At Rideau Hall, there was all the excitement and expectation of a winter carnival. The governor general’s mansion had been built for a lumber baron, so like most of Ottawa, it had only recently made the transition to politics. Rideau Hall was the cultural centre of Ottawa’s fledgling upper class. Young women, of the right class, were introduced to society here, and young men practised diplomacy behind the stone walls. On this winter afternoon, the gathering was unusually large and diverse. The grounds were open to all for the new toboggan slide.
The new governor general, Lord Lisgar, had not been told about the plot against Macdonald. It would have been his duty to report the situation to Britain, and the prime minister insisted upon absolute secrecy.
Plain-clothed police were everywhere. Some blended in; others were so obviously patrolman out of uniform that it almost made Conor laugh.
Sir John, bundled in a lush beaver coat and hat, arrived by carriage with a scowling Gilbert McMicken at his side. “If this man is a fur trapper, I guess I’ll be in trouble,” Macdonald lamely joked.
“There’s no evidence of that, sir,” McMicken said.
Macdonald just shook his head.
“Sir John, good morning,” the governor general announced, holding out his hand to shake the prime minister’s. Lisgar was dressed in a formal topcoat and hat, looking very dignified and viceregal. He was new to Ottawa and new to its winters.
“You might find you need a warmer coat,” Macdonald suggested.
“Yes, it’s frightfully cold, but one must keep up appearances, mustn’t one?”
“Must one?” the prime minister mimicked. “Yes, I suppose one must.” He scrutinized the assembling crowd. “Let’s go behind the lectern until the speeches begin. I think I’d like to be out of the limelight.”
“You? Missing a chance to talk to a voter? That’s not how you were described to me.”
“Yes, me!” the prime minister snapped back. He led Lisgar to what he hoped would be safety. McMicken stayed at their side.
THOMAS and Conor O’Dea were surveying the crowd, looking for the assassin, when a plain-clothed policeman approached them from behind. “I’ve been told to keep an eye on you,” he said to Thomas, like a babysitter talking to a child.
Thomas glared at him. “We are supposed to help you people.”
“And you will. Point out this man, and we’ll do the rest.”
The silly ass, thought Thomas.
“Give me your gun,” the policeman ordered.
“He knows us, you know,” Thomas protested. “We are targets.”
“I’m under orders that you are not to be armed, and you’re to be watched at all times.”
Conor spoke up, “But Sir John said—”
“Sir John is in hiding,” the policeman interrupted, triumphantly. “No Irishmen like you two are going to be armed on a day like today. Not after what happened to Mr. McGee.”
Thomas looked at his son and shook his head in disgust, but there was no time for anger. He asked the policeman, “Where were you born, then?”
“Brockville.”
“And your father?”
“Manchester, England.”
“Ah, a good Englishman.” Thomas stepped closer to the policeman and, without taking his eyes off him, said, “Conor, would you take off your hat for a second?”
Conor did, revealing his almost bald head.
“What do you think of my son’s haircut?”
The policeman looked confused and didn’t answer.
“You see, that’s what English bullies do.”
With his one good hand, Thomas grabbed the policeman’s ear. As the man gasped in surprise, Thomas lifted his knee hard into the man’s arched body. Conor couldn’t believe his eyes. The policeman buckled over. Thomas released him and pulled the revolver from his belt, then father and son scurried into the crowd. They were now both armed. Conor laughed wildly; he saw that his father was laughing, too.
“You can tell Gerry O’Beirne about that!”
SIR John A. Macdonald could delay no longer. The prime minister hesitantly followed Lord Lisgar to the stage. He gazed over the faces of Ottawa’s citizenry, smiled and quietly gulped. All those people, all bundled up on a winter’s day. It would be so easy to conceal a weapon in a fur coat, or pull a hat low and bury your face. He had often said that he trusted his brain but relied on his luck. Now it was truer than ever.
The governor general was going on about something. Perhaps he should pay attention. But then again, perhaps not. He actually liked the man, but he was not in the mood to listen to a speech. He saw Thomas and Conor O’Dea laughing in the crowd. What in the world could they be laughing at?
When Lisgar finished his speech and welcomed Sir John, the prime minister cautiously walked the few steps to the lectern. “This is not a day for political speeches,” he began stiffly, “but I don’t know any other kind.”
Someone from the crowd yelled, “Give ’em hell, John!” and there was a great cheer. Macdonald smiled. All right, he thought, I might as well have some fun. After all, I’ve got an audience.
“They say I’m a slippery customer,” he began. Some in the crowd laughed, and some cheered. He pointed toward the toboggan slide. “Well, do you see that slide?” he yelled.
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
“Do you know what it reminds me of?”
“Nooo,” from the crowd. He was surprised at how much he was enjoying this. Maybe being brave was just a case of ignoring what was terrifying you.
“That slide reminds me of the Liberal party’s platform,” he continued. “Like the Grits, it’s aimed straight downhill, and for the life of me I can’t find a rudder on the infernal thing.”
The crowd cheered.
“I think we should split up,” Thomas told Conor. “I’ll stay near the stage. You keep an eye on the back.”
Conor held on to his father’s elbow. “No, please,” he urged. “Let’s stay together.”
“Okay, son,” Thomas said, gently. “We’ll work together. But we must think. Where could he be?”
Conor urgently searched the crowd. Faces were hard to distinguish, all covered up from the cold. He searched desperately for an idea, a scent, a clue. D’Arcy McGee had told him that the secret to winning a debate was to put yourself into the mind of your opponent. What was it he said? “Try to understand the heart of your foe.” So what would he do if he were the assassin? It would be suicidal to kill Sir John down here. There are too many policemen, the crowd too large; he’d never get away. He might be a maniac, but he has a gift for self-preservation.
“Father,” Conor asked, “is Macdonald going to go down the slide?”
“Yes. He and the governor general will be the first to go down it.”
Conor watched the prime minister on the stage. He was now talking about a railway to the Pacific, and warming to the subject.
Yes, Conor was sure of it. “He’s up top,” he said.
“What?” Thomas asked.
Conor took his father by the shoulders. “He’s waiting to kill the prime minister at the top of the hill.”
MEG first went to her mother’s old boarding house. She wondered whether Conor would be there. There was a FOR RENT sign in the window. Mr. Desbarats would know what was happening. She knocked on the door at the Queen’s printer’s next door, but no one was there. Across the street, Mrs. McKenna said there was a large gathering at the governor general’s mansion for the opening of a toboggan slide.
A toboggan slide. This is a strange town, she thought.
She headed toward Rideau Hall. Conor would be there, she figured. She wondered whom else she might see.