Man in the Shadows (17 page)

Her mother nodded. She had worried about this.

“People are condemning me, but you don’t mind, Mother. You haven’t told me not to see Conor.”

“Well, the Widow Trotter has some modern views,” her mother
answered, smiling, adding more ice. “But I will tell you something plainly, Meg: I will not allow anyone to hurt you. Not anyone. We will go back to Toronto—or wherever—if there is even the hint of trouble.”

Meg turned the handle with extra determination. She knew her mother meant it. She had always admired her mother’s strong will. She made her own judgments, set her own course in life—and always put her family first.

Watching the custard turn to ice cream, Mary Ann Trotter reflected on her life in Toronto. Her husband had been a blacksmith. To her surprise, he had proven to be a particularly good businessman, expanding his shop and investing in others. He was popular and gregarious, and handsome in a rugged, athletic way, if you didn’t mind the smell of dirt and horses about him. Mary Ann almost laughed to herself as she conjured up his image. Meg had inherited his thick black hair. Sometimes when she looked at her daughter, she could see him—just a fragment, a loving trace.

His death was so senseless. He had been struck by a stray bullet in a barroom fight. Two drunks—one a Protestant, the other a Catholic—fighting over some ancient and petty grievance, killing someone else by mistake.

“Being called the Widow Trotter reminds me of your father.”

“It reminds me of death. Everywhere I turn, people talk of hatred and death.”

MEG
had been to the Byward Market many times, but she had rarely stopped to take in the tenement houses nearby. Some of the stone buildings had character and could be cleaned up, but the wooden houses looked like fire traps. She was amazed at how dirty Lowertown was: sewage in gutters by the wretched shacks; emaciated pigs wandering the streets, sniffing at the ever-present excrement. Her family
had a milking cow in the back of the boarding house, so she was used to animals—but not in front. It was disgraceful. Was this the way these people wanted to live? No, of course not; this was the way they were forced to live. These homes were probably owned by her neighbours uptown, who came by only to collect the rent. She admired Conor all the more, thinking how hard he was working to escape the imprisonment of poverty.

Polly Ryan saw her coming. She had been keeping an eye on Conor O’Dea’s girlfriend, the Protestant from Sparks Street. There weren’t very many mixed relationships in Ottawa. If this one grew, there could be trouble. Her responsibility was to look out for trouble. She made sure the young girl didn’t notice her, but watched closely as Meg knocked on Thomas O’Dea’s door and he opened it.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he barked.

“My name is Meg Trotter,” she said, holding back her fear. “I would like to talk to you about Conor.”

Thomas stared at her, hardly believing her impudence. He could tell by her accent that she was of English stock and by her dress that she had come from Uppertown.

“May I come in?” she asked politely.

“What is your business?”

“Mr. O’Dea, Conor has told me about you. You must have worked dreadfully hard to have your son educated. You must love him very much.”

“So?”

She wanted to declare, “I think I love him, too,” but she dared not. She said, simply, “I just wanted to meet you.”

“Well, you’ve met me.” He tried to slam the door, but she boldly put her foot out and stopped it.

“Will you let me come in?”

So Conor was now with a Protestant girl, Thomas thought. He might as well be if he associated with Macdonald and McGee.

“I am hoping I can help you reconcile with Conor.”

He looked at her with fire in his eyes. “I have no son,” he said. “Now move your foot.”

Meg had never seen such intense anger. She recoiled, and Thomas O’Dea slammed the door in her face.

POLLY
Ryan watched the pretty girl run up Sussex Street crying, her black hair flying behind her. She looked terrified. Polly wondered what had happened. How it might play in the wide picture. She would have to find out. He might want to know.

C
onor O’Dea arrived at D’Arcy McGee’s bedroom door armed with a tray of salt fish, fried pork rinds and beans, a concoction that delighted the feisty Irishman.

“My God, Conor, you are a good cook.”

“I got a lot of practice in the lumber camps. I can boil you up a barley soup if you want, and I do wonders with molasses.”

“I suspect your backcountry soup was thin as water and molasses was all there was for taste.” He didn’t know how true that was. Just don’t start calling me Cookie, Conor thought.

