Out of the Shadows, page 21
O’Donoghue filled his cheek with tobacco, and gloated, “He’s in Ottawa, so who cares?”
“This is not about you.” Conor snapped.
“Stop,” Riel shouted. “A man is about to die. You’re right. This is not about William; it’s not about you Conor; and it’s not about you Mr. Smith. It is about me. And I accept the court’s decision.”
Conor was about to speak, but Riel’s voice was firm. “You can report that in your newspaper. And Mr. Smith, you can report that to your prime minister when you leave, and I understand you are to leave soon.”
About one hundred people assembled inside the fort’s courtyard to witness the execution. Conor O’Dea stood beside Donald Smith.
At one o’clock, Elzéar Goulet and André Nault went to Scott's cell. They brought George Young, the Methodist minister, with them. Reverend Young asked for a few moments to pray with Scott. Shaking with dread, Scott told Young, “This is murder, nothing but murder. Those bastards are really going to kill me.”
Nault and Goulet marched Scott down the outside stairway, through the gate, and into the yard. His hands were tied behind his back. Guards pushed him to his knees and covered his eyes. He knelt on the snow blindfolded, screaming, “This is cold-blooded murder! You sons of bitches will all burn in hell!”
Reverend Young appealed to André Nault, the captain of the guard, for a stay of execution. Nault dolefully shook his head. The reverend turned to William O'Donoghue who coldly replied, “It is too far gone.”
Riel did not participate; he watched from the side.
The firing squad was made up of six Métis armed with their hunting rifles. On André Nault’s command, they lifted their rifles. There was a second when no one breathed. Then Ambroise Lepine yelled, “Fire.”
Only two shots were heard; four rifles failed to discharge. Scott was hit in the shoulder and upper chest. He fell over, but he was not dead. He moaned on the ground.
One of the men from the firing squad walked over to him, took out his revolver, and shot him in his head. The coup de grâce.
Riel declared, “C’est fini.”
Chapter 52
Ottawa
When Macdonald heard about Scott’s death by firing squad, he immediately contacted Sir George-Étienne Cartier. Cartier already knew and was expecting him.
“You must not let this stop negotiations, John. I think we can settle things.”
“A man was murdered.”
“But this is no time to…” He almost said over-react but he knew that would infuriate Macdonald, so instead he suggested, “This is no time to play into Riel’s hands.”
“What do you mean, George?”
“We cannot let this disrupt the upcoming meetings. We are so close to admitting Red River into Confederation. Your Confederation. Show them you are the real leader, John.”
Macdonald stroked his considerable nose. “All right George, Scott’s murder—notice I will never call it an execution—will not stall negotiations. We’ll continue to meet with the representatives from Red River.” Cartier was elated. “But…” Cartier held his breath, not knowing what to expect. “But I have asked Colonel Garnet Wolseley to begin preparing an expeditionary force. Red River belongs to Canada and if it becomes a province it should have a federal government presence.”
“The army?”
“Just a police force, George, to oversee the transfer of power and keep the peace.”
Cartier couldn’t argue with the logic. He was dismayed when Macdonald continued, “And I want an arrest warrant for Louis Riel…for murder.”
That night, at home in front of a crackling fire, John Macdonald sat with his wife. “I cannot allow Riel to get away with killing a man in cold blood.”
Agnes was pleased to see he was not holding a drink. He looked distraught though, his lips quivering, his eyes full of outrage. She smoothed his wiry hair trying to brush the bitterness out of his system.
“We must convince the Red Man that the White Man governs.”
“But the Métis are—"
“Should these rebels not disband I shall be glad to give Colonel Wolseley the chance and the glory to do what he must…at the risk of the scalping knife.”
Agnes had never seen him so angry.
The Great Lakes
Sir John A. Macdonald officially called the Wolseley Expedition “an errand of peace” though Colonel Garnet Wolseley was hardly a peacemaker. He saw the expedition as a chance to defend the Empire, get rid of the troublemaker Louis Riel, and once again prove his mettle.
