The short, sharp jerk of the railway car roused him from his reverie. The engine was pulling out of the station. Sir Wilfrid Laurier sat upright in his chair and glanced toward the door. Within moments, his companions would bring him the election returns from most of the provinces.
The train had stopped briefly to exchange passengers, and his companions had dashed out to collect telegrams they were expecting at the railway station. It was a rare moment of solitude and silence. Sir Wilfrid stretched, and then eased his shoulders into the soft leather cushion of his armchair. Sliding his hands lightly through his flowing white hair, he linked them behind his head and leaned back.
If only he could close his eyes, fall asleep, and escape from the demons that pursued him – the grinding schedule that punished his body, the fears and doubts that attacked his will to keep on fighting for what he believed in.
But no, he wouldn’t allow himself to sleep. Too much had happened, too much was at stake to think of rest. The train was on its way again; in a few moments his companions would return, and then he would know.
It was just after ten o’clock in the evening. Since eight o’clock that Monday morning, December 17, 1917, Canadians had been going to the polls to vote in a federal election, the first to be held in wartime. The choice for most voters was between a Unionist party candidate and his Liberal party opponent. There was only one issue. Voters who chose the Unionists, led by Prime Minister Robert Borden, believed that the government had the right to make able-bodied Canadian men join the armed services to fight, and possibly die for their country in the war against the German Empire. Voters who favoured the Liberals, led by Sir Wilfrid Laurier, opposed forcing any man to go to war.
His travelling companions re-entered the car and Laurier held out his hand for the telegrams. He felt a sharp pang of doubt, and for a moment, he hesitated, holding the telegrams. Then he read the first, and the hurt thrust deep. Ontario, the province with the largest number of seats in Parliament, had gone in a landslide to the Unionists. Numbly, he read on. He had swept Quebec, and had done better than expected in the Maritimes, but the news couldn’t console him. Though he wouldn’t know the final results from the West till morning, he felt in his heart that the voters there would reject him too.
Laurier buried his feelings, as he had learned to do long ago as a boy, but when his companions left him to try to get some sleep, he remained wide awake. Propped upright in his sleeping berth, he stared out the window at mile after mile of snow-shrouded forests looming like ghosts in the darkness.
He was facing his greatest fear, the fear that his beloved Canada might be pulled apart by political factions. Never had anything been so threatening to Canadian unity as this issue about wartime conscription. And now his worst nightmare had become reality: the election results had slashed Canada into two separate, hostile sections.
In one brief day, the work of his lifetime had been destroyed. Questions echoed in his mind to the rattle of the train’s wheels on the rails. Had it all been a wasted effort? Should he have stayed out of politics?
The train neared a crossing and let out a long, shrill whistle that cut through the stillness of the night. Sir Wilfrid turned his head restlessly against the pillow and closed his eyes. No! It had been his duty – his passion – to struggle to keep that pledge he had made for Canada so long ago…
“I do not intend to forget my origins…” Laurier was born in this house and lived here until he was ten. Located in the village of Saint-Lin, Quebec, it was built by Wilfrid’s father Carolus.