Man in the Shadows (2 page)

Before leaving, he had a final duty. His father had slept through the morning symphonies of roosters and bells, but he had to get ready for work. Conor gingerly shook the snoring mass in the other bed, dreading the reaction. Thomas O’Dea had worked the late shift at Lapierre’s Tavern and was working today. Conor wanted to let him sleep, but he knew Thomas had some deliveries to make before the first shift. Somehow, his father’s problems became his fault. He had better make sure Thomas wouldn’t be late.

“It’s time to get up, Da,” Conor whispered. His father moved with the prodding.

“Yeah, off with you, then,” he growled.

And Conor O’Dea scurried into the streets of Ottawa’s Lowertown.

LOWERTOWN.
Market stalls, taverns and brothels. Yelling hustlers and haggling customers, fishmongers and farmers, butchers and bullies all peddling their wares amid hungry street urchins and deft pick-pockets. The Byward Market in Lowertown was a frenetic opera stage featuring the best and worst of humanity just under Parliament’s tower. Conor absorbed it all. The sun had been shining throughout the week, and for a change the streets were not covered in mud. Instead, Conor coughed dust and gagged on the sulphuric stew of outhouse and sawmill smells.

Conor smiled at those he recognized as he passed by. Mrs. O’Connell was putting some fruit on a wheelbarrow. He wandered over. “And how’s my favourite woman?” She threw him an apple. Breakfast.

“You’re skin and bones, my boy. Those books you read don’t give you strength.”

“I’ll pay you on a Thursday,” he promised, emphasizing the Irish lilt. He would sound very different a mile from here.

“You’ll not be payin’ me, and you know it. You and your fancy clothes.”

He bit into the fruit. “Thanks, Mrs. O.” It sounded more like “tanks.” This was a daily ritual, and Conor appreciated it. He knew that many of the older women in Lowertown worried about him—a determined young man and his sometimes-derelict father. They kept an eye on him and helped the O’Deas with the occasional meal, especially during the holidays. A few of the mothers thought Conor might be a good match for their daughters, but he had never shown much interest in the neighbourhood servant girls and dressmakers.

Conor looked completely out of place in his suit and tie, amid labourers and layabouts in open shirts and ripped jackets. He dodged the farm animals roaming about the squalor in the streets—pigs,
cows, hens and those noisy roosters—trying to protect his worn but well-polished shoes. He nodded to a few women sweeping out doorways or throwing out night soil and avoided more than one rumpled man lying on the street, fast asleep. One drunk was still desperately hugging an empty bottle. He looked familiar. Conor had probably seen him at Lapierre’s over the years. And, of course, there were the street people huddled in doorways. A mother holding her child looked up at Conor as he walked by. If there had been any spare money in his pocket, he might have given her some.

“Hey, Cookie,” someone called from an open window, “why the getup?” Conor knew the voice. It was a skidder from up the Opeongo Line; a logger in town throwing his money around. The madame of the house would soon be sending him packing. Conor waved a friendly but simple hello. He hated being called Cookie. He’d grown from a cook’s assistant in a logging camp to a parliamentary assistant in a logging town. His other nickname in the logging camp was Bookie, because his nose was so often stuck in a book. He didn’t like hearing any reminders of his rough past.

“Will you make me breakfast, Cookie?” the skidder joked.

Conor ignored him. He crossed the Rideau Canal at Sappers Bridge and headed along the wooden plank sidewalk on Wellington Street into another world. From Lowertown to Uppertown.

THE
height of land that dominated Ottawa’s Uppertown had been called Barracks Hill, and it housed soldiers before 1857, when Queen Victoria surprised everyone and chose the backwoods town as the capital of Canada. “An arctic lumber village,” some wag said, and he wasn’t far off. But any place could be refurbished. So out went the soldiers and in came the architects, stonemasons and tradesmen. A grand stone building burst out of the ordinary streets on the bank
of the Ottawa River. Barracks Hill became Parliament Hill, and a palace of power peered down on the citizenry below.

Uppertown was a grid of new houses and shops. The streets were wider and the buildings more substantial than in Lowertown. Water was routinely delivered by horse and wagon, and night soil was picked up daily. Often Conor would linger along Rideau or Wellington Street, admiring the merchandise on display. But not today. He had his sights on Parliament Hill.

