee could never look elegant. He would always be the renegade Irish immigrant in the halls of the mighty.
Conor called out to him, “Good night, sir.”
“It’s not night, it’s morning,” McGee called back.
Conor watched as McGee said a few words to Robert McFarland, the member from Perth, and they walked out of his sight together. McGee walked along Metcalfe Street with McFarland. They parted on Sparks Street. McFarland turned left toward Sappers Bridge. McGee turned right along Sparks. The Toronto House was about halfway along the south side of the street, in the Desbarats Block. The boarding house would be locked at this late hour, but the Widow Trotter usually waited up for her son. At the door, D’Arcy McGee removed his right glove and fumbled in his pocket for his key. He took a long, hard drag on his cigar and inserted the key in the lock. He bent down to ensure that the key entered the door smoothly. Then the bullet shattered the back of his head.
CONOR and Will were around the corner on Metcalfe Street when they heard the sound. At first, Conor thought someone was shooting squirrels—but at this hour? For an instant, he and Will looked at each other in horror. Then they both started running toward the sound of the gun blast. As he rounded the corner of Sparks Street, Conor saw McGee’s white hat lying in front of Mrs. Trotter’s door. And a body lying on the ground.
No, not McGee! Conor gasped in disbelief and ran wildly toward the doorway. He knelt beside the body, sobbing and screaming. It was an appalling sight. McGee had died instantly. The bullet had torn apart the back of his head. His face was bloodied almost beyond recognition; there were gunpowder burns in his hair, and his teeth lay on the boardwalk in front of him. Conor took him in his arms and hugged him.
Will ran down the street to the office of the Ottawa Times. The pressmen were still at work. “Mr. McGee is dead!” he yelled through the window. “D’Arcy McGee has been murdered.”
Conor clung to McGee as if trying to comfort him. The street was silent, but the full moon cast a bright light. Conor looked around ferociously. Where was the killer? How had he escaped? Or had he? His mind raced. Why hadn’t he seen the murderer running away when he turned the corner? How did he get away? Unless … unless … unless he was still on Sparks Street. Hiding nearby. Watching him.
Conor thought he saw a shadow move. A shape down the street by the liquor store. A silhouette defined by moonlight. There were boxes stacked outside the door; it was an ideal place to hide. Gently, he eased McGee’s shattered head to the groun
d. There was someone there. He was sure of it. Again, the silhouette by the boxes moved. And like a wildcat, Conor attacked. He darted toward the liquor store with speed he didn’t know he had. The shadow burst out from behind the boxes and sped into an alley.
Conor ran as fast as he could, but the shadow was faster and he lost him. All Conor saw was his long grey coat.
LADY Macdonald had been restless all night. She hated it when Parliament sat late, and the April night’s full moon filled her with a strange dread. She wanted her husband home, safe in her arms. When she heard the carriage wheels, she practically flew downstairs to open the door. She greeted Sir John with an earnest kiss.
“What a speech,” he announced, somewhat taken aback. “You should have heard it. McGee was in top form.”
“Come upstairs where it’s cosy and tell me about it.” She couldn’t care less about parliamentary matters, especially when they took her husband away from her most of the night; she cared about him, keeping him happy and free from worries, but she would listen to him recount the night’s events if only to hear the reassuring sound of his voice.
She nestled in his arms by the fireplace in their bedroom, ignoring the smell of gin and cigars on his breath. She felt her eyes grow heavy and her mind relax. And then her peaceful world exploded. There was furious knocking on the outside door. Sir John jumped up and flung open the window. “What on earth is it?” he called out. Agnes would never forget the answer. Each word felt like the blow of an iron bar against her heart. “D’Arcy McGee is murdered. He’s lying on Sparks Street. Shot in the head.”
CONOR raced through the alleys, screaming like a madman. “Where are you?” He heard a noise to his right. “Who are you?” He twirled to his right. There was a distant sound behind him. He turned desperately. And then silence. Somewhere in the night, the murderer had escaped.
Think. What would you do? What might he do?
He looked back across Sparks Street. He remembered that the Offord House, the boarding house next door to McKenna’s Tavern, was vacant. A perfect place to hide. He checked the front door. It was unlocked. He peeked in, but he couldn’t see anything in the dark. There was no furniture; even the carpets had been taken up. It was as still as death. Then he heard a slight crackling sound—scuffling—in the back. He considered darting toward it. But it might be a trick. A sudden chill rushed through him. He hesitated.
Take your time. Don’t be reckless.
He crept through the hall, slowly, carefully, checking each doorway. The back door was open. He peered out the open door. There was no one there. Nothing. Still, he felt a presence. He stepped into the back alley. There were fresh footprints in the snow. And then he heard a sound. A human noise? He stood, rigid and aware, as if tracking an animal in the north woods.
Listen. Try to be invisible.
He heard a scurrying sound, a cruel laugh, and then a man on a horse rode away. Conor stood there, covered in D’Arcy McGee’s drying blood, helpless and miserable. He should have run through the building. He had delayed and let McGee’s murderer get away.
He shrieked at the disappearing rider, “Remember my name: Conor O’Dea. I swear I’ll find you. I’ll get you.” But he knew his words were hollow. He had failed.
MEG was fast asleep when she heard the gunshot. In an instant, she dressed and ran downstairs. Her mother stopped her in the hallway. “Mr. McGee has been murdered. There’s nothing you can do. Stay in here.”
“Conor!” Meg’s eyes scanned about, looking for him. “Where’s Conor?” Ignoring her mother, she ran out the door, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. She saw that the door at the Offord House was swinging open, and with no regard for how dangerous it could be, she entered. The back door was also open. In the alley she saw Conor standing alone, sobbing. At this moment of despair, she knew her mother was right. Later, she would try to comfort him, but for now there was nothing she could do. She quietly left.
