The assassin hesitated. He never told anyone his plans in advance. Still, it could be useful to have at his side a man smart enough to ask a few questions. Only an idiot would follow him as blindly as Whelan had. And this was not a plan for idiots. Anyway, why not tell O’Dea? If he refused to follow him, he’d kill him.
“The plan is a quick strike against the Orangeman.”
“Which one? For God’s sake, they are everywhere.”
A grin unfurled on the assassin’s face as he mouthed the name: “John Macdonald.”
Thomas’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Assassinate the prime minister?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“On the weekend.” He was actually enjoying this. He could already see the shock and disbelief throughout the country when people heard the news: Sir John A. Macdonald dead, struck down by an assassin’s bullet.
“Think what a victory it will be for Ireland,” he said. “Days after Whelan hangs, the Protestant prime minister is assassinated. They’ll pay attention to us then.”
Thomas turned away from him, his mind spinning wildly. “Did you kill D’Arcy McGee?”
The assassin ignored the question. He was now caught up in the perfection of his plan. “With McGee and Macdonald gone, Canada will fall to pieces.” Thomas turned and looked at him again. The assassin’s eyes were no longer cold; they were burning with intensity. “McGee was a traitor to Ireland. That can’t be allowed. And Macdonald has to be taught a lesson.”
Can’t be allowed … Taught a lesson … He talked like a schoolteacher, but he was describing murder. Thomas was now convinced he was insane.
“Listen, Thomas O’Dea, you will be a hero. You have an obligation to your country.”
My country, thought Thomas. Is this what my country represents? Madmen going around, using fellow Irishmen like James Whelan, gunning down politicians, plotting revolution. He wanted no part of it.
The assassin could read the hesitancy in Thomas’s expression. “You’ve changed,” he muttered. “You’re not with us anymore.”
“I’m with those who support a free Ireland,” Thomas answered proudly. “I might fight for Irish freedom. But I will not be involved in murder.” He glared at the assassin. “And I won’t be used by you.” That is too bad, the assassin thought. I have wasted my breath, and my time. Thomas O’Dea has spoken his last.
OUTSIDE, anxiously watching through the filthy window, Conor was shivering, not just from cold but from fright. What were they saying? What was his father up to? His heart raced, his whole body ached in frustration as he crouched, trying to read their lips. Don’t just observe, Conor, study and interpret. Probe, damn it. Probe. McGee’s orders came back to him as he watched the pantomime through the window. There was a curious look on Thomas’s face, as if a cloud of anger had lifted.
Then he saw the knife. A flash of light from the gas lamp caught the blade. The other man had pulled it from his coat pocket. He held the weapon behind his back, concealed from Thomas.
There was no time to think. Conor turned the doorknob and lunged through the door, screaming madly, “Da! He has a knife!”
The assassin spun around to see where the shout came from. Conor saw the madness in his eyes and shuddered. It was just a second, but it gave Thomas an opening. He sprang forward and jumped the assassin from behind. But he wasn’t fast enough. With the instincts of a panther, the assassin anticipated the move and smashed his elbow into Thomas O’Dea’s face. Blood spurted from Thomas’s nose, and as he tumbled to the floor, the assassin slashed at him with the knife, slicing his shoulder.
As the assassin viciously kicked him, Thomas screamed, “Conor, my gun!”
Conor knew where his father kept his gun. He grabbed it from beneath the cloth on the shelf and, without thinking or properly aiming, fired it wildly. It was far too high. His hands were shaking. A second shot was even farther off the mark. The assassin laughed at him. “I thought you said you’d get me,” he snarled. But he dared not risk Conor taking a third shot, and he ran out of the room into the snowy, deserted street.
Thomas O’Dea lay slumped on the floor. Conor dropped the gun and reached for him. Thomas opened his eyes and smiled. “I’m fine, son,” he said. “A bloody mess, but perfectly fine.”
