Man in the Shadows (33 page)

He saw her just as the carriage took off. It was like a mirage. Meg … what was she doing here? And then panic. Meg … with him? Not with him! Meg … He jumped on another of Buckley’s horses and frantically chased them. He couldn’t feel the pain in his arm anymore, and his blood seemed to freeze in the cold.

THE
assassin looked behind him. Thomas O’Dea’s boy. Following him. Damn it! He should have killed him months ago. Still, he had the girl. He pressed the gun against her throat and urged the horses on.

In the past year, Meg had been threatened and attacked, humiliated and violated. Now she was being held hostage. She’d had enough. She knew this crazed man was going to kill her. She had bought a derringer in Toronto and knew how to use it. It was deep in her purse. She struggled, but couldn’t get to it.

Their carriage was speeding ahead, leaving Conor behind. She tried to turn and look, and her hat flew off in the wind. She reached for it, and the assassin struck her face with his gun. The blow thrust her backward with blinding pain, but it gave her a split-second chance to reach her revolver with her other hand. She couldn’t quite get her finger on the trigger.

Suddenly, the assassin pulled back on the reins. He had formulated a new plan. He would allow O’Dea’s son to get near; it would
give him a cleaner shot. And later, he would kill this pretty hostage.

They raced along Sussex Street: a horse-drawn carriage and a lone rider. Conor was gaining on them. Meg watched the man glance back at him, his gun bruising her, holding her back.

When Conor got near, the assassin yelled at him, “Remember me? Jasper Green from Cincinnati.”

Meg wondered what on earth he meant.

She heard Conor respond, but she couldn’t make out the words. Something threatening. The horrible man flinched. Conor was about to come alongside them. Conor aimed his revolver. He was struggling. She could see blood on his arm. The man pulled the gun from her throat and aimed it at Conor. It gave Meg an opening. She pulled the derringer from her purse, but before she could find the trigger, she heard a shot.

It was as if the world stood still. The gunshot hadn’t come from Conor. It hadn’t come from the assassin. It had come from in front of them. Meg screamed. The assassin spun around. And Conor looked in wonder. A woman stood defiantly in their path, re-cocking her rifle.

It was Polly Ryan.

Meg threw herself off the carriage, landing hard on the snow-packed road. Her derringer fell in the snow, but she didn’t search for it. Instead, she jumped to her feet and ran up Sussex Street, away from Rideau Hall, away from whoever this man was, away from the horror.

Polly’s first shot was wild. Her second was closer. She might not have killed him, but she had stopped him. She had done her job. The assassin jumped from the sleigh. He shot recklessly toward her and missed. He quickly thought: Should he kill this woman who had come out of nowhere? Or chase his hostage? Should he try to kill Thomas O’Dea’s son? Or should he run?

He ran.

Polly’s intervention had stunned Conor as much as it had shocked the assassin. Conor wasted valuable time staring at her in disbelief. When he came to his senses, he jumped from his horse and chased after the assassin. But his energy was drained. His arm was now aching and had started to bleed again. The snow was deep and frustrating. He kept tripping and falling over. The assassin disappeared over a snowbank at the river’s edge. There wasn’t much land, just a cliff overlooking the Ottawa River. He couldn’t go far.

Conor saw that police were converging on them. He yelled, “He went over there. Down there.” Conor desperately wanted to chase him down, grab him, look in his eyes while he choked the life out of him. But he decided that Meg was more important. He stumbled after her. “It’s all right, he’s gone,” he shouted. But she was running away, terrified and in shock. She fell in a snowbank, all her strength spent, and leaned on a tree, staring out at the sky. She held her shivering arms around herself for comfort, or protection, just as she had at the Hog’s Back waterfall. When Conor reached her, he carefully took her in his arms and silently held her, giving her the warmth of another body, a place to let out her awful fear.

Conor and Meg were together when Thomas caught up to them. Conor mouthed the words “We’re not hurt” and held Meg tightly, her face now deep in his shoulder. Thomas sat down beside them in the snow. When Meg looked up, Thomas startled her, not just because he was cut and bruised, but because he looked so different. He seemed twice the man she had met the year before.