Wolseley was known as a soldier’s soldier. He strutted as if on parade: shoulders back, his step precise. His moustache was waxed and pointed, his stare withering, and his eyes cold with intent. He took a dim view of anyone non-English and not white. Africans, he said, were “good for nothing” and Canada’s Indigenous people “cursed.” Having fought with distinction in Crimea, Burma, India and China, he looked forward to the challenge of crossing forbidding country and confronting an enemy of the Crown.
And he was hardly alone. Along with four hundred British militiamen, eight hundred men volunteered from Ontario and Quebec. One of them was Hugh John Macdonald, the prime minister’s son. Hugh Macdonald loved the military life. A few years ago, he’d volunteered as a rifleman with the Queen’s Own militia near Cornwall to defend the border from a Fenian invasion. Now he signed up to confront the Métis menace.
His father discouraged him from going West, but Hugh was eager to bring Riel to justice. “All of Ontario is against Riel now,” he said.
Part Six
There were a few Canadians Henry Prince particularly disliked. John Schultz was a bully, Charles Mair was full of useless noise. They had run away, back home to Ontario. Now Thomas Scott had been executed. Scott was a horrible man but did he deserve a firing squad?
Henry Prince had heard about the top man in Ottawa: a Scot named Macdonald. From the days his father had helped Lord Selkirk settle highlanders in Red River, his people had lived with the Scots, sometimes with good relations, sometimes not. He hoped Macdonald might do right for the people.
But he doubted it.
Tensions were rising at The Forks; competing interests converging, all of them defining the land in European terms. The English army coming, the Métis in distress, the Americans watching with bated breath.
Henry Prince had noticed the young reporter he first saw at the border asking a lot of questions, annoying a lot of people and angling for what he called “stories.” He seemed to have become friends with Louis Riel.
One day he approached the reporter, who was walking briskly outside of the fort. Not wanting to alarm the younger man, he walked next to him and struck up a conversation.
“I am Chief Henry Prince, son of Chief Peguis. I know who you are. I have been watching as you try to learn about our land.” He wasted no time and got straight to the point. “Why have you not talked to me? Why do you not write about us, the rightful owners of the land?”
Conor O’Dea looked so surprised that he almost felt sorry for him. But if he was really interested in this land he would want to know about its first peoples.
“I’m sorry,” Conor answered. “But there is so much happening here. Chief Prince, you just don’t appear to be a significant part of this story.”
“Why not?” Henry Prince asked and walked away.
In difference, he knew, was as cruel as injustice.
Chapter 53
Pembina
Conor chewed his fingernails, paced the dirt road, and waited anxiously for the steamer. Meg was arriving today.
He had travelled to Pembina the day before and checked into a hotel only slightly nicer than Garrett’s in Fort Garry. He dared not stay at Mrs. Unger’s Boarding House where he knew Meg and Polly would be lodging. He’d met Mrs. Unger and found her rather intimidating. He started the day with a barber’s shave and a haircut. He polished his shoes and wore the suit he bought in New York. He tucked his pocket watch in his waistcoat and donned his most elegant hat. He knew he would look out of place, but was determined to greet her as a gentleman.
Now where was the damn steamer?
Finally, it came into sight, slowing as it reached the pier. A few dock workers scurried to greet it. They seemed to take forever to secure the ropes so the gangplank could be dropped.
Then, they appeared.
First Polly, dressed modestly in a threadbare black coat and hat, looking older, Conor thought, but walking toward him with determination he remembered so well.
Then Meg, in a white day dress sprinkled with lace with a matching bonnet and a parasol. Conor thought she looked like an angel. He watched her breathe the fresh air and look around, he assumed, for him. When she saw him, her eyes lit up and her smile beamed. He rushed toward her, then lost his nerve, and welcomed her with a tentative kiss.
“Kiss her properly, you young fool,” Polly chided him.
And he did.
