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1867–1872

Gristle into Bone

“Except Macdonald, I know none of the Delegates who really think enough of the future,” wrote Alexander Galt from London, adding that even Macdonald believed that the “immediate task is to complete the Union, leaving the rest to be solved by time.” Lord Monck had commissioned Macdonald to form the first ministry, enabling him, as his friend Gowan urged, “to give a fair start to the new Dominion.” Macdonald had claimed in 1866 that “a great party is arising of moderate men,” soaring above “the petty politics of past days … to join together for the good of the future of Canada.” Unfortunately, the formation of the first Dominion Cabinet disproved this noble vision.

Macdonald nearly failed to shoehorn claimants and interest groups into the thirteen available Cabinet places. The Maritime premiers, Tupper and Tilley, each selected a colleague to fill the region’s four seats. Tough bargaining allocated five ministers to Ontario against Quebec’s four. Since the Conservatives were weak in Ontario, Macdonald reappointed all three Great Coalition Reformers. He also retained the courteous and bilingual Alexander Campbell to run the Senate. Campbell represented the Tory wing of the party: the prime minister was the only Macdonald Conservative in the Cabinet. His biggest headache lay in the political arithmetic of Quebec. Naturally, French Canadians claimed three of the four seats — leaving one ministry for the anglophone minority. D’Arcy McGee demanded the place on behalf of the Dominion’s Irish Catholics, but his appointment would have excluded Quebec’s Protestant community, whose spokesman, Galt, also represented Montreal finance. Macdonald confronted the impasse “in a constant state of partial intoxication,” said Galt, and threatened to abandon his commission. The logjam was broken by Tupper, who persuaded McGee they should both stand down, freeing the thirteenth place for a Nova Scotian Irish Catholic. The Halifax merchant, Edward “Papa” Kenny, was surprised to receive the summons to Ottawa. To prevent the Grits from controlling the new province of Ontario, John A. Macdonald tried a new twist on an old triangular rivalry. To block George Brown, Sandfield Macdonald agreed to become his running mate as first premier of Ontario.

George-Étienne Cartier disliked playing second fiddle to the new prime minister, and resented Ontario’s extra Cabinet place. On the first Dominion Day, July 1, 1867, the moment Gowan hoped Canada would escape from “a sea of strife and littleness,” Cartier’s resentment exploded. There were rumours that the British would mark Confederation by bestowing titles and medals, perhaps using the prestigious Order of the Bath, a relic of medieval locker-room culture when kings shared their ablutions with trusted retainers. A knight commander of the Bath outranked any ordinary “sir.” “Come back a K.C.B.,” Campbell had cheerfully urged the newlyweds, “Sir John and Lady Macdonald.” The Bath included a category of “Companions,” associate members who put the coveted letters “C.B.” after their names. On the morning of July 1, Macdonald learned he was to be knighted: he promptly scribbled a note to Agnes, addressing the envelope to “Lady Macdonald.” But when Cartier found he was only to receive a C.B, he angrily rejected the honour as a personal affront and an insult to Quebec. Galt reluctantly declined his C.B. too. In the coming months, knighthoods soothed the egos of Sir George and Sir Alexander, but the Dominion had made a sour start.

The limits on Macdonald’s prime ministerial authority were underlined by his inability to save the Commercial Bank from collapse in October 1867 — a crash that almost bankrupted him. Kingston’s bank had been over-extended for years, but its directors failed to crack down on unreliable borrowers — such as board member Sir John A. Macdonald, with his $80,000 overdraft. In October 1867, a run on deposits highlighted its vulnerability. Finance Minister Galt travelled to Montreal to beg Canada’s bank bosses for help, but their bail-out terms were tough. Macdonald’s Cabinet colleagues insisted that the package was “insufficient to warrant any action by Government,” and the Commercial Bank closed its doors. Not only powerless to save his riding’s bank, Macdonald also lost his finance minister. Galt resigned, expressing “exasperation” with Macdonald: “had he stood by the Bank as I did, it would have been saved.” The wreckage was absorbed by a Montreal rival and Macdonald’s debts fell into unfriendly hands.

