Man in the Shadows (29 page)

There was a rumbling in the audience, but Whelan ignored it. “I must say this: if I had been in the same place as one of the gentlemen of the jury, hearing the same evidence, I’d very likely bring in the same verdict. I liberate all the jurors from blame.” For a second, it looked as if he might falter, but he didn’t. “I am held to be a black assassin. And my blood runs cold. But I am innocent. I never took that man’s blood. I know I am not the murderer of the Honourable D’Arcy McGee.”

The denial exhausted Whelan. He sank back, his energy spent. He could have spoken longer, but he knew his time was up.

The clerk removed a package from a black bag and handed it to the judge. Chief Justice Richards was clearly moved, maybe even disturbed, by Whelan’s speech, but he put on a pair of black gloves, placed a black cap over his head and spoke. “The sentence of this court is that you, Patrick James Whelan, having been found guilty of the murder of Thomas D’Arcy McGee, shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.” He took off his gloves and hat and looked at the condemned man with a blend of pity and disgust. “There is no possible hope on this side of the grave. Let me urge you to make your peace with God.”

James Whelan had listened calmly to his sentence of death. As he was being led out of the prisoner’s dock, he turned to the judge and said, “All those words, my Lord, still do not make me guilty.”

CONOR
moved into a small room above a shop on Rideau Street. He went to a barber and, without explanation, had his sideburns evened out and his hair cut short. He still looked rather foolish, but it was the best he could do.

After the verdict, he went back to Sparks Street. There was a sign on the door:
THE TORONTO HOUSE IS CLOSED.
He still had a key, and he opened the door. Inside, George Desbarats, the Queen’s printer who owned the building, was chatting with a solicitor whom Conor didn’t recognize. Conor never said his name, but Mr. Desbarats greeted him warmly. “I know you have been through a lot. This is one more shock. The Trotters have moved away and instructed me to ask you kindly not to look for them.”

The solicitor added unnecessarily, “Mrs. Trotter doesn’t want anyone to know where her family has gone. I’m to deal with her affairs.”

“But her furniture is still here,” Conor protested. Everything was still in place, as if they had all just gone to the market.

“I own the building and much of the contents,” Desbarats said. “Mrs. Trotter will write me and tell me where to send her effects.” The solicitor went back to his paperwork, and George Desbarats took Conor by the arm. “You can stay here as long as you need,” he said. “Until I rent the place again, that is.”

Conor walked around the parlour, where he had often sat with Meg, where D’Arcy McGee’s body had been brought in from the cold and where he had taken Meg in his arms. But the last time they were here, Meg couldn’t stand the sight of him. She just rushed upstairs. Out of his life. Who could blame her? He was a coward who did nothing but squirm while she was violated.

“One other thing,” the solicitor said. “There was a letter left for you.” He handed Conor a scented envelope. Conor did not read it in front of the two men. He waited until he was alone in his room. It read simply,

Conor read the short note three times, then slowly started to cry—weakly at first, but the tears steadily grew until they were unrelenting. He sobbed shamelessly, like a lost child. There was no one there to comfort him.

COLONEL
O’Hagan was growing frustrated. He needed publicity. He needed action. He needed something to spur the men on. McGee’s assassination was cheered in Irish bars throughout America, but many of his soldiers were drifting back home. They were getting bored. The word from Washington was not good. President Johnson had been impeached; he had come within one vote of being thrown out of the White House, had lost the nomination of his own party and was in disgrace.

The good news was that the new president, General Ulysses S. Grant, was also interested in annexing Canada. He had called the country’s existence and actions “vexatious … unfriendly … unneighbourly.” Perfect. But President Grant had no interest in Irish nationalism or Fenian adventures. It remained up to O’Hagan to keep the cause alive. No, it was up to that man in Canada.

O’Hagan was keen to move soon, but he had not heard from him for some time. He paid attention to the trial in Ottawa, but it was largely ignored in American newspapers. Because of a useless appeal, Whelan’s hanging was delayed from December to February. How frustrating. O’Hagan had received explicit instructions from Dublin not to do a thing until their man had completed his work in Canada. His hands were tied.

