Man in the Shadows
Read Man in the Shadows Online
Authors: Gordon Henderson
Man in the
SHADOWS
GORDON HENDERSON
For Pam
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—
Be wise and beware—
T
HOMAS
D’A
RCY
M
C
G
EE
ONTENTS
Part Four: September 1867–April 1868
Part Five: September 1868–February 1869
Advance Praise for Man In the Shadows
May 1867
Fenian Brotherhood Headquarters
10 West Fourth Street
New York City
“I don’t care how many of them you have to kill,” Colonel Patrick O’Hagan said. “I don’t care what you have to do. I want that damned country destroyed.”
The man receiving the orders stood ramrod straight. The high collar on his long grey coat obscured much of his face. The only distinguishing feature the colonel could see was his eyes, piercing out of the shadows. He stayed a step behind the ray of late-afternoon sunlight shining from the only open window and let the colonel talk.
“Take your time. Plan your moves carefully. But when you do strike, strike swiftly. Strike ruthlessly.”
The colonel’s long, flowing moustache was perfectly coiffed, his skin smooth and delicate. He spoke with authority, but the man in the shadows was not impressed. He knew about Patrick O’Hagan. O’Hagan worked closely with General John O’Neill, the “commander-in-chief” of an Irish military force that vowed to free Ireland from Britain’s control. He even had a new sign on his desk: the Irish Republican Army—the IRA. But they were better known as the Fenian Brotherhood, or simply the Fenians. Romantically named after the Fianna, ancient Celtic warriors, the Fenians had recently targeted North America as a battleground, a way to attack Britain from its frontier—from its back door.
“I am talking about nothing less than a reign of terror,” he said. “Soften up the enemy. Prepare the ground for our attack.”
Silence.
“How long have you been in America?” Colonel O’Hagan asked, filling the empty air.
“Long enough.”
Patrick O’Hagan was an American citizen. He had no plans to return to his homeland, but he would always be an Irish rebel. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and stamped his fist on the table. “We are at war with England; we must do our part.”
The man in the shadows just nodded.
“You will be the first soldier behind enemy lines, the advance guard. You can become a great hero.”
He had stopped paying attention. He was considering O’Hagan’s accent. He was from the northern counties. Maybe Armagh. Probably Monaghan.
The colonel was starting to feel unnerved under the spell of this man’s cold stare.
“How ruthless?” he asked O’Hagan, barely moving his lips.
“You will be working as a spy and soldier in enemy territory. You’ll have to do whatever it takes to survive.” O’Hagan rubbed his sleeve against his forehead, paused and said solemnly, “And your job includes eliminating key targets.”
“Money?”
“It’s in this pouch.”
For the first time since the meeting began, he took his eyes off Colonel O’Hagan as he reached for the pouch and slowly counted the stack of bills. When he had finished, he allowed a slow, sinister smile. “You have the right man.” His voice was a murky undertone.
The right man. O’Hagan felt sure of it. This person in front of him emanated icy, heartless efficiency.
A year ago, General John O’Neill had led a raid across the border into British territory at Ridgeway, near Buffalo. O’Hagan was at his side. They had proven how easy it was to cross the barely defended frontier.
But O’Neill lost his nerve and retreated when the American reinforcements he expected didn’t arrive. It became clear to O’Hagan that O’Neill should have done the groundwork first. If he had created confusion in the British territory ahead of time, a better-organized invasion would have succeeded. The Fenians needed something—or someone—to throw British North America off balance. A few perfect murders would do the trick. That would create chaos. Chaos would bring panic. The world would see that this fledging country couldn’t cope. And they could move in. But the normally squabbling politicians in the north were actually starting to work together. In a month, some British colonies planned to unite to become Canada. “Confederation,” they called it. A new British country. The very thought of it made him fume.
He—and this mysterious man—must see to its early end.
Colonel O’Hagan knew little of the person in front of him. He had been instructed in a coded dispatch from the Fenian commander in Dublin to be in his office alone at 4
p.m.
on May 29. The man arrived at precisely four o’clock, wearing an old grey coat. He kept it on despite the heat. In fact, he did not even remove his black hat when he entered. He just walked in, dropped the appropriate letters of introduction on O’Hagan’s desk, muttered the password and moved back, out of the light.
The colonel held up a piece of paper. “Here are some names and addresses of people who might help you.”
The man put it in his pocket without glancing at it.
“You know your targets?”