The first Dominion Parliament assembled on November 7, 1867, with the new prime minister orchestrating the ceremonies. A journalist described him as “a young looking oldish man, dark hair, not quite as plentiful as it was ten years ago, a prominent nose, dark eyes, and a pliable and sagacious mouth.” With Brown absent, Cartier sulking, Galt marginalized and Sandfield neutralized, Macdonald appeared dominant, but his position was weaker than it seemed. Confederation itself remained insecure. Eighteen of Nova Scotia’s nineteen MPs demanded repeal of the union. Macdonald believed that their leader, Joseph Howe, would “by and by be open to reason” but, if statesmanship required patience, politics might demand action. The session took its toll in a sadly familiar manner. On December 16, a backbench MP spotted “Sir John drinking” and rushed by cab to fetch Agnes.

The Dominion of Canada’s first parliament looks like a dream come true as it meets in November 1867.

Agnes was learning about married life in a cramped house, shared with her mother and her brother, Macdonald’s secretary, Hewitt Bernard. Sometimes she misread her husband’s mood: once, he lost his temper when she teased him, and actually ordered her out of the room — although “the good old boy” quickly called her back. She tried to be an attentive spouse: Macdonald, she recognized, was “so busy and so much older than I that I would soon fall out of his life if I went my own ways.” Agnes had enough self-knowledge to realize that her pride in being “the instrument of so much improvement” was partly “a love of power.” She tried to ban politics on Sundays and chivvied her exhausted husband to attend church, but she abandoned her campaign for daily morning prayers: “Sir John rises late — it is his only quiet time … he ought not to forego it.”

Macdonald was still more likely to turn for support to the bottle than to his bride. In January 1868, Agnes enigmatically noted “a rather trying week,” leading her to give up wine “for example’s sake.” The root problem, as their doctor warned, was that Macdonald was “working himself to death.” Ottawa’s primitive infrastructure also threatened his health: the Macdonalds’ cesspit froze, causing an “insufferable” smell from blocked sewage. Late in February 1868, Canada’s first prime minister told Alexander Campbell he was close to quitting. Campbell tried to cheer him: because Macdonald was “a little depressed,” he was considering an option “which in moments of more robust health you would not contemplate.” Campbell hoped Macdonald would not retire, “but if on mature consideration … you should really set about such a move,” the obvious answer was to appoint himself lieutenant-governor of Ontario. The job would provide “ease and quiet” and, equally important, it would remove Macdonald from Ottawa. “You have filled too large a space in our horizon to adopt the plan of occupying an independent seat in Parliament — of necessity, you must either lead for the government or opposition.” It was the first attempt to find a way out for the politician who dominated public life. A career as a lawyer was no longer attractive, and he did not wish to become a judge. When well-wishers suggested he should appoint himself to the judicial bench, he replied that he would rather go to Hell. The exit strategy problem was never solved, and Sir John A. Macdonald carried on until he died.

When Parliament was sitting, Agnes waited up to welcome her husband back from late-night sittings. Macdonald was in “cheery” form when he came home around 2:00 a.m. on April 7, 1868, full of a ringing speech by D’Arcy McGee pleading for harmony with the discontented Nova Scotians. Suddenly “a low, rapid knocking at the front door” brought terrible news: McGee had been shot dead by terrorists. Hours of horror and days of fear ensued. “John’s face was white with fatigue, sleeplessness and regret,” Agnes wrote, but “he never gave in or complained.” The tragedy brought them close together: within a few weeks, Agnes was pregnant.

Political insecurities abounded. In February and March 1868, the still-resentful Cartier explored the possibility of an alliance with George Brown. The feelers lapsed because Brown was busy expanding the Globe, but it triggered unsettling rumours. There was friction too with Sandfield Macdonald in Ontario. Foreseeing tensions between centre and periphery, Sir John A. made it clear that he would strike down objectionable provincial laws. “By a firm yet patient course, I think the Dominion must win in the long run.” Sandfield complained that he was not consulted on important matters, yet it was his namesake who was blamed when the Ontario government controversially decided to axe grants to denominational colleges. Sir John privately denounced Sandfield as “bigoted and exceedingly narrow-minded” on the issue, but he confessed himself “quite powerless in the matter,” even though the funding cut impacted upon Queen’s, in his Kingston riding. The Ontario government, he admitted, was “very jealous of anything like dictation on our part.” Meanwhile, the Globe denounced Sandfield as Ottawa’s puppet.

Nova Scotia remained the main challenge. Macdonald sought to avoid confrontation but aimed to seize the right moment to seek compromise, branding Tupper’s plans to barnstorm the province with pro-Confederation oratory as “zeal without discretion.” Nova Scotian political culture worked in his favour: Bluenoses were vocally loyal to Britain, preferring, as Joseph Howe put it, London under John Bull to Ottawa under Jack Frost. But when John Bull refused to release them from Confederation, they faced a choice between revolution and compromise. Nova Scotia had rejected revolution in 1776, and Howe was too old to fight now. Everything depended on timing, and John A. Macdonald was an expert at combining long periods of patience with sudden bursts of decisive activity.

