There was something strikingly familiar about the portrait. Could it be by the famous British artist, Heywood Hardy? It certainly looked like it might be, but something wasn’t right. Harrington stepped closer and strained to see the subtle signs of Hardy’s style. He couldn’t find them. Nor could he find a signature. It seemed to be a fine copy that would pass with the less educated; and as he studied the painting, he grew increasingly certain that Rupert’s smiling face had been expertly set upon the body of a youthful rider.
“Well, the cheeky devil,” Harrington muttered to himself, staring at the painting.
“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Willows will see you now, Mr. Harrington.” Chadwick had entered the room so quietly Harrington jumped at the sound of his voice. How long had he been standing there?
“Yes, thank you.” He turned to pick up his briefcase. “Excuse me, Mr. Chadwick. Might I ask you a question? Do you happen to know anything about this painting?”
“I can tell you only that Mr. Willows considers it his favorite likeness of himself, sir. It was painted last year.” Mr. Chadwick spoke in the sincere and hushed tones one might expect from an undertaker.
“It looks rather like a Heywood Hardy.”
“Yes. It does, rather,” answered the butler with an educated air.
Aha. Harrington smiled as he picked up his case. Why would the man have created a fake Heywood Hardy?
“Please do come this way, Mr. Harrington.” Chadwick glided into a turn and they proceeded down the corridor to a large, ornate wooden door. Chadwick knocked and entered first, then nodded and held the door for the guest. Harrington was amused by the utter pretentiousness of it all.
“Well, hello, Mr. Harrington.” Rupert extended his hand and forced a jovial greeting. He had been annoyed that his telephone conversation had been a short one. Rupert felt he looked more important to certain of his callers if he kept them waiting; he had chosen to treat Harrington in this way. He had even gone as far as killing time with a game of solitaire, so as not to appear too eager to see the government man. Cards that didn’t involve betting were his least favorite games.
The men exchanged customary flattery and small talk before easing into their meeting. It began well enough. Listening to Willows list his many accomplishments, Harrington recognized an opportunity and made great show of offering greetings from the minister, adding that Ottawa considered men like Rupert to be among the “New Breed” of politicians that were so needed to build the country. Emboldened with the praise, Rupert saw it was time to educate the man from Ottawa on the nation’s immigration policies, and demonstrate that he would not be manipulated into becoming a puppet for Mr. Sifton. The mood of the room quickly bristled into confrontation.
“I tell you, Harrington, this immigration policy is all wrong. There are no measures to keep these heathens from taking over.” Rupert paced about his library in anger, jabbing the air and glaring at the bureaucrat seated before him. “I can’t possibly support this notion of the Dominion just throwing its doors open to bring in all manner of suffering and pestilence. It will be the ruin of our city and the ruin of the nation, I say.”
Harrington patiently presented the opposite view, attempting to explain that the plan would result in the creation of a vibrant, prosperous nation, a true leader among the Dominions of the British Empire.
“I rather thought that you were a fan of Clifford Sifton, Mr. Willows. Everyone in Ottawa is raving about his capabilities as a champion for the growth of Western Canada.”
“Manitoba politics are different from federal politics, Harrington. I will grant you that Sifton was very skilled in his handling of his duties as attorney general of our Manitoba legislature, particularly in the way that he put a stop to that French language nonsense in the schools. And indeed he had a firm hand in outlawing French in the whole province, for which I do say I am very thankful. How absurd was it that the province was made to accept that the use of French was as important as English? I never did understand the Catholics on that one. My God, man! Here we are subjects of the British Crown, for heaven’s sake. So, yes, Sifton was very good in setting that right, and I’m very happy about his putting the French in their proper place. However, his take on immigration is all wrong.”
Harrington could only nod quietly during what he saw as a highly offensive over-simplification of the clash between the French and English in Manitoba. He chose to move on rather than respond and coughed lightly.
