Constable Horatio Cobb sauntered along Wellington Street with the ease of a man at home in his element. For almost five years now he had patrolled the streets of his town with diligence and dedication (in his own modest assessment). He had dispensed a necessarily rough justice without fear or favour, keeping at first the King’s, and then the Queen’s, peace. He had weathered dozens of tavern brawls, outmuscled a hundred drunks, survived the people’s revolt intact, and had materially assisted Marc Edwards (or the major, as he affectionately called him) in five murder investigations. He had kept his nose (a handsome, purplish projectile tipped with a decorative wart) out of politics, as far as that was possible in these trying times – though he knew where his sympathies lay. So it took more than a serious shift in his routines and a change of venue to disturb his legendary equanimity.
The city council, notorious skinflints, had surprised everyone, including themselves, by coming to the conclusion that the five-man constabulary they had established in 1835 – to ensure public safety and keep the poor from becoming overly meddlesome – was now inadequate. The town was, some said, approaching a population of ten thousand. Immigrant ships continued to debouch their wretched occupants upon Toronto’s wharves throughout the sailing season. The majority of them moved on to the hinterland, but many stayed in the city. Its northern and western boundaries were inching outwards, blighted by pockets of squatters on public lands, by the ramshackle cabins of the working poor, and by tents and lean-to’s tucked into the parklands reserved for the future occupation of the affluent. In the older sections of town the demand for living space was met by overcrowding, by the dubious severance of existing lots, and by workers’ huts erected cheek by jowl with the smoking factories they laboured in.
All of which, the council concluded, had resulted in an alarming increase in crime – petty theft, drunk and disorderly, domestic violence, and burglary. It was the latter in particular which caught the attention of the people’s representatives, for it seemed that the mansions and fine residences along Front Street – with their silver spoons and jade jewellery and such – had become prime targets. Moreover, the owners of said residences were increasingly unamused. Thus it was that the city fathers suddenly saw where their duty lay. Two more full-time constables were hired, and four supernumerary ones placed on call. The most vulnerable streets would now be patrolled around the clock in two shifts: seven to seven. Three teams of two were set up to put this ingenious plan into effect. Cobb had been paired with Ewan Wilkie, and assigned the south-west patrol. This was relatively new terrain for him (he had patrolled here occasionally when relieving one of his mates or supervising special events like the opening of the Legislature). He and Wilkie had chosen to take the seven-to-seven night-shift on alternate weeks, and so far – though the burglaries continued – Cobb had found the arrangement satisfactory. (Missus Cobb – his Dora – was often out all night applying her midwifery magic in the east end, and they had had some splendid early-morning reunions!)
The more difficult adjustment had been the moving of the police quarters from the Court House to the City Hall, an elegant brick building that faced Front Street at the foot of the market. Cobb had come to love the stuffy, two-room suite jammed into the rear corner of the Court House close to the county magistrate’s chamber and the tunnel that led conveniently to the adjacent jail. But with six constables now, their chief, a clerk, and the expanding filing-cupboards, new facilities had become necessary. So, at the back of City Hall, lower level, three spacious rooms had been found for their use – with a small holding-cell just inside the main door. Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges was given an office, though he continued to spend much of his time on the streets and in the salons of power, whether he was welcomed or not. The reception-room housed a filing-cupboard, a desk and the writing instruments of Augustus French (the clerk), a woodstove, and coat racks for the constables and visitors. The third room was reserved for interviews or incidental uses – like a snooze on the sly. And since most of the town’s anti-social acts were of the misdemeanour variety, the presence of the municipal courtroom just above them, presided over by the mayor or an alderman, was happily convenient.
Still, three months after the change of venue, Cobb found himself walking up the stone path to the old quarters before catching his mistake, muttering to himself about the perfidy of aldermen, and sheepishly retreating to King Street. This evening, however, he found his thoughts drifting inevitably towards the recent spate of burglaries. Last week, while Wilkie had apparently been checking out a noise behind the Legislative Assembly building (the apprehension of a gunpowder plot was high among those who had good reason to fear such an expression of discontent), a thief or thieves had – at four A.M. – entered nearby Somerset House, the abode of Receiver-General Ignatius Maxwell. They made off with a pair of silver candlesticks before being surprised by an alert footman (kept alert, it was said in the taverns, by an equally alert maid). Other servants had been dispatched to seek out the night patrolman, who was discovered dazed, heavy-lidded and uncomprehending in the bushes beside the Assembly.