The moment of greatest danger also presented the best opportunity to seek agreement. In August 1868, anti-Confederation members of the Dominion and provincial legislatures gathered in Halifax in an ominously titled “convention,” which might even declare Nova Scotian independence. Hastily, Sir John A. Macdonald assembled a high-powered delegation, with Sandfield as his prize exhibit — the former opponent of Confederation who was now running the Dominion’s largest province. Agnes came along too. Although her pregnancy was only confirmed after her return (“the Blessing from on high, has been with us,” as she put it), she had felt queasy back in June, but blamed the sultry Ottawa climate. Her presence signalled that Macdonald had come in friendship. The “convention” failed to trap the visitors into formal negotiations, as if they represented a foreign power, but Macdonald jollied its members, offering to remedy practical grievances. The mission enabled Howe to strike a face-saving deal — and even enter Macdonald’s Cabinet. In June 1869, the Dominion Parliament approved “better terms” for Nova Scotia. Extra money was thrown at the province — and the Grits reminded Ontario taxpayers that they provided the cash.

“I have never seen my husband in such cheery moods,” Agnes noted as she welcomed new Cabinet recruit Joseph Howe to dinner in January 1869. Within weeks, their world came crashing down. Agnes gave birth to a girl on February 8, after an excruciating labour: little Mary had an enlarged head, which was soon diagnosed as hydrocephalus, “water on the brain.” The Macdonalds faced the tragedy that their daughter would suffer mobility problems and probably impaired mental development too. For Agnes, Mary’s disability was a divine message, although its meaning was not clear. “Only teach me, Heavenly Father, to see the lesson it was destined to teach.” The occasional joyful outbursts that punctuated her first two years of marriage were replaced by the stern, grey discipline of two lives yoked together by a handicapped daughter. There were no more children.

While Macdonald digested the terrible news that his daughter would never live a normal life, a second blow fell. His massive overdraft was now controlled by Montreal banker, Hugh Allan. In April 1869, Allan called in the debt. It totalled just short of $80,000, ten times Macdonald’s annual salary as prime minister. This was a heavy blow but not a complete disaster: his law firm still reaped income from its Trust and Loan Company business. Hewitt Bernard had insisted on a marriage settlement for Agnes, a kind of Victorian “pre-nup,” to protect her own capital from Macdonald’s creditors. But paying off the overdraft wiped out Macdonald’s property portfolio. Aged fifty-four, and given contemporary life expectancy, Sir John A. Macdonald could not count on many active years to rebuild his savings and provide for his handicapped child. Retirement now seemed impossible.

Macdonald responded to the double disaster with a series of embarrassing binges. The Globe later alleged that he drank heavily during the summer of 1869, although there was then “no unusual pressure upon Ministers.” In October, Macdonald “committed himself disgracefully” at an official luncheon in Toronto in honour of Queen Victoria’s second son, Prince Arthur: his minder, Hewitt Bernard, was “kept in a state of miserable anxiety about Sir John” throughout the trip. Agnes initially blamed her own “over-anxiety” for her husband’s lapses, but on November 7, 1869, she faced the failure of the matrimonial pact of 1867. “I was overconfident, vain, presumptuous in my sense of power. I fancied I could do much, and I failed signally.”

Macdonald’s daughter, Mary, 1893. Still in mourning for her father, this photograph fails to capture her happy personality.

Courtesy of William James Topley/Library and Archives Canada/PA-025746.

Macdonald’s binge-drinking erupted just as Canada was about to take a mighty leap to the Rocky Mountains. After negotiations in London, the Dominion purchased the territorial rights of the Hudson’s Bay Company (covering the future provinces of Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta), with the transfer date set for December 1, 1869. Aboriginal people were ignored in the deal. So too was the small Red River settler community. Half of its 11,000 population were French-speaking Catholic Métis, descendants of European fur-traders and Native women, known by the racist term “half-breeds.” The remainder were English-speaking Métis, plus about 1,500 recent arrivals, mostly from Ontario. Generally contemptuous of the Métis, the incomers were disruptive but too few to seize control.

