Man in the Shadows (20 page)

McMicken listened politely and continued his prepared report. “Meanwhile, the Fenians continue to gather a militia. Mainly out-of-work soldiers looking for a bit of adventure.”

“Back to what you said about Montreal,” Macdonald interrupted. “I thought you had a man on the inside there?”

“We had, but he died.”

Sir John just stared at his spymaster, his expression hardening.

“I was going to get to that, sir,” McMicken explained. “You see,
he was the person killed that night at McGee’s headquarters. Our man must have been exposed, and he was killed in the melee.”

Sir John A. Macdonald’s eyes widened. He knew that when McMicken left, he would finish the bottle.

MEG
was about to post her letter to Conor when a hand reached out and grabbed her from behind. “It’s a letter to the Papist, isn’t it?” It was one of the boys who had earlier threatened her. She struggled, trying to pull her hand away, but he held tight. Two others appeared beside him. Three more lurked nearby.

“We told you, Meg,” the one holding her arm said. “Forget Conor O’Dea, or there will be trouble.”

He released her hand, and Conor’s letter fell to the ground.

It was the same group as before. The leader of the pack was the son of a well-known Orangeman. She didn’t know any of them very well, except the drummer from the parade. He looked a little ashamed to be there. She was sure of his name now: Daniel. Aware of the power she had over boys, she turned directly to him. “Daniel, what right do you have to threaten me?”

He cowered, but the one who had grabbed her answered, “We’re not threatening you, Meg. We’re just giving you some advice: stick to your own kind.”

She felt a rush of bravery surge up her spine. It stabilized her and focused her mind. No one was going to hurt her just because she was seeing Conor. This was a civilized country. They would just call her names—but so what? She stood her ground. “Leave me alone,” she ordered, defiantly.

The ringleader reached out and touched her hair. “You’re very beautiful, Meg. I don’t want to see you hurt.” He released her hair slowly, strand by strand. “Come on, lads, she’s got the message.” He
started to walk away, casually, as if it had just been a friendly chat. The others followed.

She called out to the one named Daniel, who lagged behind. “What do you think you are doing?” She knew she sounded like her mother, and she liked the sound of it.

“Meg, people are really angry,” he said, sincerely. “We’re only trying to help. If you stay with him, you’ll … you’ll go to hell.”

He turned and ran to catch up to the others. Those fools, Meg thought. Those stupid, bigoted fools! She bent over to pick up Conor’s letter and her hair fell in her eyes. As she pushed it back, she realized that her hand was shaking—in anger, and in fear.

THOMAS
O’Dea lay sprawled on an old hard-backed chair. He wondered what his childhood friends were doing in Ireland and how his family was getting on. He missed the patchwork fields of Connemara and the streets of Galway. Was it Ireland he longed for? Or those youthful days with his wife? It hardly mattered. He was now a wreck of a man, crushed by life and defeated by his adopted British country.

Conor had asked him how his mother would have reacted. Thomas had to concede that was a good question. Maybe Margaret would have loved it here, found the newness of everything exciting, the harsh, untamed wilderness enchanting. But he knew better. There was nothing new about another British nation, and there was nothing enchanting about the tall white pines that towered up the Ottawa Valley—wood for ships’ masts and fine British homes. There was nothing good about the cheap wooden stakes he had hammered together to mark her grave.

If she had lived, maybe they would have homesteaded; built a house, farmed some land, made a life. Instead, he had applied as a teamster upriver, hauling sleighs piled with timber from the cutting
section to the river. He was a good worker, and that impressed the bosses. At times, he liked the challenge, piling as many as fifty huge white pine logs on one sleigh, and he admired the strength and stamina of the big Clydesdales. But it was perilous work trudging along icy skid roads, carefully balancing the logs, sitting on top of the precarious pyramid. Every day, he risked his neck up and down hills, in weather so cold he saw men cry in agony. It was winter work, and it kept him employed half a year. In the summers, while the raftsmen guided the logs downriver, he went downriver himself and tended bar. He would help his fellow lumbermen literally drink away their earnings.

