Unholy Alliance

by Don Gutteridge

  LaFontaine smiled approvingly, a response noticed by all present as the French leader had said little so far and given nothing away in look or gesture. “Well said, Robert. However, I ought to point out that when the Clergy Reserves were finally allotted last year, all faiths got their share except for the Roman Catholics.”

  Robert nodded in the polite way barristers often did when engaged in forensic argument. “Very true. But again I say we must look at our progress in terms of successive steps. There will perforce be no established church in the new Canada. Religion will be a question of individual conscience. As a consequence, there will be no restrictions on who may serve in government. Catholic and Protestant will be equal before the law. Additional rights and protections can be achieved through elections and party politics. That is the next step, and the one after it.”

  “But we already have our own schools,” Bergeron said, “imbued with our own religious spirit and values. Do you contemplate a common school system with no religious component or merely some vague lip service paid to Christianity?”

  Hincks glanced at Robert, then said, “The English-speaking Protestants in Quebec are equally concerned that their schools be permitted to be run along religious lines. Once we get a reform movement established, would it not be natural for each province to guarantee the other’s right to set up minority schools – a straight trade-off of ‘protections,’ as it were?”

  Bérubé chortled at this and said, “Splendid, Mr. Hincks, splendid! This is the very kind of sensible horse-trading I hoped might happen between us, but was, alas, entirely sceptical of.”

  Under cover of Bérubé’s enthusiastic outburst, Graves Chilton slipped silently into the room with a trolley of cakes and coffee. While he was serving the refreshment and soundlessly removing the used cups, the delegates took a moment to stretch and relax. However, as the butler left the room, Garnet Macaulay seemed to recall that he was nominally the chairman of the meeting, and said, “We have heard much about the specifics of a party platform, but no contribution thus far from Mr. Tremblay. Are there any particular concerns or provisions you’d like to mention, sir?”

  Tremblay had not only kept his peace throughout the preceding discussion, but had stared grimly at his empty cup, and the two-fingered right hand had often appeared to tremble, as if palsied. He now peered up just far enough to glare at Macaulay, who reddened immediately.

  There were several seconds of awkward silence. It was Lafontaine who broke it. “Come now, Maurice, you didn’t travel all the way to Toronto disguised as a clock salesman to sit on your hands. If there are matters that need to be aired, however unpleasant or disturbing, then they must be said in this very room to these very gentlemen.”

  “I did not mean to embarrass Mr. – ” Macaulay began.

  But Tremblay cut him off. With eyes blazing, he burst into speech. “I do not believe there can be any kind of first step so long as the issue of reparations continues to be ignored! All else is hypocrisy!”

  Marc had not finished translating when Hincks said somewhat intemperately, “We cannot ignore a topic that has not yet been introduced! We have just begun, sir. There is still local government to consider, the postal service, regularizing the currency, the need for charitable institutions and – ”

  “We take your point, Francis,” Robert said evenly, waving off Marc’s translation.

  With just the faintest twinkle in his eye, LaFontaine said in English, “And the point we have reached is the subject of reparations, eh?”

  “It seems so,” Robert said. “As the most contentious issue of ‘step one,’ I had planned to leave it till near the end of this phase of our deliberations. But let us go at it now. I would like to say by way of putting the topic into context that the matter of compensating innocent parties for property damage and personal losses as a result of the uprising here in Upper Canada has already been raised in our own Assembly. And met with outright dismissal by the Tory majority. In part, as victors the Tories feel most of the razed barns and charred crops were just punishment for those who, in their view, might not have participated in the revolt but certainly condoned it. They are also keenly aware that a reparations bill here would encourage the notion in Quebec, and there they see the issue in even stronger terms: all French-speaking farmers were de facto rebels and richly deserve their fate.”

  Tremblay listened to the translation, his lower lip quivering. “Let me tell you my story now,” he said with a simmering anger, “and let it stand for a thousand others. I had a small farm in the Beauharnois district. In ‘thirty-six and ‘seven the drought came. We nearly starved, my family and me, but we hung onto the only livelihood we had. We tried to borrow money for seed, but the treasury was impounded during the political crisis and there was no money for anyone. We begged the government for seed and were told we were subversive, anti-English Papists, and turned away. I slaughtered our milk-cows for food. My boys scoured the woods for nuts and berries. When the uprising started, I had no gun, but I also had no choice. I borrowed one and joined my comrades. I was at St. Denis with Nelson when my borrowed rifle exploded and blew most of this hand away.” He held up his mangled appendage and let Marc finish his translation.

  “I spent six months in a Montreal prison,” he continued. “My wife assumed I was dead. Men around me – ruined and desperate farmers – were being tried by court martial and hanged. I was freed only when Lord Durham arrived in June and Mr. LaFontaine intervened on my behalf. I made my way back to my farm. There was nothing left. Not a log unburned, not a stalk in the fields. My family had fled to my cousin’s place farther up the river. There we stayed, working with him to keep his farm alive. Somehow we managed. We stayed clear of politics. But the patriots came back that fall in greater force. Again, they were met with an even greater force and even greater brutality. General Colborne marched through the Beauharnois and this time scorched the very earth before him. We were burned out a second time. We fled to the woods and lived like primitives. Mr. LaFontaine began arranging small loans for many of the dispossessed, and with his support, we have begun yet again. But fancy words and political planks won’t help me raise a new barn or buy a cow so my youngsters can have milk. I take full responsibility for my own treasonous acts. I was imprisoned and released. Why should my wife and children be made beggars and their land devastated for my actions? Is this the essence of British justice?”