Then, two nights ago, while Cobb had been on duty (and actually awake), someone had broken into the pantry at the rear of Bishop Strachan’s Palace. When a maid noticed the bar on the back door ajar, she sent for the butler who sent for Cobb. Expecting the worst, Cobb arrived in time to encounter a distraught cook, who complained bitterly about the theft – not of her best cutlery or irreplaceable pans, but of two loaves of bread and half a dozen sweet-rolls destined for the Bishop’s breakfast table.
Convinced now that the only way to find the serious burglars (he was inclined to cheer on the starving father or youngster who had deprived the mitred master of his breakfast treat) was to make use of his network of snitches, he had decided to spend part of his evening seeking them out in their various watering-holes. Up at The Cock and Bull on York Street, he had shared a flagon with Itchy Quick, but had got nothing useful out of him except that it was rumoured that most of the burglaries were being carried out by a single, organized gang. As for the purloining of the Bishop’s breakfast, Itchy knew who had done it but vowed he would never tell, however much money the police might offer as inducement. Cobb had declined to test the strength of the claim.
He was now trundelling east along Wellington towards Bay Street, where The Crooked Anchor would no doubt be accommodating Nestor Peck, the most reliable of his snitches. Cobb was motivated, in part only (he assured himself), by the offer of a ten-dollar reward, made by several worthies, for anyone – public servant or ordinary citizen – who identified or helped capture the thief. While he did not consider himself venal, Cobb was worried about how he was going to pay his daughter Delia’s school fees for the second term. But pay he must, for the girl was brilliant, and he would not contemplate her “going into service,” as the slavery of servantdom was politely termed. Miss Tyson’s Academy for young women was not quite a grammar school, but there Delia could study French, continue to read her Shakespeare, explore the pleasures of music and painting, and so on. What she might do afterwards, he was not yet prepared to consider. What was important was that Delia was now thriving there, and had become fast friends with Celia Langford, a senior student and occasional instructress in the junior section. Surely this maddening colony he was born to would at last settle its political and economic future, and in it there would be a place for people like his daughter, as well as his son Fabian. If what he had gleaned from Marc Edwards were true, the upcoming session of the Assembly would be the make-or-break point for Upper Canada.
The Crooked Anchor welcomed him in with its familiar allure of pipe-smoke, the harmonious buzz of idle conversation, the aroma of fish-pie and bad breath, and the clink and rattle of flagon and tumbler.
“He’s over there by the window!” the red-cheeked barkeep shouted at him. “Do you want an ale first?”
“Depends how thirsty the sight of Nestor’s ugly gums makes me,” Cobb said with a wink. “I’ll give ya the distress signal, if I do.”
With the rumble of the barkeep’s laughter like a breeze at his back, Cobb sallied through the crowd to one of the few tables in the room. Nestor, nursing the dregs of his ale, motioned for the fellow sitting opposite to vacate his pew, then grinned up at Cobb.
“You’re just in time, constable,” he said. “I’m about to run outta beer an’ shillin’s at the same time.”
Cobb sat down, and smiled – which seemed to offer Nestor much relief. But when Cobb’s smile faded to a frown, Nestor said hastily, “Ya don’t believe me?”
“Where did you pinch them fancy duds?” Cobb said, the smoke in the room having cleared sufficiently for Cobb to take his gaze off Nestor’s sallow, rheumy-eyed face and take in the tie, clean shirt and suitcoat. Even the untameable tufts of hair had been pomaded and parted stylishly down the middle.
Nestor feigned umbrage. “You know I don’t steal, Cobb. I may be poor but I always been honest.”
“You always were. But them pennies you scrounge hereabouts or squeeze outta me wouldn’t pay fer that twisted tie you’re sportin’.”
“You won’t believe this, I know, but I got me a job.”
“Not the verger of St. James?” Cobb said with a sly grin. Last March Nestor had become embroiled in a murder investigation being carried out by Cobb and Marc Edwards, during which Nestor had entertained hopes of securing the cushy position at the Anglican cathedral.
“No need to be cruel, Cobb,” Nestor said, but he was still smiling, savouring the effect of his surprise announcement.
“Where, then? Who’d be addled enough to hire you – besides me?”
“At The Sailor’s Arms, down by the – ”
“I know where it is. But even a dive that caters to low-life sailors an’ their lady consorts wouldn’t stoop so far as to take you on.”
“But they have, haven’t they?”
Cobb signalled for an ale. “In what cap-ass-idy?”
“I’m a janitor. I go in three mornin’s a week – Monday, Thursday an’ Saturd’y.”
“To clean up the mess after the weekend crowd, eh?”
“I do some of the heavy liftin’ that Mrs. Budge an’ that cute little Etta can’t manage.”
