Man in the Shadows (16 page)

McGee continued, “They call me a hypocrite because I was once a rebel, or they say I’m a turncoat because I settled in a British country, but the Fenians are the true hypocrites. Those treacherous, self-declared Irish leaders—they could have promoted a better life in America for Irish immigrants, but chose instead to attack the peaceful British colonies to the north. Canada hadn’t done them any harm.”

“What about the Orangemen?” Conor asked, expecting a torrent for a response. It was not his place to interrupt an interview.

“Good question, Conor,” McGee roared. “To hear Devlin talk, you would think Protestant extremists flourished only in the shadow of the Union Jack. The fact is, the New England states are so
zealously Puritan they could make a Toronto Orangeman look like the Pope’s uncle.” Conor smiled, but McGee was serious. “Many Americans despise our poverty, ridicule our accent and scorn our religion.” McGee looked at the man called Jasper Green. “Where are you from, sir?

“Cincinnati.”

“Did you know that in 1855 no Roman Catholic was permitted to parade on the fourth of July in Cincinnati?” He did not. He’d never even been to Ohio. McGee was on a roll and didn’t expect an answer anyway. “Do you know the average Irish labourer in America lives less than ten years after moving there? Do you have any idea how many of us died in the front lines in your Civil War?” McGee stopped to catch his breath, again not expecting a reply, and carried on. “Yes, the war. That too helped change my mind. I wanted slavery abolished as much as any thinking man, but Irishmen fought to free the slaves in the cotton fields while their brothers were enslaved in northern factories. It was all wrong. I remember saying to Macdonald at the Charlottetown Conference, ‘The difference between us and the American Founding Fathers is that we aren’t writing words of liberty while we whip our slaves.’”

A good pistol-whipping would serve you right, the man thought, but he said, “Peace, order and good government isn’t so uplifting.” He didn’t plan to be provocative, but he could not resist puncturing this balloon of nonsense.

“It’s a pretty good start for a country,” McGee responded. “One, I admit, that was born in compromise and political chicanery.” He turned to Conor and winked. “But you’d have to ask Mr. Macdonald about that.”

He could hear talking downstairs. McGee’s wife and someone else. Maybe a doctor. He could poison McGee and his precious assistant and implicate the doctor. He’d done that before.

“Most important, we have our Catholic schools. I helped ensure that. But I thought you wanted to hear how the Irish rebel became a Canadian patriot?”

“Yes, please, do tell.” The reporter readied his pen. Might as well let the political diatribe continue.

“When I came to Canada in 1856, I was struck with a thought: I wasn’t leaving a land of liberty and entering British tyranny, I was actually following the route slaves were taking to freedom. I saw them. Black men and women risking their lives along the Underground Railroad to come to this British territory—a territory, mind you, which had abolished slavery back in the last century. Think about it: servitude in the United States or liberty on British soil? I began to question which offered true freedom and democracy. This country is alive with hope. Canada is a place of space and open land. People can settle here and stay close to their roots. They can buy land for practically nothing and work it, not for absentee landlords who could evict them at a whim, but for themselves.”

“That’s
my
question,” Conor interrupted. “The landlords. How could you forget what they had done? How can you forgive?”

The assassin looked at him with surprised admiration.

“Just look at the politics of it, Conor. If we had the kind of government in Ireland that we have built here in Canada, there would never have been a need for Young Ireland—a strong national government, yes, but robust provincial governments as well, representing particular interests. Ontario has its own government for the likes of George Brown, Nova Scotia for the likes of Joe Howe and Charles Tupper, and Quebec for the likes of Cartier.” He laughed, enjoying his trivializations. “And we have the freedom and openness of Canadian democracy—for the likes of McGee,” he bellowed, still laughing.

“I don’t know those names. I’m an American,” Jasper Green from Cincinnati stated bluntly.

McGee looked at him sternly. “Write this in your newspaper, sir: ‘We are building a northern country of compromise, good faith and fair play.’”