He didn’t react. The question was idiotic and insulting.
“While you are in Canada,” O’Hagan continued, “I will work with O’Neill to amass an army. He doesn’t know about your mission. No one does except for me and our contact in Ireland. If you want to get in touch with me or need help—”
“I won’t,” he cut him off, “need help. I know how to find you. You won’t need to find me.” He adjusted his coat. It was as if a statue moved. “Is that all?”
“Umm … yes,” O’Hagan answered, stumbling to his feet. “Except to say, I meant what I said about this being a holy war. Good luck to you, my man, and God bless you.”
“Neither luck nor God has anything to do with this,” he muttered disdainfully, and turned to leave.
O’Hagan felt a refreshing breath of evening air as the man stepped out of the shadows, opened the door and silently left.
July 1, 1867
1
T
he first of July. Maybe it was his birthday. Conor O’Dea wasn’t sure how old he was. He assumed he was twenty-one, but his date of birth was unclear. He knew he had been in Ireland during the late 1840s or early 1850s, but his father rarely talked about those years. Conor only knew life in British North America. He may not have known how old he was, but he knew he was a child of the New World.
July 1, 1867. In Ottawa, the day began with fanfare, and now the bells rang. Conor lay in bed, savouring the sounds. History would be made today. The prospect filled him with excitement. He knew some people thought that today’s union of three British colonies was doomed to failure.
A rung on a ladder leading nowhere.
He had thought up that phrase a few nights ago and written it down; it might be a line he could use someday.
It was just past dawn and already the summer air was stifling. The night had barely cooled the musty basement flat. If it was this hot at dawn, imagine the rest of the day. He relished the thought. He imagined it would be a day of … he tried to muster the right word …
distinction.
Not bad, but he could do better. He needed a D’Arcy McGee–type word. He was a speechwriter, after all, or at least a junior parliamentary assistant. The bells signalled something …
portentous.
Sounds important, but he wondered, did that mean something good, or something bad?
“In any event,” he said to himself, “happy birthday,” and he jumped out of bed. He grabbed a mildewed towel and headed to the bathhouse behind the flat. The residue of past users in the public privy disgusted him, but this was all a meagre rent provided. The landlord had promised he would have the filth cleaned up. Fat chance. And there wasn’t much anyone could do about the smell. At least, he thought, it wasn’t as horrid as a logger’s shanty, and it was inside.
There was still some warm water in a pannikin. He heated it slightly on the wood stove, soaped his face and started shaving. The razor was old and tired. “But I’m young and agile,” he told the mirror. “Handsome—well, sort of. Dashing and suave, in a homespun way. A young man on the rise.”
Conor O’Dea was an Irish Catholic in a land dominated by Scottish Presbyterians and Church of England elitists. He had spent a short lifetime trying to be accepted by those in power. He had learned the catchphrases: “For Queen and Country.” “The Empire. The Glorious Empire.” His charm, hard work and perseverance had manoeuvred him to the sidelines of politics. Close, but he wanted to get even closer. He knew that most people in the neighbourhood thought he was overreaching. An upstart from the rowdy lumber camps with delusions of glory.
He scratched away at his red stubble and rubbed the condensation off the mirror so he could examine his handiwork. Some soap was trapped in his bushy right side-whisker. In the American Union Army, General Ambrose Burnside had started the fad and a new name for sprouting whiskers. Conor was eager to look modern, and growing sideburns was cheap.
Back in the tenement flat, he considered his wardrobe. His one old suit would have to survive the day’s proceedings, and with
a little adornment, maybe get him into a proper party that night. Apparently there would be evening fireworks at Major’s Hill Park. His pants were threadbare; the seams were too thick, the stitching unrefined. Good enough for the poor Irish section, but he wanted better. He had tried to iron his shirt by pressing it between books. It worked as long as he ignored a persistent wrinkle across his chest. He expertly put the finishing touches on his tie’s knot, twirling the silk with dexterity. D’Arcy McGee had bought him the tie, but he had taught himself the procedure. He put on the slightly too snug waistcoat and wiped off a few dried food stains. He squeezed his feet into freshly polished shoes that had once fit him. He proudly put on his jacket. One last look at his hair and his stylish red whiskers, and he was ready.
He knew there wasn’t much that was dashing about a political apprentice still living with his father. He was only as suave as he could pretend. But he was smart, or at least smarter than most people he knew, and he was definitely on the rise—heading upwind from this shabby flat in Lowertown.