Unholy Alliance (8 page)

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 uprising. 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.

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.”