The Mayor proposed a series of toasts to the Queen, her navy, her officers. Erskine made his reply. He stressed how much the British people and Her Majesty’s government counted on Canada’s loyalty. The Royal Navy patrolled the seven seas not only to defend Great Britain, he reminded everyone, but the entire Empire. He concluded heartily, if somewhat condescendingly, by congratulating Mr. Laurier on his accession to power in the Dominion.
In response Wilfrid kept his voice light and musical. The acoustics in the room were good, he didn’t need to declaim. He’d taken just three sips of champagne punch, one for each toast. Zoë had counted.
He now appreciated more than ever, Wilfrid said, the significance of Nelson’s words at the Battle of Trafalgar, “England expects every man to do his duty.” He himself would try his utmost to do his duty, by both Canada and the Empire. And if ever the occasion should arise when Britain must stand against the world in arms, she could always count on the support of the Canadian people.
Vice-Admiral Erskine beamed as he absorbed these fine imperial sentiments. Then Wilfrid delivered the coup de grace: the Canadian people were free, he said, and they were loyal—loyal because they were free.
It made a good start, he told her afterwards.
The train slows on its entry into Ottawa, and Zoë realizes she’s drifted off. They’ve enjoyed a good supper in the dining car: trout, boiled potatoes and asparagus, accompanied by a little Muscadet and a dessert of fresh strawberries with crème anglaise. Now the sun is setting. In the parlour car the atmosphere is still hot and close, acrid with cigar smoke. She hoists herself up in her chair and straightens her hat and notices Wilfrid is grinning.
“You shouldn’t stare at me like that,” she says. “I must look a fright.”
“My dear, you look rested and refreshed,” he replies. It’s a description that fits him better.
Up ahead, around a bend in the tracks, she sees the bridge over the Rideau Canal and the Canada Atlantic station on the far side, enveloped in long shadows. The porters open the doors to the evening. A sound of distant cheering enters from up the tracks, coming from the station.
Young Murphy approaches clutching his bowler. He’s excited. “There’s a huge crowd at the station, sir. The railway wired ahead to warn us.”
Wilfrid betrays his pleasure. “I’m surprised. Our arrival was supposed to be unannounced. I haven’t prepared a speech.”
“Somebody in Ottawa must have told your supporters, sir.”
“There will be no police escort,” Wilfrid observes.
Murphy beams. “No, sir. We’re your bodyguard tonight.”
The train comes to a halt, the entourage steps aside, the Lauriers emerge onto the rear platform, Wilfrid already waving. A great deep-throated roar goes up, followed by three cheers. Standing behind him, feeling the humid, sooty air caress her cheeks, Zoë watches faces in the crowd contort with happiness. The men in front press up against the train, pushed by the force of those behind. She feels marooned. Nobody appears to be in charge. She’s alarmed that neither the police nor the Liberal Party have made arrangements for the leader’s arrival.
Wilfrid raises his long arms high into the air, and gradually the mob settles down, except for a drunken cry of “Long live Laurier! To hell with Tupper!”
“My friends,” Wilfrid begins in his best platform voice, “my friends, mes chers amis, Madame Laurier and I thank you for coming out this evening to welcome us. I must tell you, I had no idea there was going to be such a grand reception. When I saw you massed at the station, I asked my colleagues on the train, ‘What city is this? Have we stopped at the wrong place?’ Because I well remember the day, not so many years ago, when there were precious few Liberals to be found in Ottawa. Clearly that sad situation is no more! I feel enormous pride in the fact that two Liberal candidates have been elected to represent you in my new government.”
As the cheering dies down, Wilfrid retains his triumphant smile and slips naturally into French. Ottawa, after all, is one-third French-speaking. He’s on his second sentence when a voice bawls out, “For God’s sake, speak English!”
Wilfrid stops in mid-sentence. Returning to English, he tells the voice, “I don’t know who you are. But I did not fight and win this election, nor have I laboured in politics all these years, to elevate one language, one race, over the other. Our Liberal victory is a shared victory. Our two peoples made it together. Our country is a shared country, which we also made together, and nothing and no one will stop me from speaking my mother tongue—especially in our nation’s capital.” Which he proceeds to do.
“Now,” he continues, “we have much ahead of us. His Excellency the Governor General has asked me to visit him at Rideau Hall without delay. Thank you! But by the same token, until I have seen His Excellency I am not yet your Prime Minister, and I may not speak as if I were. For now I will simply assure you that your loyalty is deeply gratifying. I will have more to tell all my good friends in the days to come. Madame Laurier and I will now try to reach our carriage, which I’m told is waiting to take us off for a good night’s rest. I wish you all a happy evening!”
Zoë hopes the mob will respond by applauding and melting away, but it has no such intention. It stays right where it is, swaying like a happy drunk on unsteady legs, hoping for more. The only sign of movement comes from the very back, where men who couldn’t hear properly are pressing forward for a better view.
Wilfrid turns to the troops behind him. With the physical courage of the young, Murphy leads several MPs in a charge over the railing and onto the platform. They clear a space for steps to be lowered, and Wilfrid descends first, then helps Zoë down. Forming a flying wedge like footballers, the escorts force a passage through the mob. Wilfrid takes her arm, patting it firmly, and together they plunge into the crowd.
Halfway to the station building, a fat man in a straw boater suddenly lunges to grab Wilfrid by the wrist. Zoë, who has schooled herself to think an outstretched arm never intends anything worse than a handshake, is frightened, then relieved as the man pumps Wilfrid’s hand. They push on through the station building and out onto Catherine Street. They enter the first of several open carriages. Other members of the entourage pile into the carriages behind, and they all pull away amid wild cheering. Even though Zoë is used to election mobs, something about this crowd has shaken her: something different, manic, uncontrolled. She seeks Wilfrid’s eyes for reassurance, but he’s turned away from her, still waving, still smiling his fixed, dreamy smile.
Dusk softens the capital’s raw streets as the carriage proceeds up Elgin. Mosquito hawks swoop high above the rooftops, releasing distant shrieks into the dimming air. The Russell House lies ahead at the corner of Sparks, another crowd lying in wait: hundreds massed outside the row of smart shops on the hotel’s ground floor.
This time the cheering is casual and good-natured. The carriage halts before the main entrance, and Wilfrid rises from his seat. Zoë watches his face bathed in electric light from the hotel façade. Wrought-iron balconies and striped awnings rise above him in tiers as he smiles and nods in all directions and finally, unable to resist appeals for a speech, delivers a shorter version of his remarks at the station. The people seem satisfied to have heard, however briefly, the famous silvery voice.
Arm in armthey enter the hotel, the only home they’ve known in Ottawa. The lobby is bedlam. She’s never seen it so packed. People swarm over the mosaic tile floor, jamming the grand staircase all the way up to the stained-glass window on the landing. Cigar smoke rolls out of the long bar off the lobby, propelled by raucous male laughter. Pastel nymphs frolic on the domed ceiling, oblivious to it all.
Men rush up to Wilfrid to grasp his hand. Zoë recognizes no one except Joseph-Israël Tarte, who has somehow got to the hotel ahead of them. He’s already holding forth at the base of one of the Corinthian columns, his stutter