“You keep yer ugly peepers offa that girl,” Cobb said sternly. Then he chuckled. “I don’t suppose there’s much chance of her fancyin’ a character like you.”
“I get five shillin’s a week,” Nestor said by way of deflecting Cobb’s insult.
“So you spent it all on them gentleman’s duds, did ya? Wanta look smart when you invite company inta that hovel of yers behind the tannery?”
Nestor attempted a smirk, and came close. “I got me a proper house to live in now, a stone cottage out on Wellington Street near Brock.”
“Near the chicken hatchery?”
“Right beside it,” Nestor said with evident pride at having moved up from a tannery to a hatchery.
“An’ you rent this place and buy a suit on five bob a week?”
“Not at all. I share the rent with my cousin.”
This pronouncement really did set Cobb aback. He slipped the waiter a coin and took a long pull on his ale. “I thought you was an orphan,” he said with a failed attempt to brush the foam off his upper lip.
“You know I was. But that don’t mean I can’t have relatives.”
“An’ just how did you find a cousin who’d be willin’ to share a hovel with ya?”
“I didn’t. He found me. Arrived outta the blue from Quebec one day in August. Talked about my mother, who was his mama’s older sister. Knew a lot about her and a little about me. We hit it off right away.”
“I’ll bet you did.” Cobb polished off his ale. He realized that he was not going to get anything useful out of Nestor this evening, and perhaps not again for a good while. “So this fella helps pay the rent, does he? Got a job, too, has he?”
“Not yet. An’ he’s in no hurry.”
“Borrowin’ from you in the meantime, I take it?”
Nestor winced.
“That why you’re suddenly broke tonight?”
“He come with money, Cobb – the first installation on his inheritance, from a great uncle on his papa’s side. He’s expectin’ the rest any week now.”
“And I’m waitin’ fer my knighthood.”
“But if I knew anythin’ about these robberies, I’d tell ya. You know that, don’t ya?”
Cobb grinned, stood up, dropped a three-penny piece on the table, and said, “I believe ya, Nestor. That’s an advance – to help inspire ya, an’ tide ya over till yer cousin’s boat comes in.”
“Thanks, Cobb. You always been good to me.”
Cobb was about to leave when something made him turn and say, “This so-called cousin of yours – he got a name?”
Looking quite pleased with the way their conversation had progressed and culminated, Nestor said, “Albert. Albert Duggan.”
***
“Before we begin, gentlemen, allow me to summarize our progress to date, and then indicate my own thought as to how we might proceed over the coming weeks.” Robert Baldwin – essentially a private, and even shy, man – was nonetheless given the rapt attention of those assembled in the parlour of Baldwin House on this mid-October evening.
“The floor is yours,” Francis Hincks said. “I’ve had my say in the editorial columns of the Examiner,” he added with a smile, alluding to the radical newspaper he had founded and still operated.
Robert smiled at his friend, political ally and next-door neighbour. “As some of you know in detail, the success of our campaign in the countryside over the course of the summer and early fall has been beyond our best hopes for it. The dozens of ‘Durham meetings’ and associated rallies have not only produced a sizeable majority for the cause of responsible government and the union of the two provinces, but resulted also in an unprecedented number of petitions and well-argued letters to the papers. Much of this success is due to Marc Edwards here, as he has been the tireless author of pamphlets and speeches – the principal source of those well-reasoned petitions and cogent letters.”
The dozen men – sitting members of the current, Tory-dominated Assembly, former members like Robert and his father, the present chair of the Legislative Council (Robert’s cousin, Robert Baldwin Sullivan), and several young Reform adherents like Hincks – turned now to Marc and nodded their agreement.
“Our new governor, Mr. Charles Poulett Thomson, of whom more in a moment,” Robert continued, “has brought with him the terms of a Union Bill approved by the Mother Parliament on condition that it is ratified by both Quebec and Upper Canada. As Quebec is still under direct rule by the Governor’s Special Council, the terms will be forced on her despite the fierce opposition there. Hence, the torch has been passed to us. What happens in our Assembly and our Legislative Council in the next few weeks will determine whether we continue to live a constrained political and economic existence under the rule of the old-guard Tories and subject to the whims of successive governors or whether we evolve towards political independence and a system of governance which reflects the will of the majority in the elected Assembly. All we’ve ever asked is to have a cabinet form of government modelled on the British system.”
“It’s too bad you’re not in the Assembly now,” said the sitting member for Northumberland County from his seat by the bow window.
“I don’t think the most important work will be done there,” Hincks said, looking at Robert for confirmation.
