The vote in Prescott was discouraging. D’Arcy McGee had spent very little time campaigning in the Ontario town, and though comfortable with the issues, he was unfamiliar with the local turf. His opponent chose “No Outsiders” as his campaign slogan. McGee, ever the outsider, fell to defeat.
“You know, Conor, if I had been able to spend more time there, I bet you I would have won,” he said. And maybe it was true. The heated battle against Barney Devlin had sapped his energy, and his poor health had restricted his travel, but the fact remained that he had suffered his first electoral defeat and could no longer claim invincibility. D’Arcy McGee now knew the acrid taste of losing, and he didn’t much like it.
Montreal was next. The two-day vote was held a week after the Prescott election. Barney Devlin was running like a man half his age—or, as McGee told Conor, “like a man with half a brain.” At Cutler’s Tavern, he called McGee a turncoat; in Victoria Square, he said he was a troublemaker; in front of the post office, he had a chance to condemn McGee to his face. It was really just a coincidence—McGee was there to post a letter and found himself face to face with his adversary. For a second, they looked at each other like prizefighters in a ring, then McGee tipped his hat with a simple, friendly gesture of greeting. Devlin spat in his face and stormed off.
That was the mood in post-Confederation Montreal.
McGee tried to keep a brave face in front of Conor and his family, but he was clearly nervous. He joked, “Devlin’s got the spit, but I’ve got the polish.”
On the first day of voting, McGee’s margin was tight, but he was ahead. The bad news, though, was that Devlin was leading in Griffintown. If McGee were to lose this election, it would be the Irish-Catholic voters who threw him out.
The final vote was counted the next day. The wait for the results was excruciating. Finally, the news came: McGee had won, but by fewer than two hundred votes. The little Irishman fell into his chair, exhausted and relieved. The vote was clearly a slap in the face, but it was not a knockout punch. There would be time later to evaluate the problems and assess the reasons for the drop in his support.
“Mary, we should go to the Mechanics’ Hall and thank the workers,” he said, adding uncharacteristically, “but we mustn’t stay too long.” In times past, he would have been the life of the party, leading everyone in song and dance. But there was no joy this night. He was suffering far too much pain in his leg—and in his heart—for celebration.
Conor was the first person to meet the McGees at the Mechanics’ Hall door. This had been their campaign headquarters, and he had been helping organize the party. He firmly grasped McGee’s hand. “Congratulations, sir. You won again.” He noticed McGee’s grip was not as strong as usual. A rousing chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” drowned out McGee’s response. With Mary firmly supporting him, McGee limped to the stage, shaking hands along the way.
D’Arcy McGee scrutinized the crowd of friendly, admiring faces and winked at his wife, standing by his side. “Isn’t it nice, Mary,” he began his acceptance speech, “to be among friends and not to be heckled and booed when I start to speak?”
Someone yelled, “We’re with you, D’Arcy!”
Over the applause, McGee ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He felt weak and leaned more heavily on Mary. “I am here to tell you that I will not give in, either to Fenians or to their agents. Free speech is more important than one man’s election. I will defend it on the streets of Montreal and in the rows of Parliament.”
Mary whispered in his ear, “That’s enough for tonight, dear.”
He knew she was right, but he added one more sentence: “We are fighting in Griffintown the battle for Irish equality—equality among everyone in Canada.” Mary nudged him again. “We’ve enough fights ahead, my friends,” he concluded. “Drink heartily and have a great time; you’ve earned it. Thank you all, and God bless.”
Conor helped guide them out of the hall. “Let’s leave through the back door,” he advised them. “It will be faster.” That was only half the truth. While McGee was speaking, Conor noticed that a crowd was gathering outside the front door. Barney Devlin’s boys were still spoiling for a fight.
D’Arcy and Mary McGee were safely travelling homeward in a carriage when trouble broke out. With a crash, all the windows of the hall were shattered by a barrage of rocks. The people inside were terrified. It was like a siege. The door started to creak as the mob pushed to get in. Barney Devlin’s boys wanted blood. “Bring us McGee!” the voices yelled through the door. A thud. A crash of a foot striking wood. And the front door flew open. Within a second, the mob had poured into the hall. The siege turned into a barroom brawl. Fists flying. Furniture thrown. Some people fleeing. Others cowering. Someone smashed a chair over a man’s head. A knife blade flashed. A slingshot. Then, like a thunderbolt, a gun blast echoed through the room and a man fell. The mob turned and ran scared. The body on the ground lay motionless.
Conor had watched it all from the back of the hall, horrified and helpless. What was happening to this country? It was falling apart right before his eyes.
If he had still been here, they would have killed him, he thought. They meant to kill D’Arcy McGee.