He arrived far too early—the ceremony would not begin until eleven o’clock—but he knew he would have some conniving to perform to earn a front-row seat, and that would take time. Beads of sweat were already forming under stray hairs on the back of his neck. It was going to be a swelteringly hot day. He slapped at a mosquito and looked at his hand. There was blood. How the mosquitoes love me, he thought, and flashed that engaging, vulnerable smile his father had told him was so like his mother’s.

“I’m here,” he said to no one in particular. “So let’s get started.”

A
mile away in the new suburb of Sandy Hill, John A. Macdonald was nursing a hangover. He had toasted the new Dominion perhaps a dozen times too many the night before. He had shaken the hands of his opponents, slapped the backs of his colleagues and shocked many of their wives with a ribald story or two. He had had a wonderful time. And now he sought help.

“Agnes, where’s my blasted sash?”

“Hanging up, dear.”

“Where’s my damned sword?”

“Where you left it, I suppose.”

By the time John Macdonald was ready to leave Quadrilateral, his rented house on Daly Street, he had asked his young wife the
whereabouts of just about every piece of formal clothing he owned. He had found the headache potion himself, not wanting to disturb her with his problems, or open the door to a scolding.

“A cocktail suits me more than a cocked hat,” he muttered to himself.

His headache wasn’t helped by the stench on the main floor. “Those damned useless drains,” he whined. “This house smells like a …” He almost used a coarse word, then smiled to himself. “It smells like a necessary room.” His wife could hardly disagree. Since coming to Ottawa, she had consulted carpenters and handymen, but there was little anyone could do to relieve the unpleasant smell until the city built a new drainage system. In London, modern water closets were being installed—at least for the few who could afford them—but that was not on anyone’s plan for this aspiring lumber town.

“It’s no worse today, dear. It may just be that you’re feeling a bit under the weather.”

“No, I’m fit as a fiddle.” And, he thought, three fingers of whisky would be just the ticket right now.

Agnes Macdonald knew the day’s schedule by heart. Her brother, Hewitt Bernard, was her husband’s private secretary, and they often conspired to free some of his time for her. Lunch with his cabinet would mean drinks with his cabinet, so she had convinced Hewitt to book him a few hours of rest in the afternoon. But one afternoon meeting with an insistent policeman could not be moved. “Irish business,” her brother said. And she resented it.

She looked her husband over judiciously. A peculiar face, she thought, but one that emanated distinctive charm. Or devilish charm. He loved dressing well and had somewhat flamboyant tastes, at least in Agnes’s view. Today he could indulge his love of colour. He was dressed in full formal regalia: bright red jacket with gold
embroidery. A sword was sheathed treacherously by his side. She thought he looked a bit wobbly this morning.

“Watch your step or you’ll trip,” she warned. “You don’t know what you may cut off.”

He took a few practice steps, trying not to let the sword swing. Deftly, Agnes moved the sword out of harm’s way. “What did you ever do without me?” she asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he answered, clutching his sword. “I really don’t know.”

There were many things John A. Macdonald didn’t know on that sunny July morning. He was uncertain about the political union he was forging. Was there really the will to build a nation? He was unsure of the West. Would he be able to talk British Columbia into entering Confederation if he could build a railway? And could they build a road through those infernal mountains? He was nervous about the East. Nova Scotia was talking of leaving before they had even started. He knew he had practically bought the New Brunswick election. Could he talk the East into helping fund the railway? He was always doubtful about his own political power. Would he stay one step ahead of his enemies? Could he control the factions in this land of religious and language divisions? He had won more battles than he had lost, but there were many ahead. What compromises, what chicanery would be needed to stay the course?

He grimaced and closed his eyes to relieve the pain.

He knew it would be a day of both celebration and mourning—festivities and funerals staged side by side, buildings covered in flags confronting buildings draped in black. Amid the cheers and toasts of the new Canadians, there were many who preferred being Nova Scotians, New Brunswickers, Ontarians or Quebecers. They had not asked for this political union, and they didn’t care if it lived or died. Distinct, squabbling, practically ungovernable British colonies would
be pasted together today. It would be his job as the first prime minister of Canada to make the glue stick.