Ottawa’s first governor was William McDougall, a Reformer and Macdonald’s Cabinet colleague since 1864. He travelled through the United States, with orders to keep a low profile until he received confirmation of the December 1 transfer. On November 2, his route to the Red River was blocked by French Métis, and he retreated to the Minnesota border town of Pembina. McDougall’s communications with Ottawa were slow but, thanks to the transatlantic cable, the Canadian government could urgently contact Britain. When Macdonald learned of McDougall’s setback, he cabled London to delay the transfer: Canada would only accept the territory when Britain had pacified its inhabitants. However, McDougall knew nothing of this and, on December 1, acting on his own initiative, he proclaimed himself governor of the Northwest. Believing that he was filling a vacuum, MacDougall in fact created one, by prematurely proclaiming the end of the Company control without being able to assert his own authority. As Macdonald realized, under international law, the Red River people were now entitled to establish their own government — which the Americans might recognize. McDougall probably expected that the “Canadian party” would rally to his proclamation and install him as governor. In fact it was the francophone Métis who took control.

In 1868, Macdonald had pacified 370,000 Nova Scotians. In 1869 he stumbled into a dangerous confrontation with a few thousand people at the distant Red River. Contrasting cultures explained the difference. Nova Scotians made speeches and passed resolutions; Métis armed themselves to hunt buffalo. Macdonald met with frowns in Halifax; McDougall was confronted with firearms. Macdonald had ruthlessly sidelined Nova Scotia’s Unionist minority; in the Red River, the “Canadian party” were both arrogant and inept. The dominant figure in Nova Scotia, Joseph Howe, was a veteran and skilled politician; his counterpart in the Red River was the twenty-four-year-old Louis Riel, catapulted into leadership because he had studied, unsuccessfully, for the Catholic priesthood in Montreal. Above all, Macdonald controlled policy towards Nova Scotia himself, travelling to Halifax when he judged the moment right to strike a deal. But the Red River was inaccessible, especially during the winter, and he had to work through William McDougall.

Macdonald grumbled that the stand-off was “a most inglorious fiasco,” and he censured McDougall for exceeding instructions. But, as prime minister, Sir John A. Macdonald was responsible for appointing someone notorious for outspoken inflexibility. In 1861, McDougall had controversially threatened to “look to Washington” to secure representation by population. He had called French Canadians “a foreign race” with an alien religion. Métis distrust was further aroused by his actions, as a member of Sandfield Macdonald’s ministry in 1862, in strong-arming the Ojibwa into allowing settlement on Manitoulin, the giant island in Lake Huron. McDougall was an obsessive expansionist, driven by a sense of mission: in the year before his appointment, he had survived a serious illness and the unexpected death of his wife. Although Macdonald assured McDougall that he had “every confidence in your prudence and tact” in managing the transition to Canadian rule, the truth was he had made a totally unsuitable appointment. Equally unfortunate was Macdonald’s failure to foresee the communications problem: arrangements should have been made to send coded telegrams to St Paul, Minnesota, and rush them by courier on to Pembina.

Macdonald also blamed the “supineness” of the Hudson’s Bay Company officials. “They gave us no notice of any feeling of discontent at the change.” But everybody knew that Company rule had been somnolent for decades, and Macdonald had made little effort to find out about the Northwest. “We are in a blissful state of ignorance as to what the requirements of that country may be,” he remarked to a job-seeker early in November 1869 — remarkably casual preparation for the annexation of two million square kilometres. Indeed, Canada’s advance moves had been counterproductive: Métis suspicions were aroused by survey teams, sent to forestall claim-jumping squatters. Most bizarre was the appearance of Joseph Howe at the Red River in October 1869 on a personal fact-finding visit, his very presence a reminder that Nova Scotian discontent had forced concessions from the Dominion. Howe should either have been sent with an Ottawa welcome pack, or discouraged from travelling altogether. When trouble broke out, Macdonald called the Métis “these poor people … handed over like a flock of sheep,” but his own failure to engage with the Red River community had precipitated the crisis.

Through the winter of 1869–70, there were almost too many negotiators shuttling in slow motion over two thousand kilometres between Ottawa and the Red River, sometimes on overlapping missions. Suddenly, Riel upped his demands, insisting that the eleven thousand people should become a full province — and so the Red River became Manitoba. The convoluted negotiations left one dangerous issue unresolved. Ottawa wisely signalled that a blind eye would be turned to the extra-legal activities of Riel’s provisional government. But how far could that amnesty extend? The issue was highlighted by the tragic death of Thomas Scott. A young Irish Protestant who had arrived via Ontario, Scott was imprisoned for opposing Riel. Openly contemptuous of his French-speaking Catholic captors, Scott was court-martialled for insubordination — and sentenced to death. Unwisely believing that it would strengthen his authority, Riel confirmed the execution. On March 4, 1870, Scott was shot by firing squad, although there were rumours that he was still alive when dumped in his coffin, and that his body was contemptuously thrown into an icy river. Ontario honoured him as a slaughtered Orangeman. The Catholic bishop, Alexandre-Antonin Taché, reached Red River four days after Scott’s killing, bearing Macdonald’s verbal assurance (not quite a binding promise) of a general amnesty — but Ontario would not forget what it regarded as cold-blooded murder.