“Perhaps I haven’t been clear in my explanation,” he said with deference. “Mr. Sifton is deeply concerned about the future of the West, and particularly that our great expanse of open prairie is now of prime interest to our southern neighbors.”
“That nonsense with the Americans wanting to annex Western Canada, you mean?” Rupert huffed. “Do you really believe that, Harrington? It sounds preposterous. Who would want all that empty space?” He flipped the air with a manicured hand and reached for his cigar.
“There have been discussions, Mr. Willows. This is a very real threat. I can assure you that the minister believes that by putting enough people on the land as British subjects, the Dominion will protect the West from takeover by the United States and he means to do it. The advertising campaign in Europe shows signs of great success and the settlers are starting to come. Thousands will be here before the end of this shipping season.”
“And from what I read in the papers, I take it most of them are not coming from jolly old England.”
“Well, as you also probably know, we are advertising heavily in the British Isles, but we do not seem to be getting the numbers of experienced farmers that are needed.”
“Naturally that means the government will hold its nose and go after the great unwashed in the sewers of East Europe to populate the West. Is that it, then?” Rupert puffed a smoke ring.
Harrington felt his patience wearing down. “Begging your pardon, sir, but, do you not see that as just a bit uncharitable? There are great troubles in East Europe with the political situation with the Russian czar and the poverty and of course the violence against, uh, certain groups, I should say.”
“You mean the Jews?” asked Rupert.
“Well, yes, but that is quite aside from the issue. The point I am trying to make is that the misfortunes of the common man in those countries become the opportunity for the Dominion of Canada to grow and prosper. These are people who are desperate to find a home and to make a living. They know how to farm and we need farmers.”
“The Jews don’t farm. Why should we pay for the Jew to come here and become a burden?”
Harrington, now deeply offended at the callous and racist pronouncements from his host, was in danger of losing control and fought to mask his increasing discomfort in the face of Rupert’s bigotry and blatant ignorance. Steeling himself, he rose with new determination to turn him into an ally.
“Perhaps you don’t know about the special arrangements for the Jews. There is a movement through a Jewish philanthropist named Baron de Hirsch who is helping to pay the way for the Jews to move to Canada and other countries, so there really is no cost in having them settle here. There is only the promise of valuable new citizens.”
“Well, isn’t that just fine for you to say, as you are ready to board the train tomorrow morning and head back east leaving us to cope with the burden of these East European newcomers. How many will go to Ottawa? A fraction of what will be coming west, I dare say.”
“Sir, I well understand your concerns, but let’s move to the advantages that exist directly for you in this, shall we? There is another part of this that you might find of interest,” Harrington said, ignoring Rupert’s question. He barreled on with enthusiasm. “You see the federal government is intent on building a tremendous grain industry on all of that open land you speak of. Now, if a person of your means were to make a small investment in the grain business at this time, you may be very well rewarded, I should think.”
“Now it’s my money you want as well?” Rupert threw h
is head back and laughed.
“You would have an opportunity to get in at the beginning, just as you did in the land boom here, Mr. Willows. There are great demands for the limited amount of grain grown in the West. The quality is good and the future is strong.”
Rupert leaned forward and looked at his guest with new interest. He had heard discussion about plans to create a major grain industry recently at the Manitoba Club.
“What do you know about it?”
“Growing grain will be the foundation of Manitoba’s economy. The expectation is to build an industry that will not only feed the nation but will be a lucrative export. There is big money to be made.”
“Well, perhaps, I might look into it.” Rupert stroked his chin as he savored his cigar. “But you digress. You have a problem. You need me to help you sell this immigration policy the way Sifton sold you. ‘Yes, Mr. Sifton. You are so right, Mr. Sifton,’” Rupert mocked.
He glanced at Harrington and saw him grimace. “So! My good man, please excuse my bad behavior, Harrington. It has been rather frustrating to be so far away from the powers that make these decisions in Ottawa on our behalf, and I’m afraid I must admit it raises the bile. So tell me again, where is it that this latest bunch is coming from? Galoshes or something?”