Polly gave him a sisterly hug, took him by the shoulders, and declared, “You look more like your father every day.”
“That makes me proud.”
“It bloody well should.”
Meg was even more alluring than Conor remembered. She could tell he was admiring her. She could always see through him.
Once their bags were unloaded, Conor said, “I will escort you to Mrs. Unger’s place.” He’d hired a man to pull their bags by cart. On the short walk, Conor watched Meg take in the town: a fort, some dusty streets, forgettable buildings, and rough-looking people.
“For a woman who has lived in London, England, this must seem like the edge of civilization.”
“I am here with you, that’s all that matters.”
Conor took her hand, and she squeezed it.
At the boarding house, Mrs. Unger greeted her new hires with the warmth of a winter freeze. “I expect you ladies to work hard,” she said curtly. “We are a Christian house with Christian values.” Mrs. Unger adjusted her glasses, looked Conor up and down, and instructed Meg, “I also trust you will not entertain male visitors.”
Polly stepped forward. “I am her chaperone, Mrs. Unger. I will keep watch over her.”
With a practised scowl, Mrs. Unger responded, “I will leave you to your re-acquaintances.”
Everyone looked relieved when she left the room; no one noticed the slight smile on her face.
Patrick O’Hagan had stayed behind on the steamer and watched the pathetic reunion. Conor O’Dea was an obnoxious piece of shit in New York, and a proud peacock here, fawning over that Trotter girl. Once they were out of sight, he collected his bags, left the boat, and waited for a Fenian operative to pick him up.
Henri Le Caron soon arrived and greeted him warmly. “Good to see you, Patrick. I’ll take you where we’re training, half an hour south of here.”
“Where’s your moustache, Henri?”
“I have decided to simplify my look in the West.”
They walked along the boardwalk to where a carriage was tethered. O’Hagan asked, “Remember that Canadian we met in New York?”
“Of course. Conor O’Dea. You had a dust-up with him at McSorley’s. He’s a reporter up in Fort Garry.”
“I don’t like him being here.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s at Mrs. Unger’s boarding house ogling his long-lost love.”
O’Hagan admired this man. Le Caron always seemed to know what was going on, often before everyone else.
“What news then? How soon until we invade?”
“Not for a while. The timing is up to General O’Neill—”
“Ireland long a province be a Nation once again.”
The Fenian song, sung with gusto, startled O’Hagan. He turned and exclaimed, “Will O’Donoghue! Saints alive!”
O’Hagan and O’Donoghue embraced, though Le Caron didn’t think with much true affection from either side.
“Are you coming with us?” O’Hagan asked.
“Not right now, but give my best to John O’Neill. He knows I am working with the Métis people, securing their support. I just wanted to say welcome, and let you know our day will come.”
It was evening now, and the boarding house was empty. All the guests were eating or drinking elsewhere, including Polly, who left without saying where she was going. Conor and Meg were alone in the parlour. They were both keenly aware however that Mrs. Unger could burst in at any moment.
“Why did you chase me away in Toronto, Meg?”
“It was complicated. I didn’t want to hold you back. I knew this was a big story for you to cover.” She toyed with her handkerchief and continued. “And I admit I was scared. I’m not a brave person. And…”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Mr. McMicken suggested it would be wise.”
“He wanted us apart?”
“No, I think he wanted you in Red River.” She chose her words carefully. “And he offered inducements to the hotel if I would urge you to go.”
Conor scratched his head in disbelief. “That interfering son of a bitch. Him and Johnson and Gzowski—”
“I don’t understand it all, but I don’t think you should blame Colonel Gzowski. I just know it was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“Well, we’re together now.” He moved close to her. “Meg, will you marry me?”
She laughed. “So soon? I just got here.”
He looked crestfallen.
“And I thought a well-mannered man like you would get on your knees.” He was about to, when she said, “Don’t be silly. Of course, I will marry you. I want us to marry as soon as we get home. Or as soon as I can get you home.”
“I would have asked you in Toronto, but I couldn’t afford a ring.”