By late April, 1870, Parliament in Ottawa was waiting for the prime minister to introduce legislation to create the new province. But, suddenly, Macdonald’s Commons attendance became “very irregular”: reports that he was “indisposed” caused “much comment and speculation.” Tired and in poor health, he had gone on a bender. News even filtered back to England where one politician noted that, generally, “no especial notice” was taken in Ottawa of Macdonald’s twice-yearly binges. The complaint on this occasion was not that he was drunk for a whole week but rather “that he should not have waited till the urgent business … was disposed of.”

The Globe was less philosophical. In a leader headed “A Foul Disgrace,” it charged that Macdonald had “again yielded to the temptation of drink.” No other country would tolerate its prime minister “staggering” around the parliamentary bar, “babbling in maudlin intoxication” as his colleagues steered him to safety. Since “Sir John A. Macdonald’s drinking fits usually last for some little time,” nobody knew how long he would “leave the affairs of the country to look after themselves.” Two days later, the inebriate managed to introduce the Manitoba Bill but the Globe kept up a sustained denunciation that few politicians could survive.

Suddenly, it was not Macdonald’s career that was threatened, but his life. He had returned to his desk after a Cabinet meeting on Friday afternoon, May 6, 1870. From his adjoining office, Hewitt Bernard heard a strange noise and found Canada’s prime minister writhing in agony on the floor. Macdonald’s underlying health problem was finally diagnosed: he had been felled by a gallstone, much of it still trapped in his system. With a barely detectable pulse, John A. Macdonald seemed to be dying. Parliament adjourned; an Ottawa newspaper typeset an eight-column obituary. Agnes converted Macdonald’s office into a sickroom where he remained for almost three weeks, with bursts of pain so severe that morphine injections were required. Recovery was slow. Early in June, he was carried the short distance to the apartment of the Speaker of the Commons, and on fine days he was wheeled to the cliff overlooking the Ottawa River. The first, dangerous experiments in gallbladder surgery lay a decade in the future, so his diet had to be tightly controlled. Limiting him to half an oyster as a treat, his doctor sternly reminded him that “the hopes of Canada” depended upon Macdonald’s survival: Sir John A. was amused at the hopes of Canada depending upon half an oyster.

Macdonald’s illness reminded Canadians that they appreciated him and needed him. Luther Holton, who had often clashed with him, expressed “the highest admiration” and “the warmest personal regard” for the stricken prime minister. As the Montreal Gazette sympathetically observed, “few have any notion of the wear and tear of mind, and downright fag work” of Cabinet ministers “from early morn till late at night. It is a constant strain.” Macdonald seemed “to divine by the intuition of genius what he could and what he could not do” in managing Parliament, returning good humoured replies to the most insulting provocations.

In July, Macdonald escaped the heat of Ottawa for a summer of convalescence on Prince Edward Island, which was still not part of the Dominion. Perhaps the journey stimulated memories of travelling with Isabella in her illness, while the route retraced that optimistic mission just six years earlier to woo the Maritimers into Confederation at Charlottetown. He spent two months incommunicado in the Gulf, but likely had informal discussions with pro-Confederation politician John Hamilton Gray, who welcomed him to the island. In late September, feeling “nearly as strong as before my illness,” Macdonald returned to a “gratifying” welcome in Montreal. His resolve to take things easy “for some months” did not last long: the following April, he admitted that “after my long illness, I was overwhelmed with arrears of work.”