McGee attacked the food with vigour. Lying in bed, blankets up to his neck, his unruly hair almost filling the pillow, he looked rather comical, but he was intent on his article about the Fenians and still upset about the trouble at Jolicoeur’s. With his mouth full, he demanded, “Tell me about the mystery man. Should I challenge him to a duel?”

“You would have to find him first. No one seems to know him. I still can’t find out anything. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Very strange. If he were from around here, I would know him.” D’Arcy McGee had spent the week he was supposed to be convalescing propped up in bed, his leg suspended to ease the pain, furiously writing his article for
The Gazette.
Although his health
was gradually improving, his temper was not. He harangued Dr. O’Brien for overreacting; he howled at Mary, complaining that he was chained to his bed; and, of course, he bellowed orders to Conor. Where were the statistics to embellish his arguments? He needed dates checked, names clarified. Why did everything take so long? Hurry up, damn you!

After the meal, McGee wiped his face with his sleeve and showed the finished article to Conor. He had charged that the Fenians dominated Montreal’s Irish societies and claimed that they had actually infiltrated the Montreal police force. In sharp and unyielding language, he accused Barney Devlin of financing his campaign with Fenian money from New York.

“Are you sure you want this published, sir?” Conor asked. “It may make matters worse for you.”

“I was denied the right to free speech, and then my life was threatened. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t back down.”

Conor studied the list of people McGee had called Fenian supporters. “Devlin’s name is not on the list.”

“No, because he’s not a Fenian. Devlin’s a damn fool and a dupe, that’s all. They’re using him to get at me.”

Conor knew the fuss the newspaper article would cause, but he also knew it was easier to float upstream on the Niagara than to try to stop D’Arcy McGee once he had set his mind on something. “I’ll take this right down to
The Gazette
,” he said.

“No, you won’t.” McGee dragged himself out of bed. “We’ll both go. It’s been a week since I’ve smelled the streets and tasted the sights. I’m ready for a walk. Tomorrow I’ll be fit to finish off this campaign, and that imbecile Devlin along the way. Come on, help me on with my clothes.”

AFTER
the stale atmosphere of his sick room, even the thick city air was invigorating. Leaning heavily on Conor’s arm, McGee cheerfully waved his cane at people passing by. He soaked in the summer radiance. During the past week, McGee had been so preoccupied with present-day problems that Conor had not asked more questions about the past, but this walk, and this summer afternoon, gave him a fresh opportunity.

“Are you, in any way, embarrassed by your rebel past?” he asked cautiously.

“No man needs blush at forty for the follies of one and twenty,” McGee answered. “In fact, you could use a little adventure yourself.” And he chuckled. “Look, we were reacting to the famine. We were young and angry. But we kept our struggle to Ireland. Not like these Fenians here.”

A constituent came up to them and shook McGee’s hand. “It’s a delight to see you up and about, Mr. McGee. Good health to you, sir.”

McGee beamed. “And good health to you, my friend.”

Something else had been concerning Conor. “What did you think of that reporter?”

“Rather a cold fish, I would say. But we have to get the message out in America that our Confederation is strong.”

Conor dropped the thought. Something troubled him about the reporter, but it wasn’t important.

“I don’t want to make everything look perfect up here,” McGee continued. “There’s much still to do. But I resent American indifference to our nation-building and their interference in our affairs.”

Conor was pleased that McGee was walking with a little more ease. Perhaps the exercise was stretching his sore leg. McGee waved to another constituent across the street. The man did not return the gesture. He pretended the insult had not happened and again took
Conor’s arm for support. “Soon we are going to have to get back to the campaign. I’ve lost ground while lying in bed.”

“How do you think you are going to do?”

“I’ve never lost an election yet,” McGee answered, evasively. “I don’t know about my venture into Ontario, but here, in Montreal, yes, I’ll win. It’s just a few who have been causing all the trouble. But it doesn’t take many voices to sing a loud song.”

Conor noticed the man who would not return McGee’s wave still scowling at them from across the street. One of the few, he thought. They walked in silence

Then the attack came.

In the corner of his eye, Conor caught a rustling in the bushes. He thought he heard someone yell, “All right, boys, that’s him.” It happened so fast that he wasn’t sure of the details. About ten people jumped out of the bushes. They started throwing—not tomatoes or eggs this time, but rocks and gravel. A rock hit McGee’s shoulder, and he faltered. Conor grabbed him. Together they tumbled to the ground. Conor screamed at the attackers, picked up the rock that had hit McGee and uselessly hurled it back. With D’Arcy McGee helpless and humiliated on the ground, and Conor trying to shelter him from attack, the mob ran away laughing and cheering.