Thomas thought of apologizing for how he had treated her when they first met, but he said nothing. There would be time for that later. They listened to the sound of the police calling out to each other, frenetically searching the riverside and down the cliff. Finally, she said, “Mr. O’Dea, let’s pretend we’re meeting for the first time.”

Thomas smiled, kindly.

The three of them sat in silence, an exhausted trinity.

No one paid attention to Polly Ryan, who was calmly walking back to Lowertown, her rifle at her side.

H
e lay in the covering of snow and rock, safe and secure. He knew they wouldn’t find him. He had prepared this reserve position days ago. He was dry, but soaking in his misery. He was not a man who knew failure. This should not have happened. His plan was in shambles. He had to escape. Get out of Canada. But was there anything else he could do before leaving this wretched British country?

THE
Toronto House burned down the next week. The building just burst into flames in the middle of a moonless night. The offices of the Queen’s printer burned to the ground with it. There was a masquerade ball at the Desbarats home, and the guests watched the inferno in fancy costumes. Miraculously, no one was killed or injured. George Desbarats had insurance, but that didn’t compensate for the loss. A part of Canada’s young history had disappeared overnight.

Fires were common among the lumber town’s many wooden structures, especially in winter, when wood stoves threw flames about. Still, the police believed it might have been arson. Fenians were suspected, but when police searched through the rubble and
ashes, they found no clues. No one had been seen around the boarding house the night of the fire. No one was arrested. Somehow, the suspicions didn’t linger. The country wanted to get back to the business of living.

The fire seemed to help put the Fenian–D’Arcy McGee matter to rest.

“HOW
are you, Sir John?” Conor asked.

“Can’t complain,” the prime minister answered. “Well, I can, but no one would pay attention.” He looked over at Thomas and winked. The mood was jovial in Macdonald’s study. There was a sense of relief, as if a sick friend had been cured. Everyone was smiling, except for Meg, who was still anxious and tentative. Conor was beside his father. Meg held back, just slightly behind.

Polly Ryan stood tall beside a beaming Gilbert McMicken.

“How long were you working for the government?” Conor asked.

“Since the Ridgeway invasion. So I guess about three years. My husband was killed in the Fenian attack.”

“I recruited her myself,” McMicken declared.

“I tried to keep an eye on you both,” she told Thomas.

So many things started to make sense to Conor. He turned to the prime minister. “So what are we going to do, sir, about the murderer?”

“Mr. McMicken here has people chasing the man. I don’t have to tell you that he hasn’t caught him.”

Conor nodded. McMicken stared straight ahead.

“What about the fire at my mother’s boarding house?” Meg asked.

“What a blessing no one was hurt,” Macdonald answered. “These wooden buildings are such fire traps.”

“Do you think it was the work of Fenians—or that man?” Conor added.

“Good Lord, no. Just a coincidence. I’m just glad, Miss Trotter, that you and your family were not there.”

Conor glanced at McMicken, who ignored him.

Meg pressed on. “The trouble at Rideau Hall … it never made the newspapers?” Her voice had a slight waver to it. Her stunning blue eyes still held a trace of fear.

“No,” Macdonald said proudly. “Not a word. No talk of assassins and gun battles. We told everybody that some petty thief was hanging around the toboggan run. The story is sticking.” Conor considered how it must irk a man like Macdonald, who loved to bask in the light of his successes, to keep this one quiet. Pragmatism won over pride.

“A policeman was killed,” Thomas reminded him.

“Don’t worry, I’ve explained it,” McMicken declared. “A freak accident while we were chasing the thief.”

His answer didn’t please the O’Deas, but before either could object, Macdonald announced, “I have some news for you, though. Our sources in New York say the Fenians are devastated by their failure here. Apparently, the powers that be in Dublin have lost interest in these Canadian dreams. We think it’s over.”

It looked as if McMicken might disagree when Thomas asked, “What about Jim Whelan?”

Macdonald frowned deeply. “Whelan admitted that he was part of the conspiracy. A jury would still have found him guilty, and he would still have hanged. I know that isn’t very satisfactory, but it is the truth.”