BY the time the prime minister arrived at the Toronto House’s doorstep, Dr. McGillvray had pronounced D’Arcy McGee dead. Sir John helped lift the corpse from the cold sidewalk and carried it into Mrs. Trotter’s parlour. Macdonald couldn’t bear to look at the once-vigorous man now slumped in death, grotesque and motionless. He had noticed that on the blood-drenched boardwalk, a half-smoked cigar still smouldered. He had lit it for his friend a little over an hour before.
Someone must contact Mary, he thought.
FATHER Dowd, the parish priest at St. Ann’s Church in Griffintown, had known the McGee family since they arrived in Montreal a decade before. He had supported D’Arcy McGee’s politics, helped him to turn away from the bottle, comforted the family when they mourned their dead children; he had grown to love the rambunctious politician and his gentle, kind wife. Sir John himself telegraphed Father Dowd and asked him to tell Mary.
The priest arrived at Mary McGee’s door before the sun rose. When Mary, dazed from sleep, came to the door, Father Dowd stood there for a minute, unable to speak. Finally, he whispered softly, “Mary, I’ve terrible news. D’Arcy has been murdered.”
She heard the words but tried to push them aside, ignore them, make them go away. This could not be true. It must not be true. Father Dowd reached out to comfort her. She shied away. “Go away!” she yelled. “It’s a lie.” Yet he stayed. Even though he was not an old man, he had already seen much suffering in the poor Irish parish, but never had he felt such pain as he did now, watching this grand woman suffer.
Mary’s mind spun. It was a dream, after all … a nightmare … what had D’Arcy himself dreamt? … swimming away from the shore … but he woke up … you always wake up … and she … the Irish wife … to love … to love to death …
She collapsed in the priest’s arms.
SIR John A. Macdonald sent the word out immediately. “Arrest all suspicious-looking persons.” By “suspicious” he meant “Irish.” Irish Catholics. Papists. Romanists. He was known as a man of goodwill and compromise, but all that was lost in his hysterical reaction. “Just start arresting the bastards,” he ordered.
POLLY Ryan had gone to bed early. She had expected to hear from him during the day, or if not from him directly, at least from an emissary. After all, a D’Arcy McGee speech and a full moon made a dramatic combination. When she heard nothing, she went to bed. As she fell asleep, she considered the twists and turns her life had taken. Tragedy, a terrible struggle to survive and, perhaps now, redemption. She felt proud, almost content. She was doing her duty.
A flurry of activity on the streets awakened her. Outside, in Lowertown, the streets were alive with police and commotion. Something terrible must have happened. She could see uniformed men pounding on doors, searching door to door. She moved away from the window, pulling her blankets up tight; her gas lantern remained unlit, her door firmly locked.
THOMAS O’Dea answered the pounding on his door. “You’re under arrest,” a policeman barked. And another took him by the arm.
“For what?”
“Suspicion. Now don’t try running.”
Stupid ass, thought Thomas. Where could he run? He didn’t resist, letting them roughly escort him into a wagon and off to the jail. The cells were almost filled. He couldn’t make out everyone as he was led to his cell, but they all seemed to be Irishmen.
“It’s like St. Patrick’s Day all over again in here,” a jovial prisoner called out to him. Thomas knew the voice from the bar at Lapierre’s.
Thomas called out, “Who is in here?”
The headwaiter from the Russell House answered, “I am. Johnny Doyle.”
“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked.
“Damned if I know.”
Patrick Buckley called out, “I’m here, too.”
“What’s this about?”
“Someone murdered McGee. They’re arresting us all. Just in case.”
“That’s illegal.”
“You going to fight it?”
If John Macdonald’s favourite driver was arres
ted under suspicion, Thomas knew he was powerless.
“It’s a sin and shame to mix me up with his murder,” Buckley said.
“How many people are in here?” Thomas asked.
Buckley answered, “All the cells are filled but one.”
PATRICK James Whelan sat in Michael Starr’s tavern on Clarence Street, waiting for Marshall. At closing time, he went upstairs to his room. What a night it had been! What excitement! His body trembled as he thought about it. McGee, the traitor, was dead, a casualty in the war for Irish independence, and he, James Whelan, was a soldier in the glorious battle. A few months ago, he had been just another Irish tailor stumbling through a boring, uneventful existence. Now there was a mission in his life: a free Ireland and the end of British North America.
The sun rose fully into view. It was a new day.
He was glad McGee was dead. He had stood in the way of their dreams of nationhood, and his assassination would serve as a warning. That’s what Marshall had said, and Marshall knew so much. He might have killed McGee himself if Marshall had wanted him to. But at least he had done his part. It made him proud that Marshall had used him.
The morning sun was already bright and strong, but it had yet to burn the harsh chill out of the air. It would be a pleasant spring day in Ottawa. The politicians will be jumpy, he thought. Marshall had really put a scare into them. That was good.
When he heard the knock on the door, he thought it was Marshall. But he always knocked softly; this was loud, angry pounding. The instant he opened the door, a giant hand reached in and grabbed him. It was a policeman.
“Are you Patrick James Whelan?” the voice behind the uniform demanded.
Whelan nodded and felt a quiver of fear. The policeman’s grasp on his arm tightened. It hurt. But what could he do? He needed Marshall.
“You are under arrest for the murder of D’Arcy McGee.”
He heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. He tried to gain command of his thoughts. This was a time to be brave, to hold his own, to pretend he was in control. But he wasn’t. Before they led him away, James Whelan was allowed to put on the grey coat Marshall had given him and the boots he had lent him. He glanced at the morning sun shining freely through his window as they led him away.
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