“Oh you unbearably conventional man!” she groaned.
He reached over and lightly kissed her. She pulled him closer. She opened her mouth, and his tongue explored deeply and lovingly. He could do this forever.
“Time to leave, Mr. O’Dea,” Mrs. Unger announced from outside the door. “There is a coach ready to take you to Fort Garry.”
“Meg, Fort Garry is not far. I will be back as soon as I can. I love you, Meg. Like I have never loved before.”
Meg didn’t answer. It was too public with Mrs. Unger hovering. And she knew he had never really loved before.
Polly Ryan left the boarding house so Meg and Conor could have time alone. She also had work to do. Her mission was to watch the vile Patrick O’Hagan —if watch was the right word— but she couldn’t find him anywhere. He must have disembarked when they were greeted by Conor, then gone someplace while they went to the boarding house.
There was that other name as well. Henri Le Caron. Mr. McMicken said Le Caron was close to General O’Neill. She would have to find him too.
She was walking back to the boarding house when she caught sight of Conor getting on a coach, presumably to take him back to Canada. She also noticed a pretty girl with hair as blonde as a cornfield watching him.
Chapter 54
Ottawa
The Métis delegation reached Ottawa just as the snow had finally melted, the leaves were in bud, and people had shed winter coats and doldrums. But the delegation couldn’t enjoy the Spring weather. Thomas Scott’s brother accused Father Ritchot of murder, and the parish priest was immediately taken into custody. The delegation was kept under house arrest in the bishop’s residence until Sir George-Étienne Cartier put a stop to the charade.
The delegation mirrored the divide in Red River: Father Ritchot stood for the Métis, Judge John Black represented English-speaking Canadians, and bartender Alfred Scott, though neutral, was actually an American. Prime Minister Macdonald was pleased with the judge, unsure of the priest and suspicious of the bartender.
The negotiations took place in George Cartier’s office. Father Ritchot was the most vocal and most persuasive of the group. While John Black was no fan of Riel, he saw the virtue of a Canadian province, so he deferred to the priest. Alfred Scott contributed little but took copious notes. Each evening he went to the Russell House bar and reported what happened to James Taylor, who had arrived a few days after the delegation. He in turn reported to Hamilton Fish, the Secretary of State in Washington, and to Jay Cooke, the financier in Philadelphia.
Cartier admired how cogently Father Ritchot presented the Métis “List of Rights.” Essentially, the Métis wanted a province with the right to elect its own legislature. Macdonald was less impressed. He thought the territory had too small a population to merit provincehood. But he conceded that’s what they were here for. The Métis wanted title to the land they already farmed. Macdonald knew that would annoy some Canadians in Red River, but saw the fairness of it. He agreed that the Métis would get 1,400,000 acres. They wanted improved roads and a railway. Macdonald smiled approvingly at the word railway. Cartier agreed wholeheartedly when Ritchot argued that a new province should be bilingual with both French and English schools. Macdonald was tired of the incessant French and Catholic schools argument but had been convinced by some Ontario Members of Parliament that when the population grew it would be predominately English-speaking and Protestant. So he weighed the political cost and thought, why not?
Publicly, George Cartier and John Macdonald spoke as one, though privately the two friends disagreed about what to do with Riel and the other Métis rebels. Cartier urged amnesty. Macdonald insisted they be brought to justice for Thomas Scott’s murder.
One day, as the delegates went over point after point, the prime minister, who was never detail-oriented, announced he wasn’t feeling well, and went home.
Hewitt Bernard, Sir John A. Macdonald’s brother-in-law and private secretary, heard the crash. The prime minister had buckled over in pain and collapsed. At first, Bernard thought it was a drunken fall because there was a broken glass by Macdonald’s side and port spilled on the carpet, but the prime minister was convulsing, his pulse very weak and his face ashen. Bernard had met with Macdonald just hours before; he had been tired, but coherent and sober, speaking sadly about his daughter Mary.