The assassin was squirming in his chair. What drivel. He could stab him with a pen. That would be wondrously fitting. He pretended to be taking McGee’s sickening dictation.

“The one thing needed for making Canada the happiest of homes is to rub down all sharp angles, to get rid of old quarrels. We Irishmen—Protestant and Catholic—born and bred in a land of religious controversy, should never forget that we now live in a land of religious freedom.” Again he turned to Conor and looked him straight in the eye. “Certainly, we have a long way to go, a terribly long way, but I would live nowhere else.”

There was a knock on the door. The reporter looked startled and reached into his pocket. It was Dr. O’Brien. “Your interview is over, D’Arcy. I’ll have a look at you and then you should rest.”

Conor walked the American reporter to the door. A strange fellow, he thought. There was something distant about the man. Most reporters he knew were gregarious and rather fun to be with. Most were brimming with questions, on and off the record. This man was thoughtful, but barely inquisitive. He was almost blank and forgettable behind his cold eyes and greying beard.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

D
ownstairs, Mary McGee sat alone, lost in thought. Four years ago, her husband’s political supporters had presented him with a house on St. Catherine Street. He needed to be a landowner to hold political office. Their home was so dignified, so refined, so unlike D’Arcy. Few of the mementoes and gifts that overfilled the drawing room were of much value, except, perhaps, some of D’Arcy’s books. It was an Irish-Canadian room through and through. The heavy curtains had shamrocks woven into them, and there was an abundance of Irish colour: green upholstery, green carpet, green cushions. It was a lovely room, she thought, with a comforting fireplace and warm atmosphere. After years of barely making ends meet, her family finally had a real home.

The rebel lived—if he didn’t always act—like a gentleman.

She glanced down at the newspaper she was holding. On the front page was an account of the trouble at Jolicoeur’s Saloon. At the bottom of the page was a glowing article about John Macdonald joking that, as a professional cabinetmaker, he wished he had better wood to work with. John plays politics while D’Arcy wages war, she thought. She felt old and weary; her skin had weathered, her hair was greying and her smile had grown melancholy. It was all just getting too much for her. John Macdonald had a young, ambitious wife urging him on. D’Arcy, she thought, was not so lucky.

She scanned the article about her husband and realized she had been reading the first paragraph over and over, scarcely taking in a word. She looked up at the picture of the Holy Mother on the wall and uttered her deepest wish: that D’Arcy would give up fighting and settle down. He had stopped drinking, that was a blessing, but politics was just as intoxicating and just as lethal. For twenty years, he had served his passion for one cause after another. Without his fervent speeches, Confederation would never have come about—even Macdonald admitted as much. He had climbed his way up the pedestal, and now he stood on his tiptoes, tottering. In the newspaper article, he was called a firebrand. She wondered how many people had called him that over the years. A stubborn reformer. A renegade rebel. A hero. And now his own people in Griffintown were calling him a traitor. A traitor to what? Many of his colleagues were outspoken; his problem was his absolute faith in his convictions. He was obstinate and inflexible, bull-headed and unyielding, highstrung and … also the sweetest, most kind-hearted man she had ever known. That so many people failed to see that always amazed her. Maybe because they never saw him play with Frasa and young Peggy, or shared her grief when they mourned the deaths of their children.

Even agonizing memories were soothed by his words. She mouthed her favourite poem, written in those terrible days of exile:

Such strong love and such deep emotion; such pride and such persistence. This crusade he was leading against secret societies was something she respected, but it was so dangerous. Fenians, Orangemen, why couldn’t he leave them to squabble among themselves? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? For his sake. For his family’s sake. And hers.

Well, she had a secret of her own—one she dared not tell anyone. She wished more than anything that her husband would lose this infernal election. She would nurse him through the humiliation and help steer him through a change of careers. Surely, one of his admirers would help him get a respectable job.