  LaFontaine, to whom everyone instinctively turned, made no attempt to curtail this diatribe or soften its impact upon the English delegates, who sat momentarily taken aback, chastened even. For the first time, at least as far as Marc had observed, pain and a deep, pervasive sadness were visible in the French leader’s face. Although LaFontaine had not taken up arms or been maimed, as Tremblay had, he had nonetheless been driven from the country (fleeing briefly to England and France), unjustly arrested on his return, and publicly vilified. He knew firsthand what English justice could come to. Tremblay had been asked to join the Quebec delegation, Marc was sure now, because he represented the vast constituency of the dispossessed and alienated in the lower province. These were the very people whose votes Lafontaine and the parti Rouge would have to seek and who would have to be persuaded that an alliance with les maudits anglais, however unholy, was in their best interest.

  It was Robert who now took up this challenge. “Although not nearly on the scale of your people’s suffering, Mr. Tremblay, the reprisals and recriminations against the Upper Canadian rebels and any families who even appeared sympathetic were widespread, and could by no means be termed just. In the year following our revolt, untold thousands of farmers abandoned their land or sold it cheap in order to emigrate to the United States.” At this point Robert paused, waited until Marc had concluded his translation, then nodded to him.

  Marc looked at Tremblay and said, “A neighbour of my wife, when she lived near Cobourg, became involved in the early planning of the rebellion, saw the error of his ways, and withdrew. He took no part in the actual upri
sing. Afterwards he was summarily denounced and a price put on his head. He and his family, including his father-in-law and his family, fled all the way to Iowa. With them went my wife’s only brother. Their property has been confiscated by the Crown. These people were good friends of mine. Like so many others, here and in your province, I feel bereft, cheated, and not a little bewildered at the uncertainty of British law and justice, which I have been trained to serve – and revere. I too would like to see both justice and fair reparations for the victims of the rebellions.”

  “What we are implying,” Robert continued, “is that, although it will be difficult and will not likely happen right away, as Reformers we are committed to seeking such reparations, in the sure knowledge that our own supporters among the electorate will expect it.”

  “You are willing to guarantee this?” LaFontaine said, his face once again an unreadable mask.

  “If we reach the point where we are able to draw up a written agreement,” Robert said, “the guarantee will be in writing.”

  LaFontaine looked at Tremblay, who was still shaking from his emotional outburst. Tremblay did not look back.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Macaulay said cheerfully, as if he were about to call for another hand of whist, “it is late in the afternoon and we have worked diligently at our mutual task. I propose that we adjourn until tomorrow.”

  Noting the consensus in the room, he continued. “May I also propose that, in light of the substantial progress we’ve made today, we alter our schedule for Thursday. I suggest we meet here at eleven and work through until five, with a short break for an informal luncheon.”

  The gentlemen quickly agreed to this change and the meeting was adjourned. Things seemed to be going well, but, as Marc knew, step one was child’s play compared with what lay ahead. It was all well and good to hammer out a common platform, but if the new Assembly appeared to the French to be a mere repetition of the old ineffectual one, there would be no ‘step two.’ What was self-evident at this stage was that Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine was a shrewd politician with a steady, almost inhuman, grip on his emotions.

  Marc could hardly wait for the next encounter.

  FOUR

  Garner Macaulay had arranged the room assignments of the delegates so that the four Quebecers had spacious chambers on the upper floor of the two-storey northwest wing of Elmgrove. An ornate, marble staircase, situated in a rotunda at the far end of the central hall, wound its way up to them. On the lower floor of this wing separate bedchambers were assigned to Robert, Marc and Hincks. A fourth room, the master’s suite, was now occupied only by Macaulay, his wife Elizabeth and her maid having gone off to Kingston for the month. Each floor had a water-closet at the end of its hall, but a special feature of the manor was its bathroom, located next to the master bedroom and accessible from there or directly from the hallway.

  Macaulay’s unique bathroom was celebrated (and envied) throughout the city and neighbouring townships. Inside, there stood a large, cast-iron stove, whose constant heat fed into an adjacent boiler, from which a pipe carried hot water to a gleaming copper tub. Here a spigot allowed a Macaulay maid or the bather himself to fill said tub to the luxurious brim. Fresh towels hung perpetually on a nearby rack, and a shelf, reachable from the tub, held a variety of oils, powders and perfumed soaps. The guests this day were encouraged to avail themselves of this modern marvel, either before the formal supper at seven-thirty or afterwards. Priscilla Finch was to be informed, and a time established for her to make the appropriate preparations and to alert Austin Bragg of the need to stoke the fire with fresh hardwood and top up the boiler from the cistern above it.

