For almost two weeks, Conor had been staying at Mrs. Trotter’s Toronto House. She gave him chores to do, supposedly to pay for his room and board, but he knew he was a charity case. He had given them an edited story of what had happened with his father. Even fragments of Thomas’s experiences were met with great sympathy.
He couldn’t tell what his relationship was with Meg. Friend or something potentially more than that? She obviously enjoyed his company. He found himself becoming more comfortable with her, but there were doors he left shut. Especially about his past. Meg suggested he approach Thomas to try to reconcile, but Conor bristled. “Not yet!” It was the only time he had spoken sternly to her, and neither wanted it repeated.
At Mrs. Trotter’s table, dinner was a treat. It was how he imagined a college seminar would be—engaged, inquisitive, challenging. She encouraged Conor to talk history and politics with Will, and asked him to tell stories he had heard from D’Arcy McGee. He loved showing how he knew the men behind the political spectacle. He even mimicked McGee’s style and inflection. He recounted one night in Lapierre’s when Macdonald initiated a bunfight by attacking Liberal MPs who didn’t get some joke. Will and Meg loved Conor’s anecdotes. Mrs. Trotter scolded him. “I was hoping you would talk of legislation and political enterprise.” But Conor knew she also loved a good story.
Conor told one story he knew Mrs. Trotter would find interesting because she admired the middle road of compromise and conciliation. In the heated days before Confederation, a Grit backbencher who always voted against Macdonald fell ill and was away for months. On his return, Macdonald crossed the floor, shook his hand and declared, “I’m delighted to see you back in good health so you can get on voting against me.” The man didn’t become a Macdonald supporter, but from then on was absent for many key votes.
“Hmm. Have you told Mr. McGee that story?” Mary Ann Trotter asked.
At night, Conor was in a kind of torment, just down the hall from Meg, so tantalizingly close that it drove him nearly senseless. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he would awake and yearn to knock on Meg’s door, but he was certain she would be insulted by such effrontery. And so she should. He must act like a gentleman. And there was always the prying eye of Mrs. Trotter. What if she heard him? He shuddered to think of it.
MID-JULY to most Ontario Protestants meant only one thing: the Orange Parade. The brash display of Protestant power was illegal in most of the Empire, but not in Canada, and certainly not in “Loyal True Blue and Orange” Ontario. Conor had spent most Julys in Ottawa but had never gone near an Orange Parade. All he knew about the Glorious Twelfth was that it was a Protestant day and it was wise for Papists to lie low. He didn’t know a single Roman Catholic who had been to an Orange Parade. That piqued his curiosity, and his daring. “No one can keep me away from anything,” he told Meg.
His father’s terrible story had sparked in him a new willingness to judge British values. All his life, he had casually accepted the greatness of the Empire as a matter of course. Now he was learning that its glory came with trappings and its power came from brutality. He needed to discover what, and who, made up this country. Maybe then he could better understand his father, and himself.
For a week, he had urged Meg to join him. “I just want to peek behind the fence,” he insisted. “I won’t infect the crowd.” He rubbed his red hair and joked, “I’ll even wear a bowler hat and cover up.”
Reluctantly, she agreed. “You won’t like what you see,” she warned. “And neither might I.”
As they left the Sparks Street boarding house, Mary Ann Trotter pulled Conor aside. “Be careful,” she said. “Please be careful.”
CONOR O’Dea was the only Roman Catholic in the crowd as the soldiers marched on July 12, 1867. “King Billy” majestically led the parade on his gleaming white horse. Conor noticed that it was actually Matthew Lindsay, who ran a dry-goods store on Rideau Street. Mr. Lindsay was a quiet sort with simple tastes, a stalwart of the Methodist church, a teetotaller, a family man who never wore anything brighter than a grey suit. Today, he was resplendent in flowing wig and garish uniform. Today, he was William of Orange—the conqueror of Ireland.
The marchers behind him wore bowler hats and orange sashes and strutted proudly. If you failed to notice the sea of orange sashes, they sang about it, over and over again.
In bygone days of yore
And on the Twelfth I love to wear
The sash my father wore.
The sash. The Protestant symbol of supremacy. The Glorious Twelfth. On July 12, 1690, King William of Orange crushed the Irish by the shore of the Boyne River. To Protestant loyalists, the Battle of the Boyne solidified Britain’s righteous rule over Ireland. To Irish Catholics, the Orange Parade was a heinous reminder of the day Britain strengthened its grip on Ireland’s throat.
Conor tried to look into the eyes of the marchers. He saw some of Will’s friends and some he thought were his. He asked Meg, “Is it true that most Protestants are members of the Orange Lodge?”
“About a third, I read somewhere.” She smiled at a drummer she knew. Her smile was too friendly. It infuriated Conor.
“I know some of these marchers, too,” he said. He wondered who the drummer was.
“I know lots of them,” she answered, her eyes following the parade’s progress. “My father was an Orangeman, you know.” Her words hit Conor like the kick of a mule. He knew the power the lodges held and that every Orangeman wasn’t a bigot, but still, her father! “It was the fastest way to get a job,” she continued, unaware how her words were affecting him. “Especially in Toronto.”
All his life, he had heard the taunts of the Protestant bullies, had listened to his father complain about the oppressive Orangemen, but he had ignored it all as idiocy and fanaticism. But these marchers were neither idiots nor fanatics. That was the most horrifying part of it. They were businessmen, teachers, politicians and clergy—everyday people, some of stature and importance, marching in a solid line.
At the end of the parade, the youngest boys marched, perhaps the most proudly of all. The future. They chanted another catchy tune:
Titter totter, holy water
Slaughter the Catholics every one.