Blood was still pouring from his broken nose; his shoulder was carved and his ribs were bruised. “It’s just torn flesh,” he insisted as Conor inspected his shoulder. “I don’t move as fast as the old days. You won’t be telling Gerry O’Beirne back in Galway that I lost a fight, will you? He’d never believe it.”
Conor was barely listening to his father’s brave front. He mumbled, “I didn’t help.”
“What do you mean? You saved my life.”
“I didn’t stop him.”
“You missed, that’s all. He left me for dead and he was too frightened to tangle with you.”
Conor knew no one was frightened of him; not in the least.
Thomas grunted in pain. “And don’t be pathetic, son. There are more important matters. Go and get me an old shirt. I need a sling.”
Conor knew how to wrap a sling from his days in the lumber camps. While he stopped the bleeding and tended to his father’s shoulder, Thomas applied pressure to his broken nose to staunch the bleeding.
“Where are you staying?
“On Rideau Street.”
“We’ll go there. It’s not safe here anymore.”
They had been avoiding eye contact until Conor looked straight at Thomas and said, “Da, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. But we can talk of all that later. For now, we have a life to save.”
“What?”
“This man … he plans to kill Macdonald.”
“When?”
“This weekend.”
Conor was bewildered. “And you’re prepared to help Macdonald?”
After a lifetime of misfortune and tragedy, days of bitterness and jealousy, hours of resentment and hatred, Thomas O’Dea looked at his son with determination and resolve. “Yes, I am. We both are. You and I are going to stop him.” He reached out with his good arm. “We are going to end this once and for all.”
PART SIX
February 1869
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;
Think well who you are,
Know your soul and your star;
Persevere—dare—
He walked up the hill, shivering. Would it ever stop snowing in this blessed country? He kept repeating to himself: “I am not defeated. Nobody can stop me.” The mess with the O’Dea family was unfortunate. A snag, that’s all. But he should have seen the gun. Was the opium making him lose focus? He went back to finish them off that night, but they were gone. Anyway, even if they tried to warn the enemy, no one would believe them.
“No one can stop me. No one ever has.”
A reign of terror. He had to give the colonel credit, for it was a smart plan: Attack Britain from its weakest side. Don’t rush. Disrupt the election, then kill McGee. Let Macdonald and his henchmen hang a Catholic, then kill the Orangeman. Brilliant.
“I am not defeated. I will prevail.”
He sometimes wished he could get credit for the work he did. If he were in any other field of work, he would be recognized as the best in the business, a master of his craft. But he had to stay unknown and unheralded. No perks in this job. Just lots of money and, occasionally, great satisfaction. Anyway, the right people knew who he was and what he was doing.
Maybe he should have killed Macdonald right after McGee, get it over with, but he wanted the hanging to add to the confusion. To make them afraid. But this had taken longer than he liked. For his next job, he wanted something fast. A quick shot, and a prince falls.
Christ, it was cold! He longed for a draft of laudanum or the sweet, harsh taste of opium. Comfort and
bliss. He would indulge as soon as this job was finished.
He reached the top of the hill and inspected the scene. There was one guard at the top of the slide. It looked as if he was the only one. The fools. At least he wasn’t marching back and forth like a sentry; that would make him laugh, and this was no time for a chuckle. He casually walked up to the man and slit his throat.
“I am not defeated. Nobody can stop me.”
He had a pack of food and plenty of water. He had learned how to make an enclosure of snow to stay warm. It made him seem to disappear. He would appear when he needed to.
38
The sun had set by the time Thomas and Conor O’Dea left Conor’s room and headed south toward Daly Street. The snow had stopped, leaving the city soft and white; the sky was a vivid dark blue, the stars sparkling brightly. It was the kind of crisp, clear night that made you feel you could see into the future. Or wish you could.
Everything was different about Thomas now: the way he talked, even the way he looked. He exuded a new sense of confidence and power. It made Conor beam with pride.
“Da, why the change?”