So he sat in New York, waiting impatiently.

M
ary Ann Trotter hated Toronto. She had named the boarding house in Ottawa the Toronto House to bring in business from the West, not out of admiration for the city’s minor glory. Its dull streets, bland buildings and earnest citizens left her dismayed. The town had pretensions of greatness but a musty mood of mediocrity. Muddy York, Hogtown, Toronto the Good. She found Ottawa more interesting: a grimy, young logging town trying to clean itself up. Montreal was her favourite: active and lively, the centre of commerce, with a French joie de vivre. But Toronto was home, and after the attack on Meg, it was a refuge. Mary Ann took her daughter to her sister’s stylish house on Sherbourne Street. It was a Protestant area. Her family would stay in Toronto until this Fenian business ended. Then, maybe, they would move back to the capital. She would have to find a job in Toronto, and had already applied to work in the Empire Hotel.

Meg left Ottawa in a daze. She felt she owed Conor more that the cryptic letter she had left behind, but she didn’t know what to say. She wanted to disappear. She kept her shorn head covered at all times, even indoors. But she also wanted to attack. She abhorred violence, but deep down, she was ashamed to admit, she wanted revenge.

Will stayed in Ottawa with friends. It pained Mary Ann to leave
him there, but he had obligations at school and as a pageboy. He never really liked being surrounded by women at his aunt’s house, anyway.

Meg had confided to her aunt that she wanted to protect herself. She wanted to buy a gun and learn how to shoot it. Her mother would never approve, but her aunt told her about the Dominion of Canada Rifle Association. They held target practice on Tuesdays. “Perhaps they’ll take you in,” her aunt suggested.

But they wouldn’t. Meg barely got a hearing at the armouries. The men rejected her simply because she was a woman. “What does a pretty girl like you need to practise shooting for?” the lieutenant taunted her. “Get a strong man at your side.”

Meg held her ground. “Who’s in charge?” she asked.

“I am,” the auxiliary lieutenant declared.

“No, who is
really
in charge?”

“I suppose Colonel Gzowski is.”

She looked confused.

“Colonel Casimir Gzowski. Quite a character. And you’ve never heard of him?”

Gzowski. The name meant nothing to her. She couldn’t pronounce it and dared not try to spell it.

“He started the regiment,” the lieutenant continued. “He is personally funding it. If he says you can shoot, I’ll let you in.”

She memorized the strange name. Casimir Gzowski. That night, she asked her aunt if she had ever heard of this man and got an earful back. “He’s only one of the most powerful businessmen in Toronto,” she responded.

“Why the regiment?”

“Apparently, he was so incensed with the Fenian raids that he organized a militia to defend Canada, even sponsoring shooting teams to go to England for competitions.”

“Fenians again,” Mary Ann interjected. Meg didn’t realize that her mother had been listening.

“Well, he knows a thing or two about revolutionary movements, having been part of one in Poland,” her aunt told her.

“Good Lord! Is everyone a former rebel in this country?” Meg exclaimed.

“He’s no rebel now. I hear he’s a great favourite of Queen Victoria’s.”

“Why do you want to know about him?” Mary Ann Trotter asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I heard his peculiar name and just wondered,” Meg said.

“Well, I know him. He stayed at the boarding house and filled the place with stories one week when you were in London. I can arrange a meeting if you wish. Maybe he can help you get a job. I presume that what’s you want.”

Meg neglected to tell her otherwise.

MEG
expected Colonel Gzowski’s King Street office to be over a bank, or in suites shared with other firms, but his engineering business consumed an entire building. Meg was led into his private office, where he was hovering over blueprints and scowling. “Come here, young lady, and look at this. If I get my way, there will be parkland and walkways all along the Toronto waterfront, but the cheapskate politicians won’t spend the money and the railwaymen want all the land.”

No introduction. No hello. Just straight to his business plans.

“I’m all for railways and money, but there should be land for the people.” She had a bit of a problem following his English. Apparently, he learned the language—his fifth—when he arrived in New York a decade ago. She looked at the blueprints for the Toronto waterfront and feigned interest.

