Thaddeus noticed his awe. “Don’t forget, Kingston was once the capital of the United Canadas, if only for a short time. They built a hall to house a government.”
The decision in 1841 to pronounce Kingston the capital of the newly formed Province of Canada had met with the approval of no one but the residents of Kingston. Small, provincial, and too close to the American border were the chief complaints. There was not even anywhere for the Legislative Assembly to meet, although accommodation was eventually made for them at the local hospital. The larger Canadian cities were vocal in their dissatisfaction, so it wasn’t surprising that the decision was soon reversed. In 1844, the capital moved to Montreal.
In the hope that they might somehow change everyone’s minds about the suitability of Kingston, the city fathers went ahead with their plans for a building fit for a legislature. It was all to no avail, and now the building housed various businesses and offices, including the Board of Trade, the Custom House, a saloon, the Mechanics’ Institute, the Orange Order, and a dry goods store.
Still, the hall was breathtaking with its dome and porches and portico. A market battery had been laid out in front of the edifice to replace the old shambles with its wooden stalls and constant danger of fire. Farmers now hawked their pigs and parsnips to the city’s residents under the noses of the exalted personages within the hall.
Today, more than half of the stalls were empty, however. Thaddeus stopped for a moment, looking around with a puzzled expression. “It’s July. These stalls should be heaped up with produce,” he said. “Where are all the farmers?”
Not only were the farmers absent, but also missing were the neatly dressed maids and prosperous-looking housewives who picked through the vegetables and sniffed the fish in their daily haggles over dinner fixings. Nor were there the usual throngs of businessmen on their way to important appointments and their wives riding to festive social occasions. Instead the streets were filled with ragged children and scrofulous beggars. Luke and Thaddeus had to push their way past a knot of grimy men who stood on the corner eyeing a garishly dressed girl across the street.
Their destination was the courthouse on King Street, a block away from City Hall. It was easy to find with the gaol stretching behind it. Once inside, Thaddeus had no difficulty finding a clerk to file the documents McFaul had sent with him.
This business occupied them for only a few minutes, but as it was already late in the afternoon, Thaddeus judged that they should complete the rest of their business the following day. “First we’ll find a place for the night and then why don’t we see if we can find this priest that McFaul is so anxious about.”
They walked along a curving road that led them to Brock Street, where Thaddeus stopped outside the Bay of Quinte Hotel. “I’ve found this pleasant on previous trips to Kingston,” he said.
“A hotel? Is it expensive?”
Thaddeus waved away his objections. “Mr. McFaul is paying,” he said, “and this is a Temperance House, so I have no objections to staying here.”
There was a room available, they were told. “In fact, you could have separate rooms if you prefer,” the innkeeper said. Business was apparently at a standstill in the city of Kingston.
Thaddeus indicated that one room was sufficient, and they stowed their bags in it before they set off for the harbour. Thaddeus hoped they might find the priest’s name on a passenger list somewhere, but just as they were leaving the hotel, Luke thought to ask the innkeeper if he knew where else they might look.
“An Irishman you say? None of the steamers carrying emigrants are allowed to dock at the public wharves. They’re all being sent down to the dock by the brewery.” He waved his arm in a westerly direction. “You can just follow the road that leads along the shore. That’ll take you past the hospital, and you might check there if you think he’s gone down with fever. Although, if he’s a priest and he’s ill, he’s most likely been taken to the nuns.”
“The nuns? You mean a convent or something?” Luke asked.
“No, the other hospital, Hôtel Dieu, just up the street here. It’s run by Catholic nuns. It’s not really finished yet, but they’re using it anyway. It’s full of emigrants. At the rate they’re being shipped over here, we’ll all be down with fever before it’s done. Either that or destitute.”
He walked away muttering imprecations against disease, the Irish, Catholics, and life in general.
As it was by far the closest, they decided to ask at Hôtel Dieu first. They had no need to ask for confirmation that they had reached the hospital. A chorus of moans and groans, punctuated by the occasional wail, told them that they had arrived at a place of suffering. It was a building that was indeed not yet finished — Thaddeus could see from the street that part of the structure was still missing its roof. Nevertheless, it was apparent that even the unfinished section was being used to house patients.
No one took any notice of them as they entered, although there were plenty of people scurrying here and there, bustling into the rooms off the corridor or tending to patients who had been bedded down in the passageways. With difficulty, they edged down the crowded hall, stepping around those who lay whimpering on the floor.
The hospital was crowded beyond belief. Each room was stuffed with patients, two to a cot, others lying on the floor with only a thin blanket to cushion them. The stench from unwashed bodies and unemptied slop pails was a miasmic fog that threatened to overwhelm them. It was like a descent into the lower levels of hell, Thaddeus thought, where the brimstone had long since burned away and all that remained was decaying flesh and the filth it spawned. Surely no demons of Hades could inflict torment worse than this.
As they stood in the middle of the hall wondering who they should talk to, they were passed by a rather stern-faced nun. She appeared to be in a great hurry to get by, but Luke stopped her.
“’Ow can I ’elp you?” she asked. “Are you ’ere from the Benevolent Society?” She spoke with a heavy French accent. As the name of their hospital signalled, this Order must have originated in Quebec.
Her face softened when they said they were looking for Father Higgins. “No, ’e is not ill,” she said, “but ’e is a great blessing to those who are. ’E is assisting Sister Bourbonnière this afternoon, and I believe they are at the English ’ospital.” And with that she swept away from them.
They retraced their steps to the market, and a man selling eggs at one of the stalls directed them to follow King Street, which would take them past the artillery parade ground. West of this, they were told, they would find the general hospital.
They soon left behind the brick walls of the market and the huddle of close-built houses. The hospital was located near the outskirts of the town, but as they passed the parade ground and turned onto King Street, they encountered a boardwalk, something that Thaddeus would have appreciated under ordinary circumstances as it was easier for him to walk on than the rutted road.
The scene that unfolded along this route was anything but ordinary, however. The parade ground, the lake shore, and the entire area around the hospital and the sheds that stood near it was covered with a sea of people. The boardwalk itself was awash with filth. Rats scuttled away from their feet. A number of people, both men and women, were clustered around a bucket in various states of undress, sluicing themselves in an attempt to get clean. Behind a tree, a man was openly fondling a woman.
As soon as Luke and Thaddeus were spotted, they were besieged with a cacophony of whining requests from beggars, pushing to get closer, their hands held out. They were gaunt and emaciated, their cheekbones jutting out, their arms thin and skeletal, and they were clad in rags that barely covered them. Hardest for Thaddeus to ignore were the children who crowded around, most of them with a lilt in their voices that betrayed their Irish homeland.
“A penny, sir, for the love of God …”
“Have