The Bishop's Pawn Read Online Free PDF

Orangeman was
recognized, stood, and launched his jeremiad with the throttle wide
open. That anyone could reach such a pitch of umbrage so rapidly
seemed to startle the usually unflappable barrister from New
York.
    “Jesus,” Dougherty whispered to Marc, “did
the fellow start warming up in the lobby?”
    Rant and invective though it was, the
member’s speech was music to the ears of every Durhamite in the
chamber, for the Loyal Orange Lodge – the staunchest monarchists
and anti-republicans in the province – had abruptly switched their
tune. It seemed that there were some features of Lord Durham’s
report that ought to be considered, supported even. The suggestion
that this softened attitude was the result of Lieutenant-Governor
Arthur’s recent suggestion that the Loyal Orange Lodge should be
outlawed was indignantly denied. Indeed, the current spokesman
denied it yet again, amid the hoots and catcalls of men around him
who had once taken his support for granted. Three times the Speaker
had to call for order to silence the desk-thumping and shouts of
“shame” and “sit down.”
    “Just like home,” Dougherty said, vastly
amused.
    However, when the member did sit down –
unshamed – and the fellow next to him rose to address the House,
the gallery’s cheerful engagement quickly changed to sullen
resignation. It had become evident that the Tory strategy for the
evening was to have a number of members, from several camps, speak
to the pertinent issues, set them clearly in the minds of all those
present, and then have Mowbray McDowell make his entrance and have
the last – and devastatingly potent – word. Although disappointed,
Marc could see the sense in this plan. The Reform group in the
Assembly was a shadow of its former self. It had been dealt a near
death-blow in the 1836 election. Mackenzie’s abortive rebellion the
next year had further depleted their ranks and disillusioned many
of their moderate supporters in the countryside. Perry, Bidwell,
Rolph, Robert Baldwin, Mackenzie himself – all had been silenced,
some of them now in exile in the United States. Only the arrival of
Lord Durham last year and his subsequent Report had breathed
new life into the movement. But, alas, its most eloquent spokesmen
were not here in this chamber.
    However, after two years of heavy-handed (but
not inefficient) rule by George Arthur and the Tory-controlled
Assembly, the conservative alliance itself had begun to show cracks
in its solidarity. The Orange Order was disaffected. Long-time Tory
stalwart, William Merritt, had begun making noises in support of
the union proposal. Many in the Family Compact, the ruling clique,
simply wanted no change of any kind, despite the fact that it was
the status quo that had prompted the rebellion. Others wanted to
cut the backward and Pope-ridden Quebecers adrift by annexing
Montreal and Anglicizing it. How anyone, whatever his rhetorical
prowess, could forge a consensus out of this political hodgepodge,
was beyond Marc.
    One hour and six speeches later, with the
gallery glassy-eyed and sitting members slumped in their Moroccan
leather, the wunderkind, at some cue Marc did not detect, stepped
onto his stage. Mowbray McDowell, MLA, entered the chamber quietly
and walked demurely down the aisle towards the Speaker’s chair as
if he were just an ordinary member arriving somewhat late for an
ordinary evening of parliamentary palaver. He wasn’t halfway along,
however, before the restless and muttering gallery went silent.
People simply gawked.
    Marc was expecting someone tall and imposing,
but McDowell was not much over five feet in height, and exceedingly
slim. His hair, slicked back and neatly brushed, was blond – and
further bleached in the dazzle of the chamber’s central
candelabrum. The skin of his face was correspondingly pale, the
eyes a remarkable blue, the features subtle, almost ascetic. But he
walked like a patrician, with the practiced ease of a Roman
senator. For a