  As Marc was heading to his room to freshen up and rest before supper, he noticed that the butler’s quarters were on the main floor next to the entrance to the northeast wing, which housed the Elmgrove servants. This wing was a single storey and sat four feet below the grander wing opposite it. While it was unusual for a butler’s quarters to be on the main floor, Marc remembered that the deceased Alfred Harkness had also been Macaulay’s valet, and so his rooms catty-corner from his master’s made sense. Although Marc and Beth could easily afford to build themselves a gentrified house like this one, they were quite content to live in Briar Cottage and the extensive addition they were planning to accommodate their expanding family. Still, he had to admit, as he washed his face and hands in the warm basin of water promptly supplied by one of the kitchen maids (Tillie, was it?), that Elmgrove was proving an ideal setting for the negotiations. Further thoughts of this nature were cut short when he fell asleep on the thick feather-comforter.

  ***

  Mrs. Blodgett lived up to her reputation (and augmented it) by offering the delegates a feast fit for a king (should he be a gourmet). The quail and leek soup, the rabbit stew simmered in claret, the whipped turnip and potato, the perfectly roasted venison, and the delicate meringues were merely the highlights of a multi-course meal, enhanced throughout by wines from Macaulay’s renowned cellar. The service, too, was prompt and professional, though Marc noticed once again an undercurrent of tension between Chilton and his assistants, Austin Bragg and Priscilla Finch.

  Following the meal, it was agreed that delegates were free to use the rest of the evening as they saw fit. The billiard and games room offered them a chance to relax; the front parlour (or drawing-room) was a comfortable place to sit with a brandy and cigar while taking in the winter scenery through the French doors; and the library would be conducive to anyone who wished to make notes on the day’s proceedings or read quietly. And, of course, there was the attraction of a long, warm bath.

  Marc was pleased to see Hincks and Bérubé head into the billiard-room and pick up a cue. Robert went into the library with a notepad. Bergeron, who said he had slept little since his arrival on Monday evening, decided to take advantage of the bath and retire early. Macaulay promised that Tillie from the kitchen would bring a tisane up to his room within the hour. Tremblay bolted up the marble stairs without a parting word. LaFontaine looked ruefully after him, apologized to their host, thanked him courteously for the supper, and then excused himself, explaining that he had some reading to do in the privacy of his chamber. Marc was as disappointed as Macaulay was, for he too had been hoping that the French leader would join them in the parlour for a brandy and some casual conversation. Truth be told, they were hoping that LaFontaine might let his guard down just enough to reveal some part at least of the inner man. His forthright and courageous actions in the political arena over the past three years spoke volumes about him, but if Robert and his Reform party were to throw their fate into his hands, they surely needed to know more about what he really felt and believed. Only a few weeks ago, for example, he had publicly denounced the Union Act and its unjust terms. At the same time he continued to be vocal in his criticism of those French leaders who had taken the violent route to reform – even while staking his own political future upon the support of scarred freedom-fighters like young Tremblay. Was there no buried rage in the man? No understandable contempt for the hypocrisies of the British?

  “You’ll smoke a pipe in the parlour, won’t you?” Macaulay said to Marc in the hallway outside the dining-room.

  “I’d be delighted,” Marc said, “though a long walk would be more in order after that enormous supper.”

  “Snow’s too deep, even though it stopped before noon. But in the morning, if you like, we’ll put on some big boots and have a go. Bergeron has expressed an interest in seeing my racehorses.”

  “You’re on,” Marc said as they approached the door to the front parlour on the left, directly across from the library. Just beyond it was the foyer and the butler’s office. Its door was ajar, and Marc could see Graves Chilton seated at an elegant davenport, poring over some papers.

  “Alfred used to keep my household accounts,” explained Macaulay, “and Chilton has offered to do the same, for which I’m extremely grateful. Chilton seems a bit unctuous, and overly firm with the staff perhaps, but he’s very
, very competent.”

  They entered the parlour and sat down in comfortable chairs near the French doors. Beyond the verandah that lay just outside them the bright moonlight danced crystalline on the rolling, unblemished landscape of snow, rimmed by a dozen blue spruce, their lower branches pillowed in drifts. The two men sat companionably for half an hour, consciously avoiding the afternoon’s events and smoking their pipes with slow satisfaction. Macaulay began to talk about his collection of rare books and his interest in Britain’s latest writing sensation, novelist Charles Dickens.

  “My Beth is a great admirer of his,” Marc said.

  “Well, then, Marc, tell her I have his new work, Nicholas Nickleby, just arrived from New York. I’ve got it beside my bed. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give it to you to take home to her when you go.”

  “That’s awfully good of you, Garnet, but there’s no hurry – ”

  “I’ve also got a Shakespeare folio you might want to browse through while you’re here. It’s only a valuable facsimile but – ”

  “I’d love to see it,” Marc said.

  They left the parlour and walked slowly down the central hall towards the rotunda and the northwest wing. The library was now dark, but as they passed the billiard-room they heard the glassy click of billiard balls and a whoop of triumph from Daniel Bérubé.

  “Hincks and Bérubé are getting along well,” Macaulay said.

  “I wonder if LaFontaine plays whist or piquet.”