“Galicia, and also Bukovina. Provinces in Austria.”
“And do any of them learn to speak and write English over there?”
“Well, I must tell you honestly, the answer is not likely. They speak Ukrainian, although you will generally hear them referred to as Galicians, Bukovinians, and Ruthenians. There have been many border changes in recent times. But, I can tell you they are hard-working, honest people. I’ve seen it for myself.” Watching Rupert’s expression he hastened to add, “and they are Christians, this group. The founders of the first colony are managing quite well at Stuartburn.”
“How many of them are there?”
“In the two parties that arrived last year, there were about one hundred twenty people. This year and every year forward will have a much greater number of immigrants. Tens of thousands in future years, we believe.”
“And they don’t speak our language? That’s preposterous, don’t you think?” Rupert was now enjoying Harrington’s discomfort.
“As I understand it, the depth of their poverty precludes education. The majority, as I mentioned, would be unable to read or write even in their own language, but of course there are some exceptions.” Harrington paused for a second and, understanding the value of a full disclosure quietly added, “Oh, and there will also be a handful of Jews arriving in Winnipeg this summer. More of the Jews are literate, though not in English.”
“Wonderful!” Rupert clapped his hands and laughed out loud. “Just fantastic! And while we are at it, let’s not stop with those who grunt their way through life in Ukrainian and whatever other languages come out of the Slavic countries of Europe. Let’s just throw away the future of the entire Dominion and hand the whole bloody thing over to the Jews!” Rupert was shouting now.
Obviously, winning over Rupert Willows was more of a difficulty than Harrington had anticipated. Yet there was so much at stake, both in Harrington’s job and in the desperate needs of the immigrants. As ugly as the prospect was, he had to fashion some way of enticing Willows into coming on side. Harrington took a deep breath, then swallowed hard against the vile words he knew would bring Rupert around.
“It’s not as if they will be setting up their little sod huts and rag picking businesses right here in your garden at Ravenscraig Hall,” Harrington sniggered. “I’m sure you will never see a trace of them anywhere near your home.” He inwardly cringed at his own words. The things one had to do when one’s bread was buttered with a political knife.
A slight smile played at Rupert’s lips. The officious Ottawa bureaucrat was starting to see his point. “And what is there to prevent it?” He arched an eyebrow as he challenged his guest.
“Well, the gates on your neighborhood entrance for one thing.” Harrington risked a wisecrack and felt his heart flutter. Silence, but for the clock ticking.
Then suddenly, Rupert threw his hand to his knee and laughed out loud.
Harrington joined his laughter, with what he hoped would be heard as genuine amusement. “Come on now, Alderman, you know more about this immigration policy than most of the citizens of Winnipeg. Where do you see that there is anything but good to come from getting people into this province? So they are poor and they don’t speak English. What of it? Most of them are going to be out on the land anyway. We have one hell of a future in the grain industry here, and we just cannot grow wheat without farmers.”
“Yes, yes, Harrington, I will concede that it is a way of the future, and I agree we need to populate the area. But is there any reason why we cannot attract better immigrants? Must we be stuck with the dregs of Europe, and Eastern Europe at that? I know it is a pipe dream to think that we would have droves of capable farmers coming to us from England and Scotland and Ireland and other parts of the British Empire. Lord knows we already spend a fortune on advertising to them, but would that not be the ideal? They speak our language. They share our dreams. They live under the British flag. And if there aren’t enough of them, well, then what about the Germans? The Mennonites do very well here, as you know. They make wonderful farmers. They are clean, good, solid Christian citizens, who seem very well-suited for the purpose of farming. Do you understand? You have to see the problems we have here in the West. Yes, we need people to farm the land, grow the wheat and buy the goods, I grant you that, but you see my point as well, Roger, don’t you?”