As Macdonald faced death, admirers became aware of his losses in the Commercial Bank crash. Toronto businessman David Macpherson organized a testimonial fund, to ensure that Agnes would not be left a penniless widow. Macdonald was not unique in being the beneficiary of such generosity: D’Arcy McGee and Liberal leader Alexander Mackenzie also received public subscriptions, and even the ultra-virtuous George Brown accepted supporters’ cash to develop the Globe. Formally launched in November 1870, the campaign raised two-thirds of its $100,000 target. To safeguard his wife and child — not least from Macdonald’s own financial recklessness — the fund was controlled by trustees. “All the men whom John A. has helped into office are expected to subscribe,” sneered the Globe. In fact, the indirect relationship spared Macdonald from conflict-of-interest issues. Far from encouraging “a lively sense of favours to come,” he took a tough line with Macpherson over the Pacific Railway soon afterwards. Indeed, the big loser from Macdonald’s health crisis was the Globe itself, furious — as a rival newspaper put it — that its target had been “snatched from the very mouth of the grave.” Twice in four years, it had broken the taboos and denounced his weakness for the bottle. Twice Macdonald had escaped. He still had to tackle his alcohol problem, but it was now less likely that journalists would risk raising the issue.

Despite the wave of goodwill, Macdonald’s political problems remained challenging. While he was ill, a delegation from British Columbia had arrived, via California, to agree terms for admission to Confederation as Canada’s sixth province. During the negotiations, carried on just yards from Macdonald’s sickroom, Cartier offered to build a transcontinental railway. Macdonald would have approved. The Red River crisis had persuaded him that the Americans would “do all they can” to grab the Northwest, and Canadians must “show unmistakeably our resolve to build the Pacific Railway.” But the expansive Cartier added a condition that the cautious Macdonald later downplayed: the railway would be started within two years and finished within ten. This timetable was unrealistic: no route had been surveyed, and nobody knew how to build through the mountains. For British Columbians, of course, Cartier’s promise was engraved in stone, and would cause problems in the years ahead.

Macdonald’s weakness in his home province was greater than ever, and his coalition strategy was coming apart. Of the three Ontario Reformers appointed to Cabinet in 1867, Fergusson-Blair had died (aged only fifty-two), Howland had become Ontario’s lieutenant-governor and McDougall had gone to the Red River and off the political rails. Opponents gibed that the stray Reformers Macdonald gobbled up since 1854 rarely lasted long, and now he found it hard to attract replacements. In 1869, he resorted to the ploy of recruiting Francis Hincks, who had been out of politics (indeed, mostly out of Canada) since ceasing to be premier fifteen years earlier. Macdonald explained away his 1854 slating of Hincksite corruption as a criticism of his Cabinet, not of Hincks himself. Appointed to the demanding portfolio of finance minister at the age of sixty-one, Hincks had little energy for political campaigning, and his resurrection struck few chords among Reformers.

The addition of the veteran Hincks cost Macdonald the support of thirty-three-year-old Richard Cartwright, nephew of John S. Cartwright, the Kingston Tory of his early years. Although a Macdonald supporter since his first election in 1863, the younger Cartwright could not swallow Hincks. Cartwright’s defection highlighted another weakness. Macdonald and Campbell, the only two Ontario Conservatives in Cabinet, were both from Kingston, now a far smaller city than Toronto. In 1866, Macdonald had told an importunate supporter that “as soon as Toronto returns Conservative members, it will get Conservative appointments, but not before.” Toronto had indeed elected hungry Conservatives to the first Dominion Parliament, and Cartwright had no chance of ever becoming the third Cabinet minister from Ontario’s fifth largest city. In 1873, in a logical trajectory, Cartwright became Kingston’s minister in a Liberal Cabinet.

The alliance of the two Macdonalds was also under strain. In 1869, a revolt in the Ontario legislature forced Sandfield to support a motion condemning Nova Scotia’s “better terms,” but he was still widely condemned as the puppet of his Ottawa namesake. In March 1870, Sandfield even talked of reuniting the Reform party, but the blunt truth was that he was now more valuable to the Grits as a fall guy than as a friend. Yet Sir John A. still needed him. As he put it, “Confederation is only yet in the gristle, and it will require five years more before it hardens into bone.” To make that happen, both Macdonalds would have to win fresh terms of office in elections due by 1872.

The prime minister needed to spend 1871 strengthening his political base. Instead, he spent several months of that year in a triangular diplomatic struggle, defending Canada’s interests in Washington against the United States and Britain. During the 1861–65 Civil War, Britain’s aristocratic elite had openly sympathized with the South — even foolishly allowing the Confederates to build two warships in British shipyards. One of these, the Alabama, inflicted much damage on Northern commerce, and American politicians demanded reparations. Canada had its agenda too: compensation for the Fenian raids plus a trade pact to replace the Reciprocity Treaty that the United States had ended in 1866. That treaty had opened Canadian inshore waters to American fishermen, who continued to make incursions even after the agreement lapsed. Empire and Republic agreed to negotiate their differences, and London saw a simple solution: American grievances could be appeased by Canadian concessions. The British duly invited Canada’s prime minister to accept the unprecedented honour of inclusion in the imperial diplomatic mission.

