Don Gutteridge - The Bishop's Pawn

“Sounds like an American style success storyso far,” Dougherty said as he weaved his way around a patch ofsuspicious-looking ooze and had to be steadied by Marc’s hand onhis shoulder.

“The tale gets more British, quite quickly,”Robert Baldwin smiled, and Marc was pleased to see that his mentorand friend had regained not only his quiet humour but also much ofhis former enthusiasm for politics and the quest for a trulyresponsible, locally controlled government. The sudden death of hiswife had left him with four healthy children but a hollowed-outheart.

“You mean the bugger settled down and becamerespectable?” Dougherty said.

“I’m afraid so. Married a patrician ladypicked out by his father. Took a keen interest in wines andtobaccos. Travelled abroad. Made money.”

“Christ,” Dougherty chuckled, “even Americanpresidents have resisted all attempts to civilize them. AndrewJackson arrived at the White House with a lead ball in his head,and behaved accordingly.”

“I suspect it was McDowell’s father whosuggested politics,” Robert said. “The family money and the Torylandslide back in thirty-six made it easy for young Mowbray to takethe by-election last September. His emergence on the hustings thereas a gifted orator came as a surprise to everyone.”

“But Papa’s stroke kept him from pleasuringour ears until now,” Dougherty said. “I do hope I won’t have torush home and torch my copy of the preamble to the AmericanConstitution.”

“Our Assembly isn’t Westminster or Congress,Dick, but I believe you’ll hear more than one well-crafted speechthis evening,” Robert said. “The future of this province may bedetermined by the decisions this parliament takes in the comingmonths.”

“What I’m about to witness, then, is a kindof Constitutional Congress, British style?”

Robert was about to reply when he stopped inhis tracks and held out his arm to stop his companions. “What thehell – ”

Out of the alley sprang a raggedstreet-urchin. Only the whites of his eyes were visible in thegrime of his face. But they were wild – with fear or anger orsimply excitement. His right arm was raised, his fingers wrappedaround some kind of missile. Setting himself in the exaggeratedpose of a prize-fighter about to deliver a haymaker, he uttered ahigh-pitched howl and let fly. Marc and Robert had already begun toflinch sideways in a purely reflex action, but Dougherty was tooheavy and sluggish of foot to move at all. Only the sudden blink ofhis eyes indicated that he had registered the possibility ofdanger. Fortunately, they were closed when the egg struck him onthe temple and began to ooze down to his chins and drip onto hisgargantuan overcoat.

Marc was the first to react, but theragamuffin was too quick for him. He scampered out into the street,dodging numerous vehicles on their way to the parliament buildingsa hundred yards to the west. And as Robert tried to wipe away theoozing egg – nicely putrefied and stinking – the boy cupped bothfilthy hands around his mouth and shouted, so that the dozens ofcitizens now within earshot could take notice:

“ Sodomite! May you rot in Hell! ”

Then he zigzagged his way through severalbroughams and buggies, and vanished.

“Are you all right?” Robert said toDougherty, who was staring, more amazed than frightened, at themess on his lapels.

“He’s got away,” Marc said, coming back towhere Robert and Dick were now standing with their backs to thebrick wall that surrounded the garden of Somerset House.

“God dammit!” Dougherty bellowed. “It tookCelia three weeks to get the winter’s breakfast-egg out of mywaistcoat! She’ll be most chagrined at this thoughtlessrelapse!”

“You’re all right, though?” Robert said as heeased Dick’s cap away from his broad forehead and peered at the redblotch where the missile had struck.

“Don’t fuss, Robert. I’m unwounded. Thelittle bastard had cracked the grenade open before propelling it. Ihope his hand stinks worse than the rest of him.” Dougherty’s growlwas clearly disarmed by a rumbling chuckle.

“I’ll have Constable Cobb track the mandown,” Marc said. “Cobb knows every alley-dweller and runabout intown.”

“What’s the point?” Dougherty said. “The kidwas hired by one of his betters to toss that reminder at me, andlikely doesn’t even know who slipped him the penny.” Anotherchuckle began forming somewhere deep in Dick’s formidable belly.“You don’t think a stray like that could even pronounce ‘sodomite’without help, do you?”

“Dick, this could be serious,” Marc said.“Your application for admission to the Bar comes up next week. Itcould be that some members among the Law Society or the FamilyCompact have decided to take a more direct approach to discreditingyou.”

“Marc’s right,” Robert said, still swiping atthe congealing mess on Dougherty’s lapel. “Perhaps you should goback to Baldwin House and – ”

“And miss the oration of the century?”Dougherty rumbled. “Come on. We’re attracting more attentionstanding here like a trio of hobbled Clydesdales than if we weredancing the fandango in the buff!”

And with that he moved his weight asexpeditiously as Marc had ever seen – towards the crowd ofTorontonians milling about in the fading light in front of thelegislature.

***

In the foyer, Robert was hailed by Francis Hincks,one of the bright young men of the Reform party. An impromptumeeting of sitting members and other supporters of Lord Durham hadapparently been arranged in one of the committee rooms adjacent tothe Assembly chamber.

“They want me there,” Robert saidapologetically to Dick and Marc. “We’ll be plotting our strategyfor the coming months while the rhetoric above us keeps thebuilding warm.”

“Would you like a little gunpowder?”Dougherty said.

“Well, then, Dick and I had better go on upto the gallery,” Marc said, “before we get jostled to death.”

The foyer was rapidly filling with the creamof local citizenry. Marc recognized many of the faces, and while henodded pleasantly to them, he was quite aware that histransformation from war hero and defender of the Crown to radicalReformer and Durhamite had left most of these former acquaintancescoldly courteous – at best. And the sight of the mountainous anddisgraced Yankee lawyer puffing obscenely at his side – with hiscoat-lapels besmirched and malodorous – did not help matters. Marcsteered Dougherty to the stairway that led up to the spectator’sgallery. With Dick gripping the handrail in all ten digits and Marcheaving and pushing against various portions of the big man’santerior, they managed to reach the upper landing. Marc spotted aspace on the front bench, and they coasted down to it. Doughertycollapsed there with a Falstaffian wheeze, and proceeded to pantlike a hound at the end of the day’s hunt. The gentleman next tohim rose quietly and found a seat elsewhere.

“Well, what do you think?” Marc said whenDougherty’s breathing had settled down and a little colour hadreturned to his cheeks.

“Impressive, I must admit,” he replied. “Itlooks like the House of Commons I have always pictured in my mindwhenever I think of the English Parliament and that centuries-longstruggle against the tyranny of monarchs and their blue-bloodedhenchmen.”

Marc smiled, knowing that when this chamber -and its counterpart next door, where the Legislative Council orUpper House met – was built in 1828, no expense had been spared inmaking it a worthy extension of the Mother Parliament in London.The thick-carpeted aisle, the Moroccan-leather chairs on eitherside of it, the gleaming banisters and polished railings, theraised and ornate speaker’s throne, the cathedral-like windowsgracing the tall walls – these were not merely lavish orostentatious: they were charged with historical meaning, withtradition that stretched back to King John and Runnymede. DoubtfulDick Dougherty might well boast of the boldest experiment indemocracy since the Athenians, of the inalienable logic of theAmerican Constitution, but he was also aware of exactly how muchhis British forebears had contributed to the making of laws and theinstitutions that buttressed them. Marc felt honoured to have metthis man, and to be seated here beside him.