If that won’t do
We’ll cut them in two
And make them live under the Orange and Blue.
Conor’s ears rang with the sound of bigotry. What was he doing, standing in the crowd, watching King Billy’s soldiers parade? What was he doing with an Orangeman’s daughter?
“You know that we aren’t still members of the lodge,” she said, reading his thoughts.
“Then what are you?” he asked, not intending to sound as cruel as his words came out.
“I’m a person, that’s all.”
Conor didn’t answer. It wasn’t that simple. People were categorized: winners and losers, good guys and bad, us and them.
The marchers started another chant:
Up the long ladder
And down the short rope,
Hurrah for King Billy
To hell with the Pope.
Meg blushed, appalled and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Conor,” she said. “I’m so ashamed.” She took his arm and held it for comfort.
“It’s all right,” he answered, vacantly. “I understand.”
But he didn’t understand. And she knew it. No matter what self-styled religion her mother practised, the fact remained that Conor had fallen for an Orangeman’s daughter. They were from different worlds.
He had seen the soul of British North America, and it certainly was not all right.
ON July 12, on a New Jersey field, Colonel Patrick O’Hagan watched the troops marching and smiled with satisfaction. These were experienced soldiers who had tasted battle and were eager for more. They knew a soldier’s discipline and a victor’s honour.
His plan was starting to take shape. Lakes Huron, Erie and Ontario would be occupied by the Fenian navy. It would be expensive, but Fenian bonds were selling well, and it wasn’t as if there was such a thing as a Canadian navy. If the Great Lakes were controlled, Toronto would soon fall. Montreal was the Roman Catholic centre of Canada, and he was sure the French Canadians would prefer Fenians to Orangemen. He hoped they would actually welcome him as a liberator. He would lead the glorious march north to Montreal himself if General O’Neill agreed. At the same time, a unit from San Francisco would invade British holdings on Vancouver Island and the Fraser River country. There shouldn’t be much of a fight: except for Victoria, which was hopelessly British, most of the people in British Columbia were Americans who had headed north in search of gold. They would welcome the invaders.
He saluted the soldiers as they marched past, singing the Fenian marching song:
Many battles have we won,
Along with boys in blue.
And we’ll go and conquer Canada,
For we’ve nothing else to do.
O’Hagan laughed at the ditty. He knew the power of a marching song. It motivated the men and legitimized the cause. He had recently composed a proclamation for General O’Neill to sign, which would soon be sent to Canada. He had laboured over the wording and knew it by heart. Not a marching song, but marching orders:
A Fenian army is being equipped in the interest of Irish liberty throughout the world. It will be soon again summoned to the field in the cause of Irish nationality, and will warn its enemies that the arrogance of British power must and shall be stricken down. Fifty thousand armed patriots will march. Let every devotee of the sunburst of Erin prepare to strike for his country and God.
The President and Commander-in-Chief
The Irish Republican Army
Wordy, but you needed extravagant language to make a point. He had actually sent even more flowery proclamations north. This one was direct and to the point. It was more than a threat: it announced that the liberators were coming; it was a call to arms. And he loved the new name, the Irish Republican Army. By the time he made the proclamation public in August, Canada would be in an election and he would have had a chance to meet with politicians in Washington. It still stung that they turned back after the Battle of Ridgeway. But this time a real battalion was preparing, and he had that man laying the groundwork in Canada. They would not fail again.
At best, the United States would recognize a Fenian country, New Ireland, to their north. He would be just as happy to present President Johnson with new northern states maybe someday under his command. Those were dreams. Simply holding the country for ransom would be fine. If the Fenian army took Canada by force—essentially kidnapping the country—they would name a free Ireland as the ransom price. The British Parliament would have to submit.
A few obstacles stood in their way. This character Macdonald was busy appeasing Canada’s warring factions. He was an astute and cunning politician. Macdonald’s power must be smashed. And there was D’Arcy McGee. McGee was the only person in Canada who seemed to understand the scope of Fenian ambitions. McGee was a thorn in their side. Luckily, the loudmouth had become so strident that people weren’t listening to him. But that might not last.
O’Hagan wondered how the man he had hired was doing up in Canada. He prayed for his success.
HE was staying in Uppertown. He changed hotels every three days and adapted his look with each move. In his suitcase he carried costumes, wigs and make-up. Sometimes he wore the long grey coat; sometimes he didn’t. It depended whether it suited his plan, to be a presence and then to disappear.
He actually liked July 12. Every time the Orangemen paraded, they created more angry Irish republicans. March, boys, he sneered. Chant your stupid rhymes. We’ll win. Yes, we’ll win. But he couldn’t face this night without help. July 12 meant bodies lying on the banks of the River Boyne. Irish dead and Englishmen cheering. Orangemen still celebrating generations later. Thrilling to the victory. Gloating.
He pulled withered poppies out of a bag and picked out the poppy heads. He took a needle and carefully pierced the capsules, one by one, dropping them into a small crock. He lit a contained fire under the poppy heads. It was dangerous work in these wooden fire traps, but he was near a window with a steady out-draft. Eventually, a liquid emerged from the poppy heads. Like sweat. Sweet, dark, hallucinogenic sweat.
Opium.
When there was enough of the liquid, he mixed it with whisky and sugar. He could have gone to an apothecary and bought laudanum. But this was safer. It was also purer and much, much stronger.
He drank it rather daintily—he never much liked the taste—and then lay back with swirling but vivid dreams of martyrs in Dublin and murders in Ottawa. Sometimes, the drug made him mournful and despondent. Tonight, it brought him peace and purpose.