“Francis is right. All the eloquence or irrefutable logic in the world won’t change the mind of people like John Strachan or Hagerman or Crookshank – dyed-in-the-wool Tories. It’s the handful of moderates in the middle that we must pursue and win over before the Legislature opens next month.”
“How do you propose to approach them?” Robert Sullivan said. “I will need some cogent arguments myself if I am to persuade the old fogies in the Legislative Council to do their duty.”
Robert’s cousin was an odd figure politically. Just a year ago he had spoken out against the union idea and ensured the defeat of a bill proposing it. He publicly disparaged French-speaking citizens and their leaders. But he had recently become persuaded that Upper Canada was now strong enough on its own to survive any fusion of the two provinces and to dominate its politics, especially since the British proposal before them guaranteed that Upper Canada’s huge debt would be absorbed and paid off – at the expense of the French.
Robert eagerly addressed his cousin’s question. “Our first argument, always, will be that the Union Bill is the will of the home government and by extension the will of the Crown.”
“Precisely,” Hincks said. “The Tories have spent the past five years proclaiming that they are the loyalist party and branding us as an American cabal who secretly want a republic unfettered by monarchist ties.”
“Secondly, I suggest that we unsettle the placeholders – the appointed ministers and petty officials who have achieved near life-tenure under the aegis of the Family Compact and their cronyism – by emphasizing that the bill creates a permanent civil list and, at the same time, calls for all other major appointments to be held at the pleasure of the current governor. Moreover, when a new governor arrives, as he has just done, he will be free to replace the sitting ministers and senior civil servants.”
“But won’t that induce the present ministers and Executive Councillors to oppose the bill?” someone on the other side of the room asked.
“Not if we stress that His Excellency, Mr. Poulett Thomson, has been sent here to make sure that the bill passes,” Hincks said with some relish. “In short, their own tenure at this moment depends upon their pleasing the current governor, who may be here for many years, and who holds their fate in his hands.”
Murmurs of approval greeted this sly stratagem.
“The unrepentant Tories will hang fire anyway,” Robert added, “but moderates like Merritt and Sherwood will be looking ahead, not behind. We just want to give these fellows a bit of a push.”
“And we should also point out to Sherwood and his group that the provinces are to be equally represented in both upper and lower houses, even though Quebec has a third larger population,” Hincks said.
“True,” Robert Sullivan said, “but most Tories and many ordinary folk feel that that is still far too great a reward for a populace who revolted against the Crown and who, even now, have been deemed so unfit for parliamentary government that their Assembly has been suspended and they require supervision by a special council. How do we counter such a view?”
It was a good question, and gained more power for having been put by a man who agreed with the sentiment behind it.
“Simple,” Hincks replied, glancing ever so furtively over at Robert beside him and receiving the briefest nod of approval. “We will tell them that a sizeable minority elected from Quebec will perforce be English members, and that so long as we English stick together on important issues – whatever happens to party alignments – there is absolutely no danger that the French can ever outvote us.”
Robert reached over and picked a macaroon out of the bottomless dish on the table beside him – to hide his embarrassment at this necessary piece of sophistry.
“And, we should add,” Robert Sullivan said, “ that within a decade our population will have overtaken theirs, and we can then move to rep-by-pop, eh?” He seemed inordinately pleased with this possibility.
At this point, Clement Peachey, the solicitor and workhorse of the Baldwin and Sullivan firm, cleared his throat and said in his customary diffident but clear-headed manner, “Have we not, Robert, been avoiding the main issue?”
Robert smiled. “More like leaving the hardest part to last.”
“You’re referring to responsible government?” Dr. Baldwin said. He had been sitting on Robert’s right, taking everything in but saying nothing so far. His opinion, of course, was appreciated above all others because in addition to being a physician, a lawyer (and Bencher of the Law Society), an architect and a politician, he had espoused the notion of a cabinet-form of responsible government for the province three decades ago, had tirelessly argued for it, and had raised his son Robert to carry on the fight, should he himself falter. “As we all know now, despite Lord Durham’s explicit recommendation on behalf of the concept, there is no reference to it in the terms of the Union Bill we are expected to debate and approve.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s been taken off the table,” Robert hastened to add. “My father has just returned from an audience with His Excellency at Government House. Father?”
William Warren Baldwin, a striking figure at any time, sat forward in his chair and commanded the strict attention of the gathering. The significance of his conversation with the man who represented the Crown and its near-absolute power did not have to be underlined.