Harrington’s eyebrows went up. He had been called by his first name for the first time in the entire discussion. He was making progress. “Believe me, if we could find them, we would,” he quickly agreed. “But there is a limit on how much time we have to get that land settled before the Americans just annex the Canadian West. At some point, we won’t be able to stop them.”
“I see what you are saying, but I don’t like it.” Rupert was on his feet pacing again. “You know what will happen, don’t you? You will have one shipload after another of Eastern Europeans landing in Canada, and all of these lost souls will wind up cramming our cities with their filth and poverty. Mark my words. They will not be on the land. They will be in the cities and in the way. Winnipeg will go from being the bull’s-eye of the Dominion to the black eye of the nation.”
Rupert tugged at his sleeves before discreetly stopping at the corner of his desk to hit a button. But he no longer wanted to get rid of Harrington as quickly as he had when his visitor had first arrived. The thought of making a fortune in the new grain industry was starting to take some of the edge off of his prejudice against foreigners, and he wanted to learn more about it. “I’ll tell you what. Stay for dinner, will you? We can continue this discussion and you can meet my wife. Beth would love to hear all your news about the fashionable class in Ottawa.”
“Oh, thank you so much, but I would never think of putting you out this way.” Harrington was delighted with the invitation but did not want to appear to be overly eager.
“Nonsense. There is no point in us having anything but a civilized discussion, of course, and I mean to see to it that you hear me out on these immigration problems before you return to Parliament Hill. I have plenty to tell you about the head tax on the Chinaman.”
At this moment, as if produced by an illusionist, Mr. Chadwick materialized in the room.
“Do please tell Mrs. Butterfield that we will have another guest for dinner this evening, Chadwick. Mr. Harrington will be joining us as well.”
“Very good, sir,” said Chadwick, bowing and disappearing.
“Well, if you insist, Mr. Willows,” Harrington said.
“I do indeed. Please call me Rupert. And to help you enjoy the evening, I can tell you that we will also be hosting Mayor McCreary and James Ashdown. Both have solid ideas about the development of the city, and I’m sure they will be very
interested in your news from Minister Sifton.”
Harrington was suddenly aware he had struck a home run and smiled broadly. “You are very kind. Please forgive me, but who is Mr. Ashdown?”
“Who is Ashdown? For heaven’s sake, man! You really must start paying more attention to the Winnipeg papers. James Ashdown is synonymous with Winnipeg itself. He’s been here for a couple of decades and owns the hugely successful Ashdown store on Main Street. Ashdown will be mayor one day, you’ll see. Practically everything that comes through Winnipeg comes through that store. If anyone should have a keen eye on what opportunities there are to make a dollar on this immigration scheme we seem to be stuck with, then I say that Ashdown is the one to be heard.”
“Well, then, I must say I am very pleased to join you, and I thank you for this opportunity, Rupert.”
Harrington smiled to himself. He would have a good report to take back to Minister Sifton, after all.
Chapter Thirteen
Ragpicker
November 14, 1898
It was only the middle of November, but already winter had taken hold of Winnipeg and pummeled the city with enough snow that ruts had formed in the streets and slick ice patches had formed on the wooden sidewalks. Queenie picked her way over the uneven road and plodded steadily along with the pans rattling musically in the cart. Zev Zigman whistled a happy tune to keep time with the mare’s steps. It had been a good day for sales, and he was heartened by the extra coins in his pocket.
Zev had easily adapted to the cold in Winnipeg and had learned to enjoy the brilliant blue skies of the prairies and the sparkling ice crystals reflecting in the snow. He decided he would make just one more stop for the mail and head home early.
Zev’s enterprise had been a great help to the family. Money was slower in coming than he would have liked, but they weren’t starving. He made enough to pay the rent, and much of the rest of what the family needed came from bartering. Potatoes, onions, cabbage, and garlic were staples of their diet along with the eggs and chickens from their yard. Once in a while he would trade something he had on the wagon for herring scraped from the bottom of the barrel at Weidman’s Grocery to take home as a treat for his family.
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