A Poet’s War (excerpt)
“British Canada is a better place for a young family like ours,” Mary McGee said as she placed the last of the cups and saucers away in the cupboard. “More so than New York or Boston. America can be such a torment for the Irish.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“D’Arcy has worked hard for unity, the promise of one nation,” she added. “And while London seems willing to let us go, at least in part, can this land hold together if it all comes to pass? As you know, Miss Rory, it is a huge expanse from the Maritimes to the Pacific west. Very different people, even different languages spoken. It will be a vexing problem. No matter what the next steps are.”
“But your husband seems determined to move ahead.”
Mary nodded. “Maybe too much so. Sometimes I wish he would push the late-night talks and negotiations, all the speeches, to one side and allow himself to simply write. Make more time for his poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Yes, Miss Chase, my D’Arcy is a true Irishman when it comes to verse. His work has been published in the old country.”
“I’d love to read some.”
She nodded at this. “He reads much of the work from America – Emerson, Whitman. But he leans more toward the lesser knowns. Perhaps because they remind him of himself. Poets like Peabody and Douglas.”
“Douglas?”
“Yes, Mr. John Douglas. I believe he’s from Niagara Falls, on the American side.”
“I know him,” Rory blurted out. “He’s a dear friend of mine.”
“Well, thank goodness for small worlds,” said Mary. “D’Arcy mentioned they’ve both appeared in something called Gargoyle – a publication in Washington, I believe.”
Rory couldn’t believe what she was hearing. That the longtime head waiter at the Cataract House in the Falls was connected, even remotely, with the rising political star in British Canada.
“Has your husband ever met Mr. Douglas?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, they should,” Rory declared.
With the last of the dishes away, Rory noticed a carte de visite, a small photograph mounted on cardboard, no larger than a formal visiting card, stuck behind the sash lock in the small window above the sink.
“Perhaps an extravagance,” said Mary as she followed Rory’s gaze. “But we like to think it did help D’Arcy get a degree of recognition. Perhaps get elected in the future.”
The image was almost in profile. McGee looking with purpose and intent somewhere out of the frame. The pose accented his thick, wavy hair and dark, intense eyes. Yet even in a starched collar, buttoned to the neck, he appeared ready to fight for what he believed, Rory thought to herself.
“It is striking,” Rory said.
Mary plucked the small card from its resting place. “Here, please take it,” she said.
“No, I couldn’t possibly,” Rory began.
“Nonsense,” Mary replied. “Lord knows we had too many printed. Perhaps a foolish exercise, but we heard about how effective such works were in getting your President Lincoln elected, back before the war. Whatever stays in the public’s eye, right?”
Rory couldn’t disagree with the success Abraham Lincoln had enjoyed with the growing field of photography and accepted the carte de visite from her host. Rory slid it into her small haversack.
“I have a good friend, back in Niagara Falls,” Rory said. “She runs a likeness shop.”
“Well, please show it to her. Maybe she can tell us what to do better if we ever spend such precious coin again.”
Soon the evening played itself out. D’Arcy McGee offered to walk them to the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel, or call them a hack, but the secretary wouldn’t hear of it.
“It’s close enough,” he said. “Besides the evening snap will do us good. Isn’t that right, Rory?”
Rory nodded as McGee held out a slim volume of his poetry. “Mary told me you know John Douglas?”
She nodded.
“Will you pass this along to him, with my warmest regards?”
“Of course,” Rory replied and slipped the slender volume into her small haversack, next to the carte de visite. That she carried the dull-gray bag with its long strap and many pockets had become a source of pride for Rory. “So manly,” other women sometimes scoffed. Yet it reminded her of the brief time in the Union’s 138th. When Rory disguised herself as a man to serve in the war.
As the McGees closed the door, Rory and Secretary Seward began along the narrow streets toward the St. Lawrence Hall. The secretary was right: It was a pleasant night, with few and a hint of warm breeze, perhaps a harbinger of an early summer. The two of them were making good progress until Rory saw figures in a nearby alleyway.
“Come along, sir,” she told the secretary, nudging him by the arm.
After a moment’s hesitation, he quickened his pace.
Side by side, they hurried along Saint Francois Xavier Street toward the hotel. As they did so, the two figures came out of the shadows and crossed the street, rapidly closing the distance behind them.
“Your cane, sir?” Rory asked the secretary.
He glanced back at the figures fast approaching. The secretary had used a cane since a carriage accident in Washington. A terrifying accident that Rory had witnessed.
Without further delay, he held the long shaft of lacquered wood, with its silver ornament knob out to her. Rory took it and urged him toward the hotel door still several blocks away.
“Get help,” she said and then turned to the task at hand.
The two assailants were a shade shorter than her six-foot frame, but they had much more heft and malice. If they had thought things through, they would have come at Rory from either side. But they didn’t consider better options. They had spied a woman and an old man out late at night, and decided the pair was easy pickings.
Rising the cane in the air, Rory was able to catch one of them about the head and shoulders. The blow resulted in a satisfying thud and the fool stumbled backward, falling over the curb and into the street. Yet the other took advantage of the distraction and drove his forearm into Rory’s ribs and the two of them went down in a heap.
Somehow Rory was able to bring the end of the cane, which was now cracked, about and smack him in the chin. Once, twice, she did so and beyond her, coming fast, she heard the piercing shrill of police whistles. After a wild punch to the face, her assailant rolled off her and stumbled back into the darkness.
“Easy now,” Secretary Seward said as he and the hotel doorman helped her to her feet. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Rory could only nod, trying to gather her wits.
“Do you want to make a report?” asked one of the policemen and Rory was too winded to reply.
In the scramble, neither of her assailants had been apprehended.
“No, sir,” Seward replied and they began to make their way toward the hotel doors, which glimmered in front of them.
“I hold no real sway here,” the secretary whispered to Rory. “We’re on the wrong side of the border for that.”
Rory nodded and then bent over, determined to catch her breath. Down amid the cobblestones, something caught the dancing light from the hotel entrance. Reaching down, Rory took hold of a small stickpin. The kind that adorned a man’s lapel. Her assailant must have lost it the fight.
Regaining her composure, Rory let the distinctive identification sit in the palm of her hand for a better look. She recognized it was in the shape of a small harp, the Irish harp.
“How curious,” said the secretary who drew closer for a better look.
“What’s that, miss?” asked one of the constables.
“Nothing,” said Rory and closed her hand into a fist, shielding the pin from view.
“We’ve caught someone’s eye,” said Secretary Seward as they walked the remaining distance to the St. Lawrence Hall hotel. “And I’ll wager it’s because we visited with one D’Arcy McGee.”
Tim Wendel books include Summer of ’68, Cancer Crossings, High Heat, and the historical novels Castro’s Curveball and Rebel Falls. A longtime writer-in-residence at Johns Hopkins University, his honors include New York Times Editor’s Selection, Latino Literary Award, Publisher’s Weekly Top 10 title, and an Indie Book Award. His work has appeared in the New York Times, USA Today, Washington Post, National Geographic, GQ, and Esquire.
Website — www.timwendel.com