Neither Thomas nor Conor looked impressed. A jury might well have acquitted Whelan if they knew the whole story. To serve his
purposes, Macdonald was prepared to sweep the facts under the rug and be done with it. The prime minister knew he was losing the convivial spirit in the room and quickly changed the subject. “What about you people?” he asked.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Meg said softly. “I know a man in Toronto who might be able to give Conor a job. I believe you know him. Casimir Gzowski.”

“Ah, the Polish count.”

“He is looking for someone to help him write speeches, prepare business briefs; someone proficient in English.”

“I think working for D’Arcy was as good as a university education. Conor, I will give you a reference so glorious he might name a bank vault after you.”

Conor took Meg’s hand; she held it, gently.

“This has been horrible for you, I know,” the prime minister said, stumbling for the right words. “But let me tell you, this country is in great shape with people like you two growing up to replace old fools like Thomas and me.”

Thomas laughed. How Conor loved to watch him laugh.

“Thomas,” Macdonald said, “I wonder if you would do me a favour?”

Thomas looked at him, puzzled.

“There is a delegation travelling to Ireland next month. Would you go along as an extra adviser, an emissary from the prime minister’s office?”

“You know I can’t read or write.”

“But you can think. We need people with good, old-fashioned common sense. I know you’re a good listener. I’ll give you some people to keep an eye on for me, and maybe, if you would, say a few nice things about me over a dram. Don’t worry, I’ll pick your brain. You’ll earn your keep.” There was a sparkle in Macdonald’s eye
that Conor hadn’t seen in months. “And the pay will be better than Lapierre’s, even counting my tips.”

Thomas just nodded. “Thanks.”

Macdonald shook his hand warmly.

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said again, emphasizing the “sir.”

Thomas gently touched Polly’s shoulder. “You’re a woman of mystery.”

“Oh, I think I wear my heart on my sleeve.” She smiled at Thomas. And Conor didn’t mind.

“Now,” Sir John A. Macdonald wondered, “who would like a wee glass of whisky?”

The voyage across the Atlantic was like a dream. Two decades ago, Thomas O’Dea and his wife and baby were crammed like cargo in a crumbling, disease-infected ship, treated like rotting merchandise. Now, he was surrounded by elegance and treated with respect. He was a gentleman, a representative of the Canadian government. It was marvellous.

One especially clear evening, midway across the ocean, Thomas stepped out on the deck to spend a few minutes alone. Watching the moonlight reflect on the waves, he considered the turns his life had taken. The hours of draining physical labour in the lumber camps, the nights of misery in Ottawa, the hardening of his heart, and now, the new opportunities. He was so proud of his relationship with Conor. They were a family again. He had not felt such contentment since he was a young man.

There was another person on the deck: a priest whom Thomas hadn’t noticed before. “Lovely evening, Father,” Thomas said cordially.

The priest did not return the greeting. He quickly looked away from Thomas, but not before Thomas caught a glimpse of his face.

COLONEL
Patrick O’Hagan opened the letter from Dublin. He read it three times before crumpling up the paper and throwing it in the wastebasket. It read, simply, “There was an accident at sea. Our man is missing.” His dream had floated briefly, swum with promise, but in the end, gasped for air and sunk.

It was over.

W
hen D’Arcy McGee was murdered, the first person to reach his side was Will Trotter, a pageboy and the son of McGee’s landlady. There were no eyewitnesses to the crime. Patrick James Whelan never denied that he was part of a conspiracy, but he always claimed he was not the man who killed D’Arcy McGee. He said that on the night of the assassination, he was drinking with “a fellow called Marshall.”

With those facts in mind, I wrote this story.

CONOR
O’Dea and his father, Thomas, are fictitious. The death of Conor’s mother, Margaret, is based on actual accounts of hellish voyages from Ireland to North America.

Mrs. Trotter, who ran the Toronto House, was a widow, and her son, Will Trotter, was a pageboy. She also had a daughter. I know nothing about her, not even her name. So Meg Trotter is fictitious. I have no reason to believe that Mary Ann Trotter was a transcendentalist.

Clearly, this is a story set in the past, not a history text. I tried to stay as close to the facts as possible, but veered off them when I felt it useful to do so. The events of Confederation Day, the troubled
election in Montreal, the Fenians gathering in the United States, McGee’s life as an Irish rebel and Canadian Father of Confederation, even his prophetic dream—they are all based on recorded accounts.