Thomas smiled and answered thoughtfully, “When I looked into the cruel eyes of that man, everything came into focus. I kept thinking, An eye for an eye, another eye for another eye and another … and you know what? I realized how bloody blind I have been.”
Conor thought it was the kind of thing D’Arcy McGee might have said. He kept the thought to himself.
“No true Irish revolutionary would shoot a man in the back,” Thomas said in disgust. “I don’t really trust that Macdonald rascal, but he doesn’t deserve to die. And if I can stop it, I will.”
They walked silently for several blocks. Thomas was always a man of few words. “Conor, it’s grand to be with you again.” That was really all that he had to say.
One lonely light flickered upstairs on Daly Street. Conor could picture the prime minister poring over papers and pouring himself “another wee one.” Conor and Thomas were met at the door by Hewitt Bernard, Sir John A. Macdonald’s principal secretary.
“What do you two want?” he barked. Stuffy and stuffed up.
“And hello to you, too,” Thomas said. His voice was pinched and nasal because of his broken nose. “I assume the prime minister is in. We need to see him right away.” Conor thought his father might be exaggerating his Irish accent, perhaps to see how Bernard would react.
“What can be so urgent that you arrive at this hour of the night?” Bernard asked.
“The prime minister’s life.”
Hewitt Bernard looked at Conor, as if for validation; Conor nodded. Bernard was Lady Macdonald’s brother, and Conor had met him a number of times on Parliament Hill. He knew he would have more credibility than his father, the barman, but he wanted Thomas to stay in charge.
“It’s too cold out here to chat,” Bernard said finally. “Follow me.”
As they walked the few steps to the door, Bernard turned to Conor and said, “By the looks of you, you’ll be needing a better barber.” He turned to Thomas and added, “And by the looks of you, you’ll be needing a doctor.”
“Yes,” Thomas answered, “but I suggest you send for a policeman.”
SIR John A. Macdonald was working in his study—adding, subtracting, multiplying, building railways in his mind. If he was ever going to talk the colonists in the West into joining Confederation, Canada would have to build a transcontinental railway. Connections. Communications. A link from east to west. Nation-building. That’s what excited him. Not failing banks in Kingston, and certainly not fanatical gunmen in Ottawa.
Hewitt Bernard informed the prime minister that he had visitors. Macdonald sighed. Railways could wait for an hour. It would be the making of someone else’s fortune, anyway. When Conor and Thomas were ushered into his study, Macdonald said coldly, “You keep the strangest hours.”
Conor felt he should speak first. He knew the prime minister better than his father did, and more important, he knew the language and grammar of power. “It is very good of you to see us, sir. I believe you know my father from Lapier—”
“Yes,” he interjected. “Yes, I do. Mr. O’Dea, could I interest you in a glass of sherry or a dram of whisky?”
“No, thank you,” Thomas answered politely.
Sir John poured himself a glass from the crystal decanter. Conor noticed the quality of the vessel—cut glass, handcrafted. A gift, he assumed. He was more aware of these things when he was with his father, knowing how hard Thomas worked for so little money.
Macdonald looked at Thomas O’Dea, his nose broken and arm in a sling, and asked with a devilish grin, “Are you going to say, ‘You should see the other fellow’?”
“No, indeed I am not.”
Macdonald shrugged and sat down behind his large cluttered desk, gazing at Conor with a pained expression. “Sit down, the two of you, and tell me: Why do I think I’m not going to enjoy this conversation?”
“We have some very distressing news for you, Prime Minister,” Thomas began.
“See what I mean,” Macdonald muttered.
“The man who killed McGee is still at large.”
“The man who killed Mr. McGee,” Macdonald barked, “was hanged this morning.”
Thomas stood his ground. “Mr. Macdonald, this is too important to dismiss. You must listen to us.” Conor watched his father proudly. He noticed that Thomas never called the prime minister “sir.”
“A man is planning to assassinate you this weekend.”
Macdonald stopped short. “How do you know this?”
“It’s a long story, but I suggest you trust us.”
