April 6, 1868. The Dominion of Canada was two hundred and seventy-nine days old. It was a cloudless early-spring night, and the full moon shone so brightly that the city fathers decided to save money and not light the gas lamps. There was still a winter chill in the air, though, and some snow patches on the ground. Inside the Parliament Buildings, a large crowd had gathered long before the late sitting began. There was always a good turnout for a D’Arcy McGee speech. Conor proudly walked past the people who had lined up.
Nova Scotia was the problem this April night. A delegation led by Joseph Howe was in England, trying to take the province out of the union. “Confederation is artificial,” Howe was arguing. “It is like a child trying to walk on stilts. What Nova Scotia needs is to come back down to earth.” With the possible exception of Charles Tupper, whom Howe hated with burning passion, Joseph Howe was the greatest Nova Scotian politician of his day. Before July 1, he called Confederation the “Botheration Scheme.” Afterward, he worked diligently to see its repeal. His ardent opposition was serious indeed.
McGee liked Joe Howe and always thought the Nova Scotian’s real problem with Confederation was that it was someone else’s idea. McGee felt it was important for him to speak to this issue. National unity was too fragile, and Canada had too many enemies for its friends to remain silent. Joseph Howe wouldn’t be there to hear him, but he would get reports.
Thomas D’Arcy McGee rose in the House of Commons with great purpose and considerable pride. He loved the cut and thrust of debate here and knew he had more friends than enemies in this chamber. He gently leaned his bad leg on a chair for comfort and support, and instinctively ran his fingers through his maze of tangled hair. He looked over the assemblage and silently thanked God that Barney Devlin’s boys were back in Montreal’s taverns. In this forum, a man could speak his mind freely.
“What we need above everything else is the healing influence of time,” he told the House. He was speaking of Nova Scotia, but also thinking about the Irish in Montreal. “Time will mellow. Its hands will heal. So let us give this enterprise a chance to grow. Let us give it time.”
McGee noticed Conor standing with Will Trotter and a few other pageboys. Conor shouldn’t be down there, McGee thought; he should be in the gallery. He certainly had a knack for getting close to the action.
McGee’s voice rose as he continued, “Our friends have nothing to fear but that Confederation will be administered with serious and even-handed justice. Its single action has to be fairness to each person and each province.” It was clear that the members of Parliament and the people in the gallery hung on McGee’s every word.
Conor smiled proudly. This was a vision of Canada he wished his father could appreciate.
Sir John A. Macdonald appeared to be listening intently, but his mind was actually wandering. He was thinking how much older D’Arcy looked: his hair slightly greyer, his voice not so strident, and he looked in pain. Still, he thought, McGee is a magician with words. It made him rather jealous. On St. Patrick’s Day, Macdonald thought McGee had delivered his remarks with bombast and exaggeration, but tonight he had the clarity of political purpose. His defence of Confederation was powerful and profound. McGee declared, “If we are a generation worthy to organize a nation, assuredly the materials are abundant and at hand.” And the prime minister thought, Well put, D’Arcy. Well put, indeed.
In the east gallery, a man watched D’Arcy McGee with contempt. Patrick James Whelan clasped his hand into a fist as McGee spoke of fairness and nation-building. Just listening to that Irish traitor infuriated him. Marshall had suggested he go to the House of Commons and watch McGee speak. Marshall had special plans for tonight. He had given Whelan a set of instructions but said it was best that he not know too much. It was clear that mischief was in the air. Perhaps some good sport, like at Jolicoeur’s.
“I call it a northern nation,” McGee continued. “For such it must become if all of us do our duty to the last.”
Whelan had stopped listening. Yes, he was up for some amusement, or whatever Marshall wanted, especially at McGee’s expense. Marshall had become a good friend—a comfort in this lonely city of pompous politicians. He was a strange but pleasant fellow, quiet and moody, and quite generous. He had even given him a new coat to wear. It was grey and long—just like his.
McGee ended with a flourish. “And I, who have been, and still am, Confederation’s warmest advocate, speak here not as a representative of any race or of any province, but as thoroughly and emphatically a Canadian.”
The House erupted in applause as McGee sat down, exhausted but beaming with pride. It was after midnight. The members continued pounding their desks in approval. When McGee spoke, it was like a reconfirmation of Canada; it made people feel a little more secure. McGee glanced over at Sir John, who winked and pretended to toast him with a glass of something that looked like water.