Governing Passion (6 page)

Marc smiled, and waited.

“Well, I feel I can best promote the notion
that the cabinet as a whole is responsible to the majority opinion
of the Assembly from within. It’s obvious that sooner than later
the harmony of the cabinet – representative of every faction, it
seems – will not last. The Governor will propose legislation that
will be rejected by our alliance in the Assembly and bring matters
to a crisis point. When a stalemate ensues, I will suggest strongly
that Mr. Poulett Thomson, or Lord Sydenham as he’s now known,
dissolve the Executive and form a new ministry reflective of the
Reform group that controls the Assembly.”

“He’ll be compelled to support responsible
government in fact, if not in principle,” Hincks added. “And that
will make it almost impossible to retreat to the old way of doing
things.”

“The Tories are counting on our alliance to
collapse, once the French get here and find themselves in a
thoroughly English milieu,” Robert said.

“But we’ve got Louis LaFontaine in our camp,
eh?” Marc said.

And as if on cue, LaFontaine entered the
room. And commanded instant attention. He was unusually tall –
almost Marc’s height – a sort of tallish Napoleon, for he wore his
hair brushed forward like Bonaparte’s, and his left hand often
found its way into his jacket, much as the Emperor’s had whenever
he was posing. Whether this was a nervous tic or a deliberate
gesture was a matter of debate amongst those who knew Louis. But it
was the stillness at the centre of him that commanded respect, a
quiet fortitude, an unflinching quiescence that bespoke authority
and fierce conviction. At his side was a short, middle-aged, dark
complexioned fellow with a large nose and bushy eyebrows.

Louis was greeted by those around the table,
and he in turn introduced his companion. “This is Gilles Gagnon, my
secretary and my right-hand man,” he said in slightly accented
English. “You’ve heard me speak of him before.”

“Welcome, Monsieur Gagnon,” Robert said,
rising to shake his hand.

“Gilles, please,” Gagnon said, smiling.

“Well, please take a seat, gentlemen. We’ve
got plenty of business to discuss,” Robert said, and proceeded to
introduce Marc and Hincks to the newcomer.

The meeting got underway with no further
small talk. Robert reviewed the situation in the ridings of Canada
West, where the Reform party expected to garner twenty of the
forty-two seats. The rest would be split among the Conservatives,
or moderate Tories, the diehard Tories, including the Loyal Orange
Lodge, the extreme Reformers or Clear Grits, and various
independents. Robert then turned to Louis.

“The
rouge
should take twenty-five or
more seats,” Louis said, “with the rest split evenly among the
English and French Conservatives.”

“Is there any chance the French will align
with our Conservatives or Tories?” Hincks asked.

“Not a chance,” Louis said. “They are
determined to act as a rump group only, as defenders of all things
French. They have no interest in the new economy or the British
monarchy.”

“So it’s certain that our moderate Reformers
and your
rouge
Nationalists will form the single largest
group in the new Assembly?” Robert said.

Louis hesitated. “That is true, but I’m
afraid that is only if I can hold our own people together and bring
them with me to your side, Robert.”

“There’s trouble in the ranks?”

“I’m afraid so. John Neilson is leading a
rump group of Ultra-Nationalists who want no truck with the English
or with the union. They are planning to come here after the
election in April not to protect French rights and culture but to
see that the new Parliament does not work.”

“And he’s recruiting among your people?”
Hincks said.

“He’s already wooed two or three to his camp
with the prospect of many more. He’s using my own words against
me.”

LaFontaine had consistently railed in public
against the unfair terms of the union, whereby Quebec got the same
number of seats with a third greater population and was saddled
with Upper Canada’s debt. Moreover, French, while technically
allowed to be spoken in the Assembly, would not be made part of the
permanent record. However, Louis, earlier on, had been won over to
the potential of Baldwin’s idea of responsible government as
providing the only plausible avenue for Quebec gaining its demands.
He was in favour of the union but not the terms. Neilson had
exploited that nicety and was stumping Canada East calling for a
circling of the wagons. And was being listened to.

“If your group splits, we are finished,”
Hincks said.