Conor O’Dea was an amiable young man, but she resented the time her husband spent with him. In many ways, Conor reminded her of D’Arcy as a young man: full of ideas and bursting with promise. She knew that each time D’Arcy berated Conor, he was trying to build his character. Years before, D’Arcy had looked up to the great Irish politician Daniel O’Connell in much the same way Conor looked up to him. Perhaps Conor rekindled the flame of those naive days, and that was why D’Arcy gave him so much of his time; precious time he could be spending with her and with his family.

While all eyes focused on him, who paid attention to her? It was always
his
mess of curls,
his
beautiful voice,
his
effortless prose,
his
causes; each cause more important than her.

She knew that D’Arcy had been talking about the old days with that reporter. Young Ireland. Famine. Rebellion. Exile. The memory haunted her, a nightmare she never wanted to live again: abandoned as her husband took on the role of Irish folk hero. They love their rebels in Ireland. They tell glorious tales about them and write plaintive ballads about them. But they leech their stories of blood and agony, and they forget about those left at home.

Yes, the old days. He escaped to the United States to become a
famous newspaperman while she stayed at home, practically penniless, bringing up their daughter. He wrote her beautiful letters of love, but they only made her yearn for him more. Eventually, he earned enough money to pay for their passage over to America, and they joined him in Brooklyn. Finally, they could try to build a life together.

Mary was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. She groaned as she pulled herself out of the chair. What is it this time? An angry constituent? A man in search of a job for his son? A friend in need of money? A postman handed her a special delivery letter. Probably an invitation to make another speech, she thought, so he can get into even more trouble. She smiled at her little witticism as she opened the envelope. She looked at the letter and let out a silent, hollow gasp. Then, as if she suddenly found her lost vocal cords, a horrifying wail gathered in her throat and her screaming echoed through the house.

CONOR
had lingered in McGee’s library, looking up passages on Young Ireland. He came rushing into the front room when he heard her scream. D’Arcy McGee struggled out of bed as fast as his swollen leg would allow. Dr. O’Brien followed, confused and out of place. Mary stood like a statue, transfixed by the words on the paper. Conor took the letter from her stiff hands. The short letter was printed in simple, childlike block letters: “If you say any more against Fenians, you will die.” It was unsigned. Instead, at the bottom of the page was a crude drawing of a gallows and a coffin.

By now, D’Arcy McGee had hobbled down the stairs. Conor was about to hide the letter from him, but he knew better. Without comment, he handed it to him. McGee read it grimly, showing no emotion at all. He looked at Mary and rubbed his hand through his
hair, then, like a military commander, turned to Conor and issued an order: “Get down to
The Gazette
and have this letter published immediately. Tell the editor I will spend the rest of the week preparing an article for the paper, called …” He stopped to think. “‘The Attempts to Establish Fenianism in Montreal.’ Tell him I will pull no punches. I will name names. And damn the guilty.”

In his bedclothes, leaning against the wall for support, he looked frail and vulnerable, but his eyes were alive with rage. “No more stories of the past, Conor. We’ve got a fight on our hands.” He turned toward the stairs and bellowed, “I won’t stand for this. I can’t.”

Mary watched her husband limp upstairs. She was still shivering with cold dread. No one had paid her any attention. Old words kept swirling in her mind: “To love … to love to death … to love to death my Irish wife.”

I
n Ottawa, Meg Trotter was helping her mother prepare ice cream. The day before, in the back kitchen of the Toronto House, they had made a hot custard of milk, sugar, eggs and vanilla. They had let it cool overnight. Now, Mary Ann Trotter was adding ice and salt while her daughter steadily turned the machine’s handle. Meg kept her hair tied back to keep it out of her eyes.

“Do you know that people in town call you the Widow Trotter?” Meg asked her mother.

“Of course, and I don’t mind. I loved your father very much.”

“But can’t you be known for who you are now, not who you married?”

“What do you mean, Meg?” Mary Ann Trotter knew there was something else on her daughter’s mind.

“Why does everyone judge a woman by her companion?”

“Are you thinking of Conor?”

“People have been treating me strangely. You know, different religions, different backgrounds.”