Man in the Shadows (22 page)

“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 William 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.

C
onor, 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. Some 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,

A
pril 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.

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.