At first, he had to beg the bosses to let him keep Conor in the camp. Thomas was a good enough worker for them to accept his son as long as he didn’t eat too much or keep the men up at night. He never indulged Conor, but he did protect and shelter him. A sympathetic cook helped Thomas care for the growing boy, and he was soon put to work boiling salt pork, stirring thin, greasy soup, fetching hemlock to add some flavour to the tea. Conor worked hard, getting up without complaint at four o’clock every morning, and people liked him. If they didn’t they would have to face Thomas. One skidder, “Cockeye” George McNee from Arnprior, had it in for him. “There’s something high and mighty about that boy of yours,” he complained to Thomas. “Who does he think he is?” He said it only once, though. Thomas O’Dea was a hard man, too.

Tex wandered into the camp when Conor was maybe twelve, an educated man from a wealthy family experiencing life by working as a labourer. He was slumming, as far as Thomas was concerned, and that was demeaning. But Conor adored him. Thomas considered keeping Conor away from him, but he knew he would be acting out of jealousy, so he paid Tex to work with his son on his reading and writing.

What would Margaret think of that? She might think Thomas was brave and selfless. And a damn good father. What did Conor think? Thomas suspected he thought his father was an imbecile and not worthy to share a shanty with the likes of Tex.

Then, one season, a widow-maker—a stray branch as thick as any tree he’d seen in Ireland—skidded off the sleigh and sent Thomas tumbling into six feet of snow. He almost suffocated. He couldn’t move; his leg was broken, his back wrenched and his usefulness to the logging company over. The cook couldn’t properly set his leg, and whatever the fall did to his back, the pain never left him.

In Ottawa, any pride he had left was drowning in whisky. He watched his son slipping away from him, steadily and cruelly. Until the final break. Anger and bitterness now consumed him: he could feel it, taste it, smell it, even see it, until it nearly blinded him.

He looked up at the gun he kept on the shelf under a cloth. It would be easy just to end it. Relief from the pain. Escape.

And then his senses sharpened. He felt another presence in the room. In the dark corner, someone was standing there, silently staring at him. He hadn’t heard him enter.

“Who are you?” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I am an Irish patriot with a question for you, Thomas O’Dea: Do you love Ireland?”

Thomas’s mind raced. The accent was city-Irish, from Dublin, but was this a British trick?

“I understand you’re a man loyal to our cause,” the stranger continued. “And you’ve good reason for hating Canada.”

“Perhaps I have,” Thomas responded, suspiciously. “But this is my room and you are uninvited, so I ask you again, who the hell are you?”

“I am a soldier. From the brotherhood.”

Thomas’s heart missed a beat. A soldier. An Irish soldier. He asked, “What do you want of me?”

The stranger took off his coat and placed it on a chair. He still had not moved from the dark corner, so Thomas had yet to get a good look at his face.

“I just need some friends in Ottawa,” he said faintly. “I need someone to assist me if I require it, to give me shelter if I ask for it.”

“How?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Why?”

The question was met with steely silence.
He
was to ask the questions, not Thomas O’Dea. He said simply, “Are you with me?”

Thomas wasn’t sure. Was this man offering him a chance to do something with his shattered life? Or the opposite?

“Your son works for McGee—”

“I have no son,” Thomas interrupted. “Not anymore.”

The mysterious man in the shadows grinned openly. Thomas caught a flash of yellowing teeth behind a half-grown beard.

The mention of Conor had enraged him, and Thomas felt a surge of defiance. He and this man might have much in common. “Will you have a cup of tea?” Thomas asked, his Irish brogue sounding more pronounced than usual. “Or a whisky?”

“No. I’ve work to do,” the stranger answered, throwing his coat back over his shoulders. But he added, “I’ll see you later … my friend.”

This time when he closed the door, Thomas O’Dea heard the sound.