Macdonald saw the trap: he would be outvoted in the negotiating team. He was also wary about leaving Ottawa while Parliament was sitting. “My experience has been that when the Directing mind is removed, things always go wrong.” But Canada’s prime minister could not refuse to protect Canada’s interests. Accompanied by Agnes, he spent almost three months in Washington. He complained that “the embarrassments & difficulties of my position were almost … beyond endurance.” The Americans refused to discuss the Fenians and offered no trade concessions. Relations with the British delegates were also tense, especially when Macdonald went over their heads to force London to agree that the Dominion Parliament must ratify Canadian concessions: “treachery” grumbled the head of the mission; “struggling in muddy water with sharks” was Macdonald’s description. Since the Dominion had no navy to enforce its rights, he had to accept a cash payment permitting Americans to access the fisheries. Disgusted with the terms, Macdonald considered refusing to sign the Treaty, but he realized this would have guaranteed its rejection in the U.S. Senate.

Even before he left Washington, Macdonald launched a two-pronged strategy to turn a dire situation around. In a remarkable piece of Dominion-wide news management, he persuaded pro-government papers not to comment on the agreement “until the Globe commits itself against the treaty.… if Brown finds I am opposed to the treaty, he may try to find reasons for supporting it.” Simultaneously, he pressured the British, demanding a “liberal offer” to persuade Canada’s Parliament to ratify. British politicians were outraged: this was ungentlemanly, it was blackmail — but, eventually, they agreed to guarantee a $2.5 million loan, money that Macdonald needed as a cash grant to launch the Pacific Railway. In an impressive marathon speech in May 1872, he persuaded Parliament to accept the Treaty “with all its imperfections … for the sake of peace,” as a patriotic sacrifice to “the great Empire of which we form a part.” He could now turn to the transcontinental railway. Two syndicates were bidding for the project — one based in Montreal and headed by Hugh Allan, the other from Toronto led by David Macpherson. Worryingly, Allan was also backed by American investors but Macdonald hoped to persuade him to drop them and form an all-Canadian company by merging with Macpherson. As he remarked, “I have always been able to look a little ahead.” Unfortunately, Allan and Macpherson squabbled and, facing into a general election, Macdonald lacked the time for delicate ego-management.

The Washington Treaty episode had undermined Macdonald in crucial respects. He had regarded it as “rather a dangerous experiment” to leave Ottawa while Parliament was sitting, and, subsequently, he felt that his hold over backbenchers had weakened. Absence also added to his admitted “neglect” of his own Kingston riding. But the biggest setback was the defeat of his allies in Ontario. Sir John A. Macdonald’s departure for Washington coincided with the start of the provincial election campaign. Sandfield’s ministry lost seats, some of which Macdonald believed would have been saved if he had campaigned himself. Sandfield was left leading a minority government but, in the eight months before the legislature met, he did little to strengthen his position. In December 1871, he was defeated, and the Reformers took over Ontario.

Characteristically, the prime minister pretended to regard the interlopers as a temporary nuisance whom he would soon dislodge. In fact, the Liberals (as they were increasingly called) would control Ontario until 1905. It was a sea change in Canadian politics, the replacement of Macdonald’s ideal of an Ottawa-Ontario partnership by institutionalized confrontation between Dominion and its largest province. Ontario now banned politicians from sitting in both parliaments: Oliver Mowat emerged as provincial premier, Alexander Mackenzie as opposition leader in Ottawa. One of the biggest challenges facing Sir John A. Macdonald fighting the 1872 Dominion election was the hostility of Canada’s strongest provincial government.

Macdonald started planning the campaign a year ahead. He claimed to be “in very good health” even though “the severe attack I had last year has left its mark on me for life.” He was determined “to complete the work of Confederation before I make my final bow,” and felt confident of winning a second term. Regarding Ontario as “the only difficulty,” he mounted a counter-attack against the Globe. Once before, in 1858, Macdonald had attempted to establish a rival newspaper in Toronto, but he learned from the rapid collapse of the Atlas that any such venture needed careful planning — and capital. The launch of the Toronto Mail was a major enterprise, requiring the backing of wealthy supporters on the eve of an expensive election campaign. A bumptious young Englishman, T.C. Patteson, was appointed editor, but Macdonald micro-managed the project from Ottawa. “The first number was a good one,” he congratulated Patteson, “for a first number.” No doubt the Mail had to “assume an appearance of dignity at the outset,” but it must “put on the war paint … scalps must be taken.” It would be some years before the Mail effectively challenged the Globe, but at least Macdonald now had a voice in the Ontario capital.