Robert looked grim. “I’ve been able to keep
my supporters on side by promising them a majority in the Assembly.
If word leaks out that that is in jeopardy, the results could be
calamitous.”

“But you are still the foremost politician in
Quebec,” Marc said to LaFontaine.

A small, appreciatory smile played at the
corners of Louis’ mouth. “I am not without resources, or
tactics.”

“You have a plan to stop the bleeding?”
Hincks said.

“Yes. That’s why I brought along Gilles this
morning.”

Gagnon smiled broadly.

“Gilles has come up with an idea we want to
run past you.”

Gagnon looked around the table and said in
French, “My English is not good enough to express what I have to
say today. Would Monsieur Edwards be kind enough to translate for
me?”

Marc nodded, and as Gagnon spoke and paused
judiciously, Marc translated his remarks for Hincks and Robert,
even though they could understand quite a bit of French if it was
spoken slowly.

“Since Louis has lost favour with some of our
comrades in Quebec, we decided we needed another spokesman, someone
with battlefield credentials and political weight. We identified
Henri Thériault. He was wounded at the Battle of St. Eustache in
‘thirty-seven, trying to prevent the English militia from blowing
up the church. He escaped to Montreal, where he was successfully
hidden away from the troops in search of him. Before the rebellion,
he was a member of the Assembly and a confederate of Nelson and
Papineau. He now lives near Chateauguay on his family’s farm. I
went to visit him last week. I laid before him our ambitious plan
to make the union and the new Parliament work in our favour. He has
great respect for Louis, but naturally hates the English. His own
farm, near St. Eustache, was razed and his wife and children
terrorized. But I put our case forcefully. I told him he did not
have to love the English, that Monsieur Baldwin was a man of great
character and fortitude and would help us move towards a kind of
government that would have to carry out the true wishes of the
people, including those in Quebec. We talked of reparations and
moves to preserve the French language and education. He was quite
taken with the details of the alliance that I conveyed to him.”

“And he’s agreed to be our spokesman?” Hincks
said in French.

Gagnon sighed. “Alas, no.”

“But we thought – ”

“All is not hopeless,” Gagnon said. “It’s
true that Neilson had also been in touch with Thériault, trying,
like us, to get him to come out of his isolation and fight for
Quebec. Even the
bleu
had approached him. You see how
valuable he is thought to be as a spokesman for those who’ve
suffered most from the failed rebellion. He is a charismatic
speaker when he puts his mind to it.”

“So he didn’t give you a flat ‘no’?” Robert
said.

“He said he was intrigued by our plans. But
also said he is seriously considering Neilson’s offer of contesting
a safe seat in the April election. He’s going to make up his mind
whether to join him or us in the next week or so.”

“Well,” Hincks said, “that’s almost good
news.”

“There’s more to come,” Louis said.

Gagnon smiled again. “We have, as you English
say, an ace up our sleeves. An ace that is right here in
Kingston.”

“What is that?” Robert said.

“It’s a who, not a what,” Louis said. “Gilles
learned by a lucky accident that there is in town a young man who
has come here from Toronto to help his fiancée arrange their
wedding in April. She’s a Kingston woman. His name is Christopher
Pettigrew.”

“Oh,” Marc said. “I’ve already met him. He’s
staying here at this hotel, though he’s not here a lot. His fiancée
takes up most of his time. But I liked him very much. He’s also an
ardent supporter of the Reform party. We had a brief but
interesting talk about politics. I think he’d like to help us.”

“And we would like him to do just that,”
Louis said. “You see, the person who hid out Henri Thériault when
he was fleeing the English troops was none other than young
Christopher Pettigrew.”

There was amazement all around. Gilles Gagnon
took up the tale. “I got this story from Thériault himself, who
said there was only one Englishman he trusted – Christopher
Pettigrew. Pettigrew was articling law in Montreal back in
‘thirty-seven. One night, after the rebellion had started, he heard
a knock on his front door and opened it to find a bleeding and
semi-conscious man on his doorstep. He helped the man inside and
tended to his wounds as best he could, as Thériault ordered him not
to fetch a doctor. Moments later, the redcoats arrived, but
Pettigrew was able to convince them that the escapee had been there
but had been turned away and fled farther into the city. Thériault
stayed safely at Pettigrew’s place for three weeks. Pettigrew was
bilingual and the men became friends. Pettigrew, as it turned out,
was a Reform sympathizer and approved of the rebellion in both
provinces.”