She felt pleasantries were in order. “I’m Meg Trotter from Ottawa,” she said. “I am Mary Ann Trotter’s daughter. My aunt spoke to you.”

He had been leaning over the paper. When he stood, he towered over her. He was an imposing man with an upright military bearing. He looked down on her with piercing, enquiring eyes. “You weren’t at your mother’s charming establishment when I was there.”

“No, sir, I was in London.”

He nodded. “Good choice.”

She looked around the large, profusely decorated room. His writing desk was enormous. Other tables were strewn with more blueprints and contracts and whatever else she couldn’t tell. There was a large family crest over the mantle and a fire burning furiously in the fireplace. The crest had a ram in the centre of it, with a cross or a sword in its back. Probably a sword, she thought, skewering the poor sheep. A beautifully ornate chessboard was set up in the corner. It looked as if a game was under way.

“So,” she asked, “was Mr. McGee there when you were at my mother’s boarding house?”

“Some of the time. We sang songs by the piano. Do you play as well as your mother?”

“Regrettably, no. Do you go to Ottawa often?”

“Regrettably, yes.” He smiled at his answer. “My business often takes me there. Usually, I stay at the Russell House. Connections, you know. I must say your mother’s company is better, but there is no place in Ottawa like the Russell’s bar.”

She found his accent rather charming, but was having a little trouble following him.

“When I met your mother, I was trying to get our complacent prime minister to take the military seriously. We don’t have a standing army. We don’t even have a military school. We can’t depend on
Britain anymore. We have to get serious. Mr. McGee and I talked for hours about the Fenians, and I came back to Toronto and started a regiment. As an example, as much as anything.”

“I heard you are a man of action,” she said.

“An interesting phrase. I get things done. I grew up in a country prone to invasion. I didn’t like it.”

He walked over to the mantle. He might be the tallest person she had ever met.

“But what about you? You want a job, I assume. I’m always looking for bright young people. Right now, I could use someone who can write. I need help because my English is poor.”

His English sounded remarkably good to Meg. In fact, he had a pleasant, rather calming voice, once you were accustomed to the accent.

“I can write, but that’s not why I’m here. I actually have a request you might find peculiar. I want to take target practice with your auxiliary regiment.”

“Peculiar indeed,” he said. “What kind of young woman wants to learn how to shoot? And why?”

“I’d rather not say.”

He seemed amused by her conviction. “Tell me, are you like those American women I’ve read about who dressed as men to fight in the Civil War?”

“No, I loathe war. I want protection.”

“Is someone threatening you?”

Again she ignored the direct question. “I don’t see why a woman can’t take target practice.”

“I suppose I don’t see why not, either. Convention, I presume.” He thought for a second. “Yes, you can shoot. I’ll instruct the regiment.” And he added, “Remember, I’m looking for bright young people to work for me.”

She thought of Conor. In fact, she was almost always thinking of Conor.

MEG
was a natural. At first, the gun’s recoil surprised her and she wildly missed the target, but she learned to compensate. Aim patiently and precisely. Squeeze the trigger delicately. Fire calmly. The soldiers and volunteers watched her as if she was a novelty, and she supposed that she was. One young man said, loud enough for her to hear, “I was told to touch the trigger like a woman’s nipple.” The group giggled. She looked directly at him. The laughter stopped and the soldier who cracked the joke turned away.

She wasn’t going to be intimidated again.

IT
was not an easy delivery. Lady Macdonald went to the General Hospital in the middle of a cold February night and delivered a baby girl. They named her Margaret Mary Theodora. They would call her Mary. D’Arcy McGee’s wife’s name. A new life. It filled the Macdonalds with joy and hope.

Mary Macdonald was born three days before James Whelan was to hang.

JAMES
Whelan sat in his cell, listening to the hammering. He recited his catechism, trying to escape the interminable pounding of nails. But he couldn’t drown it out, and he felt each nail as it pierced the wood. He heard the workers chatter and make jokes as they went about their business. He knew they were not skilled labourers. They didn’t have to be. They were building a temporary stage with rough, unpainted wood. They were building his scaffold.