“We talked for two hours,” Dr. Baldwin said. “The Governor was extremely courteous, gracious even. He is a merchant and a politician, in fact and by inclination. That makes him critically different from the military governors we’ve had in the past. He is highly intelligent, at ease with abstract ideas and principles, and takes much pleasure in serious dialogue. At the same time, of course, he is a man of great subtlety and possible subterfuge.”
He let this caveat sink in.
“Be that as it may, he has been sent here to get the Union Bill passed. And that fact for the first time presents our party with the kind of advantage we have long hoped for. His Excellency has assured me – and shown me corroborative correspondence from his superiors in London – that some practical, if unlegislated, form of cabinet government must evolve. He is appalled, for example, that Sir George Arthur, as lieutenant-governor here, has not really had a cohesive party in the Assembly to reflect the views of his own executive. And so, Mr. Thomson has, in effect, offered us a quid pro quo. We support the principal terms of the Union Bill and actively work towards its approval in the Assembly in return for a promise on his part to help us find a way to let the will of the people operate without abridging the absolute rights of the Crown and the mother country.”
Although this news was not surprising, it nevertheless silenced the room for a full minute.
“It’s all we’ve got,” Robert said quietly. “Even if we manage to uphold our part of the bargain.”
“And a good part of that will entail our deploying the kind of specific advice I’ve heard here this evening,” Dr. Baldwin said more cheerfully. “His Excellency has asked me to bring him arguments that are likely to persuade the fence-sitters to jump to our side. He realizes that we here are an essential source of these ‘persuasions’: his charm and diplomatic skill should do the rest.”
“And above all,” Robert said in his barrister’s summing-up voice, “we must make sure the moderates do not feel threatened by any of this. Francis will continue in the Examiner to call for responsible government, as any sudden change there will be viewed with extreme skepticism. However, in our own conduct – in the Assembly and in our day-to-day contact with fellow citizens – we will talk only about the compelling terms of the Union Bill itself.”
Nothing further of any substance was left to be said, and the meeting broke up ten minutes later. Its participants to a man were decidedly happier at its conclusion than they had been at its beginning.
***
Robert, Francis Hincks and Marc remained to mull over what had transpired. Dr. Baldwin, unable to stop yawning, was relieved to see Diana Ramsay pop her head in the rear doorway and whisper that one of the boys was awake and asking for his grandfather. Who was most happy to oblige. And Marc, as always, was pleased to see just how attractive a young woman Diana really was and why Brodie was smitten with her. Besides her darkly lustrous hair, bold brown eyes and mature figure, the intelligence and compassion in her expression and her tender concern for Robert’s four children would have melted the stoniest heart. And evidently she saw in Brodie some of the same qualities that Marc had discovered in him last spring before and after Dick Dougherty’s tragic and senseless death. He wished them well.
“So,” Hincks said when the three men were at last alone, “we still keep our best strategy secret?”
“You know, Francis, how much I hate such deceptions and the myriad small lies they spawn,” Robert said. “But no-one outside this room must learn about your correspondence with Louis LaFontaine in Montreal.”
“Do you honestly think there’s a chance that he and his radical Rouge party would join our Reform caucus once we get a united parliament?” Hincks said. “After all, his official line at home is no union under any circumstances.”
“A view he holds passionately,” Robert said. “And one he must adhere to resolutely until the fight is lost, as he now suspects it is. Meantime, he must keep his French compatriots on side.”
“And he writes that he is willing to discuss the formation of a left-wing party,” Hincks said, “even though it would toss into a single pot two languages, two cultures and two religions.”
“And I believe him,” Robert said. “Once we get this Union Bill approved and Mr. Poulett Thomson has had time to choose a capital and get the essential infastructure in place, we can arrange to meet with Louis and begin to hammer out the details of a durable coalition. My argument to him will be that, failing the establishment of a separate and democratic Quebec, his best hope – our best hope – is a united parliament and a cabinet responsible to the majority party in the elected Assembly.”
“With both of you in it,” Hincks said, winking at Marc.
“That’s still some way off,” Robert said.
“I wish,” Marc said, “that we could get French accepted as one of the languages of the Legislature. It would be a lot easier to welcome our French colleagues in a chamber where their native tongue was spoken and made part of the permanent record.”
“I agree,” Robert said. “But again, that is one of the many tiny but very red rags we must not wave before the Tory bulls.”
“Much as we’d like to,” Hincks said. “But the immediate way ahead is to cobble a road the moderate Tories can feel comfortable riding upon – to their own extinction.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite so cynically, Francis,” Robert said.
“Still,” Marc said, “everything depends on our getting this Union Bill approved next month.”
“If we don’t,” Robert said, “God help us all.”