COLONEL Patrick O’Hagan walked sprightly along the boardwalk. He and General John O’Neill were headed to the White House. In his pocket, he proudly carried a week-old New York Herald. Its editorial urged the takeover of Canada. In his heart, he carried the conviction that he was about to lead a holy war against the English. He was certain that everything was falling into place.
Doors had opened for O’Neill and him throughout the northern states. After all, O’Neill was a war hero, and he was a veteran, too. America owed them a debt, and O’Hagan was cashing in. All along the eastern seaboard, new Irish immigrants were cheering the plans to invade Canada. They had spent the day in Washington with three senators and two congressmen, all of whom supported the Fenian cause. And now they were about to meet William Seward, the powerful secretary of state. O’Hagan was sure that if they played their cards right, they would get Seward’s blessing. Seward had been one of Abraham Lincoln’s leading cabinet members during the Civil War. He proudly called himself an “expansionist.” Recently, he had looked north at the British provinces and declared, “You are building excellent states soon to be admitted into the Union.”
It was only common sense.
Lincoln was dead now and Seward held even more power under the new president, Andrew Johnson. Seward’s dreams of the Stars and Stripes flying from the equator to the North Pole merged with Fenian dreams of revenge. Under Seward’s leadership, the United States had just bought Alaska from the Russians for seven million dollars. Canada was not for sale, but it was ripe for annexation.
It was Manifest Destiny.
O’Hagan and O’Neill stood on the steps of the president’s mansion. The British had burned down the house in 1814. It was time for retaliation.
Entering the White House, O’Hagan felt a glow of excitement, the same sensation he had experienced on the battlefield: the expectation of something momentous, something glorious or something terrible. They were quickly ushered into a waiting room, where they sat for barely a minute before Seward himself came out of an adjoining office to greet them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the secretary of state declared, reaching out to shake O’Neill’s hand first. “I have a little surprise for you.”
He ushered them through the door. Sitting behind the tidy mahogany desk, smiling broadly, was President Johnson. O’Neill had met him in 1862, when Andrew Johnson was the military governor of Tennessee, but they had not seen each other since. O’Hagan stayed a step behind, clearly the lesser officer.
Johnson enjoyed watching their surprised reactions. “Did you not think I support your cause?” he asked.
“Well,” O’Neill stammered, “I hoped. But I thought, after the Ridgeway battle—”
“I waited as long as I could,” Johnson interrupted. “Five days before denouncing your invasion. What in God’s name more did you want?”
“We are better organized now.”
“I’ve heard.”
“And we have a few surprises in the works up in Canada,” O’Hagan couldn’t resist adding.
“Probably we had better read about that after the fact,” Seward jumped in.
The president agreed. “Yes, this issue is delicate.”
Colonel O’Hagan smiled.
“I will get to the point quickly,” the president continued. “The United States cannot openly support your aims. It would be against the Neutrality Laws.”
“But not against your interests,” O’Neill declared.
“We realize that. That’s why my message is not one that should anger you. Continue going about your business here without too much brashness, and you won’t be stopped; we’ll allow your cause to flourish without interference.”
“Have you heard what’s happening to the government in Canada?” O’Hagan interjected. He knew he should defer to General O’Neill, but this was too important. Could they count on American support?
“Yes, I’ve been staying in touch. It seems the country is running scared before it has even learned how to walk.”
“Well said, sir.” O’Hagan smiled, choosing his next words carefully: “If this new country shows it cannot take care of itself, that it can barely run an election, that it is close to anarchy”—he paused for effect—“if the voters have lost respect for Canadian laws and its leaders, what would the United States government do then?”
“I never answer questions that begin with the word ‘if,’” the president said. A standard answer. He glanced at Seward as if wondering how many cards he should play. Seward silently nodded. O’Hagan wondered if the secretary of state was really in charge, and Seward, watching O’Hagan lead the questioning, wondered who was really in charge of the Fenians. President Johnson walked over to the window and looked out on Pennsylvania Avenue. “Let me answer your inquiry this way: I personally will not court war with Britain, but it is not in the interest of the United States to have anarchy to our north.” He paused before continuing: “That said, the government of Great Britain has never acted as our friend; I see no reason why we should act as theirs.” Seward added pointedly, “Especially if the Canadians can’t keep their house in order.”
The answer was convoluted. Johnson wanted the Irish vote and liked the idea of more land, but after the Civil War he wanted no more American casualties. Seward was more hawkish—or was he?
General O’Neill surprised O’Hagan by asking a direct question of the president: “Sir, do you want Canada?”
The president of the United States hesitated, but his secretary of state did not. Seward looked O’Neill straight in the eye and declared, “We will recognize accomplished fact.”
O’Hagan smiled broadly. The people in the Irish neighbourhoods wanted revenge, and the government wanted Canada. He just had to deliver. The work of the man he had sent north was so important. He prayed he would accomplish his noble mission.
Britain would pay for centuries of injustice.