The prime minister looked around for support. It was a nervous gesture he was using too often these days. As always, he found himself alone. He glared at Thomas suspiciously. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’m offering to help.”
Macdonald assessed the situation. This is what I have for support, he thought. An Irish immigrant family. A smart young man who is more bookish than rugged and a dispirited lumberman who sells cheap whisky in a common Lowertown bar. Even behind a broken nose, Thomas carried himself with greater authority than he ever had at Lapierre’s, but he was hardly the stuff of heroes. The prime minister was a shrewd judge of character, but like anyone, he made mistakes. Would it be a mistake to trust Thomas O’Dea? He couldn’t tell. So he went on the offensive.
“I’m not sure, Mr. O’Dea, that there is not a lot that you should be held accountable for. I’m not sure I shouldn’t summon the police and have you arrested.”
Thomas looked at Conor as if to say, Do you see what these people are really like? “I have asked your brother-in-law to send for a policeman,” Thomas answered. “He should be here soon.”
Macdonald walked over to the window, refreshed his glass and looked out. Yes, McMicken was marching up the front steps. He wasn’t really a policeman, but on Irish matters, he was Macdonald’s man.
“If you want to have me arrested,” Thomas said defiantly, “I will not resist. It won’t be the first time.”
“I’ve never understood you Irishmen,” Macdonald whined. Conor was aghast, but Thomas allowed a smile. “McGee, you, the whole lot of you, you’re as stubborn as—”
“As you can be, Prime Minister,” Thomas interrupted. “I am telling you that a man intends to kill you, and you refuse to listen. No one can be more bullheaded than that.”
For a few seconds, Sir John A. Macdonald glared at Thomas O’Dea. How dare he speak to me like that? he thought. The effrontery! He weighed his options and judged this man. Thomas O’Dea looked a wreck but sounded convincing. It took gall for him to come here. Macdonald concluded that trusting this barman was his best option. His only option. He smiled grudgingly and got down to business.
“This weekend, I’m going to a public reception at Rideau Hall,” he said. “The new governor general, Lord Lisgar, is opening up a toboggan slide, of all things. There will be hundreds of
people there. I guess it’s a possible opportunity for someone to strike …” Macdonald stopped in mid-sentence. He said nothing for a moment, and then looked at Conor. “You have always thought Whelan was innocent.”
“He was guilty of something,” Conor answered. “Conspiracy, I think. Maybe he helped him escape, I don’t know. But I do know someone else was in charge.” He looked at his father and added, “We know it.”
There was a knock on the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Conor thought he saw the prime minister jump with fright. It was Lady Macdonald.
“What is happening here?” she demanded. She walked gingerly. It was still just days since she had given birth, and she was in pain. But her fury gave her strength. Behind her, Gilbert McMicken stayed safely in her shadow.
“Why have you called for Mr. McMicken? Something horrible is going on, I know it.”
Conor gallantly offered her his chair. She accepted it without comment. However weak and tired she felt, she was not going to sit back. There was trouble in her house, and she wanted to know what it was. She looked at Thomas’s bruised face and shuddered. “It looks like the day after a drunken brawl in here.”
Macdonald smiled.
“John, what is going on?” she persisted.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” McMicken asked, “what is the problem?”
Macdonald knew there was no sense in trying to shelter his wife from this, but how he wished he could. “Gilbert McMicken,” he said, “meet Thomas O’Dea and his son, Conor. Agnes, I think you’ve met both gentlemen. Certainly, you know young Conor from D’Arcy McGee’s office.” He seemed to enjoy not getting to the point. “The O’Dea family has come forward with information about a plot to kill me.”
“When?” McMicken asked the question directly of Thomas.
“This weekend.”
McMicken turned to the prime minister. “What is your schedule this weekend?” Ever practical, he spoke without a hint of sympathy.
“On Saturday, I am making a speech on the grounds of Rideau Hall. They are opening a toboggan slide. The public is welcome, so it’s an ideal time to—”
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