“And this Pettigrew is staying right here?”
Hincks said, much excited.

“He is,” Marc said, “and wants to be
helpful.”

“How do you see him helping?” Robert asked
Louis.

“I’d like you people to make him familiar
with our plans, and then ask him if he would write a personal
letter to Thériault, endorsing them. His opinion may carry more
weight than our own. We’ve got the man on the hook, now we need to
reel him in. Certainly we don’t want him going over to the
Ultra-Nationalists. That would be disastrous.”

“Would you like me to approach Pettigrew?”
Marc said.

“That would be great, Marc,” Robert said.
“Would you approach him and ask him if he would be willing to meet
with us, say, tomorrow morning at this same hour?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Marc said.

Other routine business was then carried on,
but the undercurrent of excitement roused by the
Thériault-Pettigrew link continued apace. A half-hour later the
meeting broke up, and Marc went looking for Christopher
Pettigrew.

***

Marc was told by the hotel manager that Mr.
Pettigrew had gone to his fiancée’s home for the day and would not
return until the supper hour. Marc thanked him and, having the rest
of the day to wait, decided to take up an offer that had been made
to him yesterday evening. Bert Campion, the architect who was
supervising the conversion of the hospital to a legislature, had
invited him to go along and inspect the progress of the work.

At eleven o’clock the two men set out in
Campion’s cutter. They drove to the western edge of the city, past
its cold, limestone façades, and entered the forested countryside.
The hospital, which had nearly been completed before being
designated the site of the new Parliament, lay about a mile beyond
the town on several cleared acres. As they came up to it, Marc was
impressed by its overall size, but not so impressed by the bleak,
two-storey face it directed at the world.

“It’s what’s inside that counts,” Campion
said amiably.

They entered a large foyer that had just
recently been finished.

“I did what I could with this,” Campion said.
“Come on and I’ll show you the Assembly chamber. It’s almost
completed.”

They swung to the left down a long corridor.
From the right, Marc could hear hammers banging away and the whine
of a saw.

“The men are in there working on the
Legislative Council chamber,” Campion pointed out as they came to a
set of double doors – in pristine oak.

“Through here.”

They entered the Assembly chamber. Marc drew
in his breath. The room was like finding a jewel in a garbage heap.
It was spacious, airy, and redolent with several types of hardwood
– on its floors, its banisters, its elegant rows of green-leathered
chairs. Light flowed in from a set of high windows on the
south-east wall.

“Those windows gave me the most trouble,”
Campion said.

After the architect had finished pointing out
a number of the chamber’s more august features – including an
ornate speaker’s chair – the two men went back along the hall
towards the sound of the hammering. They stepped into a room much
smaller than the Assembly chamber and decidedly unfinished. The
workmen, five of them, were in the process of putting up the lath
on the brick walls, preparatory to plastering them as soon as the
weather became warm enough. They moved past several piles of lath
sticks, towards one of the workmen.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Campion said to
him. Then to Marc he said, “This is my foreman, Earl Dunham. Earl,
this is Mr. Edwards.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Dunham said. Marc
nodded.

“How are they proceeding, Earl?” Campion
asked.

“Not as fast as they might, sir,” Dunham
said, glancing over sharply at two of the workmen near one of the
windows.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s mostly the Frenchies, sir. They keep
pretendin’ they don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, but they
understand every word. And I certainly don’t plan on speakin’ that
garble they call French.”

“You’ve got French workers here from Quebec?”
Marc said, surprised.

Campion sighed. “It was the Governor’s idea,”
he explained. “All the workmen are from Lower Canada – I still
can’t say Canada East – so Lord Sydenham thought that in the
interests of demonstrating unity, we should have a certain quota of
French-speaking men. The only proviso was that they speak some
English.”