The 1872 election campaign was “hard and unpleasant.” In two months, he delivered one hundred speeches across Ontario: “I have never worked so hard before.” With voting spread out over several weeks, Macdonald planned (as in 1857) to start with his own triumphant return for Kingston, but the strategy came unstuck. Discovering that he was in trouble in the riding, Macdonald was forced to suspend his province-wide campaign to scramble for votes against John Carruthers, a respected local businessman. On the hustings, Macdonald charged his opponent with profiteering at the expense of Kingston consumers. When Carruthers indignantly denied the allegation, the prime minister of Canada slapped him in the face. Under pressure, Macdonald (“much excited,” as the journalistic code put it) was drinking again. He won, but only by 735 votes to 604. He owed his victory to Catholic voters, who backed him by 250 votes to 78. The Protestant powerbase that had elected him since 1844 had narrowly turned against him.

After securing Kingston, Macdonald then resumed campaigning across the province, “more or less under the influence of wine,” Campbell alleged. Every riding had to be fought in the “stern and up-hill battle” throughout Ontario. On the eve of the campaign, disgusted at the demands of Prince Edward County Conservative candidate J.S. McCuaig, he had written off the riding. “I would prefer losing the seat to being bullied by Master McCuaig.” But he spoke for his greedy standard-bearer, in a speech of two hours and twenty minutes at Picton, and offered him a $1,000 campaign contribution: “You had better spend it between nomination and polling.” McCuaig lost anyway. The Ontario government mobilized “its power, patronage and influence,” making the election campaign frighteningly expensive. Timber barons subscribed lavishly to Liberal funds to safeguard future logging concessions, and Macdonald resorted to desperate measures to match opposition financial firepower. Alexander Campbell was shocked to learn that his brother had done “a very foolish thing.” A Toronto businessman, Charles Campbell had been pressured into guaranteeing a $10,000 bank loan, his only security being Macdonald’s promise of repayment “as a member of the Government.” Naively, Charley wondered “how far such official promises are reliable.” Macdonald also solicited contributions from wealthy businessmen. Humiliatingly, he begged election funds from Hugh Allan, the banker who had called in his overdraft. Accepting Allan’s money also created a conflict of interest since the government was negotiating with him over the Pacific Railway. Worse still, Cartier was in trouble in Montreal East, where Allan was rumoured to have driven a hard bargain — campaign cash in return for the contract on his terms. In fact, Allan failed to save Cartier’s seat, but his estimated donations of $160,000 — equal to many millions today — were not likely to have been unconditional. In the last days of the campaign, Macdonald successfully begged “another ten thousand” from Allan. “Will be the last time of calling. Do not fail me,” his telegram pleaded. He had no idea what Cartier had promised, and he would indeed be haunted by fears that he might have incautiously committed himself to some damaging pledge — just as he had trapped Charley Campbell into endorsing that $10,000 loan. Throughout the campaign, so Charles Tupper said, Macdonald was “upon the drink” and Campbell feared that he had “no clear recollection of what he did.”

Macdonald saved forty of Ontario’s eighty-eight seats, but he claimed to have won “as large or a larger majority” overall than in 1867. He regarded thirty-four out of the thirty-seven members from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick as sympathetic, whatever their party affiliation. However, Macdonald’s calculation relied on the assumption that “independent members, or loose fish” would back him. When the new Parliament assembled in March 1873, ministers won Commons divisions by sixteen and twenty-five votes, well short of the fifty-six seat majority he had boasted. In reality, his position was barely secure. Just 104 out of 200 MPs labelled themselves as Conservatives. Effectively, Macdonald had given himself a ten-seat bonus, by allocating six constituencies to British Columbia and four to Manitoba, far more than their populations merited. All ten Western representatives sought favours from government, but they faced huge travel problems, and might not attend the entire parliamentary session. Opposition disunity helped him: twenty of the thirty-seven Maritime MPs were Liberals, but many distrusted the “Ontario First” aura around opposition leader Alexander Mackenzie. However, a dramatic issue might unite them in outrage, and a major scandal was about to break. In November 1873, eight months into the new Parliament, Sir John A. Macdonald was forced to resign, and his career seemed to be finished.