And there was something else he didn’t know. When he and his wife left Quadrilateral, they had no idea that they were being watched. The newly laid-out streets of Sandy Hill, just east and a little south of Parliament Hill, were filled with people from all walks of life—gentry, servants, shopkeepers—so John Macdonald paid no attention to a man lingering across the street.

As he helped her into the carriage, Agnes Macdonald whispered demurely, “I can lean on no other arm like yours.” Macdonald sat back contentedly and called out to the driver, “Buckley, take us to the office.”

It would have been simple, the man across the street thought, lifting the collar of his old grey coat. A flick of the blade and a slit throat. So easy. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet.

He pulled from his pocket the piece of paper that the insufferable colonel had given him. He checked the address on Sussex Street and the name. “O’Dea.” He decided he had best hurry.

C
onor O’Dea looked at his timepiece. It didn’t work properly, but it gave an approximation of the hour. And it looked sophisticated. Parliament Hill was starting to fill with people, but to his dismay they were mainly common folks who were happy to stay outside and enjoy the weather. He needed a contact, someone to get him in the building. From afar he spotted Will Trotter, in his formal pageboy outfit, and a plan came into shape.

“Will, how are you?” In their fraying black suits with tails, starched collars propping their heads up, Conor thought the pageboys looked like penguins, and he often told them so.

“I’m fine, Conor. What are you doing here? Do you have an invitation to go inside?”

“Not exactly, but you might help.” He flashed a smile.

As a pageboy, young Will had a pass into the Centre Block. He was only sixteen years old, but he had influence beyond his position and his age because he had long been a favourite of John Macdonald’s. Rumour had it that Will served Macdonald gin in his water goblet during long debates.

“Where’s Mr. McGee?” Will asked. “I didn’t see him this morning.”

“He’s in Toronto. That’s why I’m here.” Conor built on his story, knowing Will would go along with whatever he said. “Mr. McGee
couldn’t be here, so he wanted me to take his place. Be his representative. He just never got around to getting me a pass.”

Will Trotter knew D’Arcy McGee well. McGee rented a room at his mother’s boarding house when he was in Ottawa. He looked at Conor with mocked sternness. “Are you lying?” he asked.

“Of course.” Conor smiled impishly.

Will grinned back at him. “In that case, follow me. I’ll get you in.”

“You wouldn’t have a flask of water handy, would you?” Conor asked mischievously as they entered the Centre Block.

JOHN
and Agnes Macdonald arrived on Parliament Hill just before eleven o’clock. They paused outside, greeting people and smiling at the crowd until the other politicians and dignitaries had arrived. She was escorted off to sit with the ladies and he waited outside, chatting with Buckley. Macdonald wanted to be the last person to enter the building, to create a grand entrance, and he wanted a little more time for the headache potion to take effect before he had to meet his colleagues. Even today, someone was sure to say something that would only make his head ache even more.

Inside the foyer, there was a stir of excitement. A police constable pushed Conor O’Dea aside. It was approaching eleven; the procession was beginning. Conor held his ground and watched as each politician entered. The July sun glowed like a spotlight on them, but as they entered the building, they faded into darkness.

George-Étienne Cartier, the lawyer and great nation builder from Canada East (or Quebec, as it would now officially be called), arrived first. He looked very much in charge: his back straight, his eyes fixed forward, and his manner at once cavalier and dignified. Conor was always surprised at how short he was. The talk of his mistress in Montreal who wore trousers and smoked cigars intrigued
Conor. The portly Alexander Galt strutted a bit. Macdonald often joked that Galt’s constituents were the rich and the powerful, but Conor knew it was Galt who had come up with the original design for Confederation nine long years ago. He had the right to strut a bit. Leonard Tilley, the teetotaller from New Brunswick, followed as if sprinkling the holy water of religious calm and resolve. The parade continued. One bewhiskered gentleman after another.

Finally, John A. Macdonald entered, walking jauntily but still seeming to take his time. While his eyes adjusted to the darker hall, he winked at friendly faces and waved to admirers. With each step, he did his best not to damage himself with his ceremonial sword. Meanwhile, his head continued to pound, steadily and unrelentingly.