It was not until later—after they dropped off McGee’s damning article at the newspaper office, after they hailed a hackney carriage to take them home, after McGee refused to go to the police, after they both suffered Mary McGee’s furious recrimination—that Conor had time to carefully reconstruct the attack. Someone had yelled from the bushes. He remembered the voice. An Irish accent. Was it the same voice as at the back of the hall at Jolicoeur’s? He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. During the attack, he thought he saw someone sneak away. Was that the person who started it? Maybe. It was hard to say. But he was familiar. And he wore a long grey coat.

I
n Ottawa, Sir John A. Macdonald was in a playful mood. He had handily won his seat in Kingston. His nemesis, George Brown, had been defeated in Toronto. “Go back to printing drivel, George,” he murmured merrily. “In your stuffed shirt with your rich wife, your earnest obsessions and your endless prattle about reform.” He avoided reading George Brown’s newspaper,
The Globe
, whenever possible.

God was indeed in his heaven, and he was in the premier’s chair. His position of power and prominence secure. Yes, his desk was still laden with problems, but they could wait until tomorrow. The rains were over and the muddy streets were now baking in sunlight. It was a splendid late-summer afternoon. He summoned Patrick Buckley to prepare the horse and carriage, and pulled Lady Macdonald away from her book.

The treeless Sandy Hill offered little shade during the dreadfully hot summer. “How overactive those loggers have been,” Agnes once remarked, to her husband’s great amusement. “The houses are built on sand, dear; hence the name. We’re plain-spoken here in Canada.” Sir John took her hand and escorted her into the carriage and they set off through the dusty, dry streets of the trussed-up lumber town.

Sir John was content to sit back and enjoy the ride, perhaps head out into the countryside, but Lady Macdonald had other matters on her mind. “What’s happening in Montreal is vile, don’t you think?” she asked.

“Yes,” he sighed, afraid of where her inquiry might lead. He knew she liked D’Arcy McGee more than most of the self-obsessed politicians she met in Ottawa. She and D’Arcy could talk for hours about poetry, books, even flowers. He had actually supported one of her chief causes, the new St. Alban’s Church on Daly Street. Imagine a Romanist donating five dollars toward the Church of England! Yes, he was a good sort in her view, especially now that he was off the bottle.

“Why don’t you help D’Arcy?”

“My dear, I’ve been busy in Kingston.”

“You know that isn’t an excuse. I understand you haven’t even written him a letter of support.”

Macdonald didn’t want to talk about this. Agnes could be worse than the hounds in the Opposition. He knew the embattled Irishman could use his help, but he simply couldn’t offer it. McGee was forever getting himself into these messes because he used his mouth like a Gatling gun. Weapons sometimes backfired, and Macdonald didn’t want to get wounded. Still, he cherished the times he and D’Arcy had shared on the floor in Parliament, in the parlour at the Russell House and in the back rooms at Lapierre’s. They had actually begun as political rivals. Initially, he had dismissed McGee as an unbecoming Irish runt, little more than a dilettante and an adventurer. But he would never forget McGee’s maiden speech in the legislature. The power of his words, the lilt in his voice, the sheer brilliance of his oratory. It was certainly not easy being attacked by D’Arcy McGee. Macdonald could remember his words by heart. “This is a government of corruption,” McGee proclaimed. “Their faith is in corruption. Their hope is
in corruption. Their creed is in corruption.” A bit strong, Macdonald thought, but they were the words of a man who cared, not those of a dilettante. He decided to try to get this eloquent Irishman on his side.

George-Étienne Cartier was not as easily impressed. McGee had actually defeated Macdonald’s political partner in a Montreal campaign. Cartier had to run again in a constituency in the Laurentian hills. It was a humiliation Cartier would never forget. He declared that the Irish electors in Montreal “could be bought for a barrel of flour apiece and some salt fish thrown in for the leaders.” McGee never said an angry word in response, but he could never seem to remember the name of Cartier’s new riding. He kept calling him “The Honourable Member from … ah … some country constituency.”