WALKING
along gaslit Sussex Street, the man in the grey coat allowed himself to relax. He was pleased, almost content. The election in Montreal had been a fiasco. McGee was faltering. Macdonald was scared. He had people in place in Montreal and Ottawa. And now he had a potential accomplice: Thomas O’Dea in his pathetic little
room. It was perfect. Not only would O’Dea go along with everything he needed, but he was the ideal person to take the fall. After all, he had a motive: that wretched son of his. He smiled. Conor O’Dea. What an insignificant blunderer he was, going around asking anyone who knew the difference between a Jamesons and a Bushmills who was causing trouble in Montreal, and sitting there beside his darling McGee while he “interviewed” the turncoat. Well done, young Mr. O’Dea. What a detective you are. I may just give you more cases to investigate.

He laughed out loud.

IT
was just a chance meeting, and it could easily have resulted in a quick, merciless death. The assassin had done the unthinkable: he had let his defences down and allowed his mind to wander. A few blocks from Thomas O’Dea’s room, he heard a sound from behind. “Hey, I know you. We met in Montreal.”

His back stiffened like that of an alert dog. Who was this? Who knew him? He walked a bit faster, trying not to attract attention and pretending not to have heard the fool.

“It’s me … Jim Whelan.”

His fingers tightened around the knife in his coat pocket. The man was alongside him now.

“We met in Jolicoeur’s, remember? We sure gave that bastard McGee a good run for his money.”

He stopped and slowly turned to see who this babbling idiot was. The Irish accent was unmistakable, and yes, he did recognize the face. He was one of Barney Devlin’s boys. A pretty good tomato thrower, as he recalled.

“Patrick James Whelan’s my name,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “Most people call me Jim.”

The assassin shook his right hand, still clutching the knife in his pocket with his left.

“I see you’re growing a beard.”

He answered Whelan’s friendly chatter with a simple grunt.

“What are you doing in Ottawa?” Whelan persisted.

“Business,” the man in the grey coat muttered.

He stared at this friendly man as a jaguar might study its prey. Whelan’s was not one of the names on the list the tedious colonel had given him, so he was not officially a Fenian, but he had taken note of this man when he was in Montreal. Whelan spent a lot of time with Irish patriots and seemed to seek people’s approval. That was interesting. He remembered that he had also said something at Jolicoeur’s Saloon about wanting to see McGee dead. That was useful.

Whelan was of medium height and dressed rather well for this backwoods town. A bushy red beard took up much of his face. He looked at the world through eager but confused eyes. Still, all in all, he carried himself well. In the right light, under the proper conditions, it could be said that he and Whelan almost looked alike.

“Why are you in Ottawa?” he finally asked.

“I work here now.” Whelan was relieved to be asked a question. “I left the wife in Montreal so I could make some money when Parliament’s in session. The politicians will be coming back soon.” Whelan remembered that this man was not much of a talker, and he rather regretted stopping him, but he was lonely in Ottawa and it was nice to see a familiar face. “I’m a tailor, you see,” Whelan continued, “and there’s lots of work here with those politicians always trying to look their best.” He chuckled at his own joke while the man in the grey coat studied him. A friendly creature, he thought. Friendly to a fault.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” Whelan prodded.

“Marshall,” he responded. And he smiled. Incredibly, this was the second time he had smiled in one night.

He could use a backup, and this tailor would do nicely. A Barney Devlin boy here in Ottawa—one who was never too shy, or too quiet, about his hatred of McGee. Yes, it was a perfect fit. Maybe better than Thomas O’Dea.

He released the knife from his grip and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Whelan, let me buy you a drink.”

SHE
didn’t want him to go. He was still too weak and he needed time to rest and heal, but Mary McGee could not control her husband. If Parliament was in session, he had to be there. She knew she was no match against the pull of duty and the attraction of Parliament’s theatre. They were standing on the platform, waiting for the train to be called.

As the train to Ottawa rumbled into the station, he whispered in her ear, “One year. That’s all I want. I will resign my seat in a year.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“I just want to make sure this Confederation adventure stays on track.”

“Should I believe you, D’Arcy?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I really think I do.”

He squeezed her right arm softly, kissed her more politely than passionately, then called out, “Conor, you whiskered dawdler, let’s go.”

Conor, who had been hovering a few yards away to give husband and wife private time together, looked at Mary McGee sympathetically, as if to say, “Going to Ottawa … It’s not my fault.”

And he left with D’Arcy McGee.