Conor O’Dea arrived at D’Arcy McGee’s bedroom door armed with a tray of salt fish, fried pork rinds and beans, a concoction that delighted the feisty Irishman.
“My God, Conor, you are a good cook.”
“I got a lot of practice in the lumber camps. I can boil you up a barley soup if you want, and I do wonders with molasses.”
“I suspect your backcountry soup was thin as water and molasses was all there was for taste.” He didn’t know how true that was. Just don’t start calling me Cookie, Conor thought.
McGee attacked the food with vigour. Lying in bed, blankets up to his neck, his unruly hair almost filling the pillow, he looked rather comical, but he was intent on his article about the Fenians and still upset about the trouble at Jolicoeur’s. With his mouth full, he demanded, “Tell me about the mystery man. Should I challenge him to a duel?”
“You would have to find him first. No one seems to know him. I still can’t find out anything. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Very strange. If he were from around here, I would know him.” D’Arcy McGee had spent the week he was supposed to be convalescing propped up in bed, his leg suspended to ease the pain, furiously writing his article for The Gazette. Although his health was gradually improving, his temper was not. He harangued Dr. O’Brien for overreacting; he howled at Mary, complaining that he was chained to his bed; and, of course, he bellowed orders to Conor. Where were the statistics to embellish his arguments? He needed dates checked, names clarified. Why did everything take so long? Hurry up, damn you!
After the meal, McGee wiped his face with his sleeve and showed the finished article to Conor. He had charged that the Fenians dominated Montreal’s Irish societies and claimed that they had actually infiltrated the Montreal police force. In sharp and unyielding language, he accused Barney Devlin of financing his campaign with Fenian money from New York.
“Are you sure you want this published, sir?” Conor asked. “It may make matters worse for you.”
“I was denied the right to free speech, and then my life was threatened. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t back down.”
Conor studied the list of people McGee had called Fenian supporters. “Devlin’s name is not on the list.”
“No, because he’s not a Fenian. Devlin’s a damn fool and a dupe, that’s all. They’re using him to get at me.”
Conor knew the fuss the newspaper article would cause, but he also knew it was easier to float upstream on the Niagara than to try to stop D’Arcy McGee once he had set his mind on something. “I’ll take this right down to The Gazette,” he said.
“No, you won’t.” McGee dragged himself out of bed. “We’ll both go. It’s been a week since I’ve smelled the streets and tasted the sights. I’m ready for a walk. Tomorrow I’ll be fit to finish off this campaign, and that imbecile Devlin along the way. Come on, help me on with my clothes.”
AFTER the stale atmosphere of his sick room, even the thick city air was invigorating. Leaning heavily on Conor’s arm, McGee cheerfully waved his cane at people passing by. He soaked in the summer radiance. During the past week, McGee had been so preoccupied with present-day problems that Conor had not asked more questions about the past, but this walk, and this summer afternoon, gave him a fresh opportunity.
“Are you, in any way, embarrassed by your rebel past?” he asked cautiously.
“No man needs blush at forty for the follies of one and twenty,” McGee answered. “In fact, you could use a little adventure yourself.” And he chuckled. “Look, we were reacting to the famine. We were young and angry. But we kept our struggle to Ireland. Not like these Fenians here.”
A constituent came up to them and shook McGee’s hand. “It’s a delight to see you up and about, Mr. McGee. Good health to you, sir.”
McGee beamed. “And good health to you, my friend.”
Something else had been concerning Conor. “What did you think of that reporter?”
“Rather a cold fish, I would say. But we have to get the message out in America that our Confederation is strong.”
Conor dropped the thought. Something troubled him about the reporter, but it wasn’t important.
“I don’t want to make everything look perfect up here,” McGee continued. “There’s much still to do. But I resent American indifference to our nation-building and their interference in our affairs.”
Conor was pleased that McGee was walking with a little more ease. Perhaps the exercise was stretching his sore leg. McGee waved to another constituent across the street. The man did not return the gesture. He pretended the insult had not happened and again took Conor’s arm for support. “Soon we are going to have to get back to the campaign. I’ve lost ground while lying in bed.”
“How do you think you are going to do?”
“I’ve never lost an election yet,” McGee answered, evasively. “I don’t know about my venture into Ontario, but here, in Montreal, yes, I’ll win. It’s just a few who have been causing all the trouble. But it doesn’t take many voices to sing a loud song.”
Conor noticed the man who would not return McGee’s wave still scowling at them from across the street. One of the few, he thought. They walked in silence
Then the attack came.
In the corner of his eye, Conor caught a rustling in the bushes. He thought he heard someone yell, “All right, boys, that’s him.” It happened so fast that he wasn’t sure of the details. About ten people jumped out of the bushes. They started throwing—not tomatoes or eggs this time, but rocks and gravel. A rock hit McGee’s shoulder, and he faltered. Conor grabbed him. Together they tumbled to the ground. Conor screamed at the attackers, picked up the rock that had hit McGee and uselessly hurled it back. With D’Arcy McGee helpless and humiliated on the ground, and Conor trying to shelter him from attack, the mob ran away laughing and cheering.
It was not until later—after they dropped off McGee’s damning article at the newspaper office, after they hailed a hackney carriage to take them home, after McGee refused to go to the police, after they both suffered Mary McGee’s furious recrimination—that Conor had time to carefully reconstruct the attack. Someone had yelled from the bushes. He remembered the voice. An Irish accent. Was it the same voice as at the back of the hall at Jolicoeur’s? He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. During the attack, he thought he saw someone sneak away. Was that the person who started it? Maybe. It was hard to say. But he was familiar. And he wore a long grey coat.