the dancing fire. Then he blew out the match flame as it nearly reached his fingers. Looking around the room, he saw with pleasure the pile of newspapers on the bed, the Times on top. Good. The concierge, as he had been asked to do, had delivered all the day’s papers so that Macdonald would have them to read upon his return from Newbury. Newspapers were the most important documents — that’s what he called them — in Macdonald’s life. From their pages he absorbed information, facts, and opinions the way a sponge soaks up liquid. Newspapers were the stuff that John A. Macdonald, by his own account a workaday politician, thrived on.
It was time to get into bed and read those beckoning journals. He went to the water closet down the hall, then back to his room, shutting but, as was his custom, not locking the bedroom door. After all, this was London, the most civilized city in the world and the most crime-free. Carnarvon’s words of caution had already been forgotten.
Macdonald undressed, put on his flannel nightshirt, left his socks on to keep his feet warm, and, climbing into bed, grunted with satisfaction as the bedclothes enveloped his long, tired body. He reached for the Times while slipping his spectacles onto the bridge of his slightly bulbous nose.
Laying back, his large head on two pillows, he held the Times in both hands, scanning the headlines of the front page. There was, of course, no news from British North America. There never was anything about the colonies in the London papers. It was as if they didn’t exist. But as to what was going on in the United States and Europe, that was a horse of a different colour.
Macdonald was keen to obtain information out of Washington: what was the Congress up to? What was the incompetent president, Andrew Johnson, doing or thinking, especially about the U.S. relations with the British colonies to the north? And Secretary Seward, the Manifest Destiny man, what news of him, all the more important now if the Russian ambassador to Washington was in fact in St. Petersburg to get instructions from the Tsar about selling Russian America to the United States?
Macdonald, eyelids drooping, started to read the column headlined “Impeachment of U.S. President Possible.” As he read he turned for comfort onto his left side, folding the newspaper to better focus on the Johnson column. His mind, slipping fast into sleep, told him he had to blow out the candle just inches from his face. Then John A. Macdonald was sound asleep.
It was the searing heat against his right shoulder that wakened him. He couldn’t be sure what was happening. There was fire all around him. The newspaper, the bedding, the curtains over the window, were ablaze; vicious yellow-orange flames crackled and roared as the fire consumed them, spewing acrid black smoke that was billowing and filling the room.
In the split second that it took to assess the danger, Macdonald knew what he had to do if he was to survive the growing inferno. He thrashed his way out of bed, throwing off the flaming newspaper, doubling the eiderdown over on itself to smother the flames that were ravaging it. As his feet hit the floor he reached for the far part of the window covering not yet burning and hauled on it with all his considerable weight. The whole curtain, its rod and centre core in flames, came crashing down. Macdonald grabbed for the huge water jug on the washstand and poured its full contents onto the curtain’s still blazing remnants, extinguishing its fire immediately.
Turning to the bed, he threw the burning eiderdown to the floor, ripping it and pillows open. He later described the scene to Susan Agnes Bernard as pouring “an avalanche of feathers on the blazing mass.” The feathers were enough to cut off the oxygen feeding the fire and the flames disappeared.
But Macdonald needed more water to finish the job. He hurried through the common sitting room he shared with Cartier and Galt and banged on their doors, not loudly because he did not want to create an alarm throughout the crowded hotel. A shout of “fire” would have caused pandemonium. Macdonald knew he had the fire under control, but he wanted his colleagues’ help and their water jugs to extinguish it completely.
Opening Cartier’s door after knocking on it, he said in a calm voice, “George, are you awake? I need your help. I’ve had a fire.”
He could hear the bed squeak as Cartier sat up. “A fire? Mon Dieu!”
“Bring your water jug right away, and your candle so we can see what we’re doing.” Macdonald went to Galt’s door, repeated the process, then hurried back to his smoke-filled room. Cartier and Galt were on his heels, lugging their heavy water containers and their lighted candles.
“Here, let me do it,” Macdonald said, taking Cartier’s jug, pouring its precious contents on the smouldering portions of the eiderdown. “How does the curtain look, Alex? Will you check it out?”
Galt, jug at the ready, went to the blackened, sodden heap that had been the curtain. “Looks as though you got it all, John A.”
“Good. And I think I’ve finished this one off. Would you mind opening the window, please, George? Better shut the door first. Just put your water jug over there on the floor in case I need it.”
Macdonald was pouring the last of Cartier’s water when Galt came up to him saying, “Your shoulder — you’ve been burned, John. Christ, it went through your nightshirt. Let me take a look.”
“Be careful, Alex. It hurts like hell.”
“It looks like hell,” Galt said as he gingerly lifted the charred edges of the near circular eight-inch hole in the right shoulder of Macdonald’s nightshirt. “It’s blistering already. We’d better get a doctor. I think there’s one staying in the hotel.”
“No, I’ll be all right. Really. The main thing is to get this mess cleaned up. If you’d fetch the night porter, he’ll do it.”
“And we’ll get him to bring some sheets and pillows and a new eiderdown. What happened, John?”
Macdonald shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sure I blew out the candle before I dozed off. I’m sure I did.”
“But obviously you didn’t,” Cartier said. “You must have fallen asleep with the candle burning. The newspaper you were reading probably fell on your night table …”
“Next to the candle,” Galt added, “and away it went.”
“But I blew it out,” Macdonald insisted. “I blew that goddamn candle out! I know I did.”
“Sure, John A., sure. I’ll get the night porter.” Galt went to the tasselled call cord by the door, pulled it twice, and turned toward Macdonald. “I’m going to get a doctor, John A., whether you like it or not.”
Macdonald muttered as he wearily lowered himself into the bedroom’s sole stuffed-leather armchair. “You’re probably right.”
“Y’know, we can’t have you incapacitated. You’re doing such a marvellous job as chairman of our conference, putting out all the fires, so to speak.”
Macdonald laughed, then grimaced. “God, Alex, I’m having enough pain from my shoulder, let alone your humour.”
“Ah, well, I’m only trying to make light of the matter. Where’s that bloody night porter? Probably asleep.”
As Galt spoke there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” he roared.
The night porter opened the door, his eyes widening as he took in the charred remains and the stench of the fire.
“Cor, luv a duck. Wot’s ’appened ’ere, sirs?”
“Just an accident, Ben,” Macdonald replied. “Just an accident. I’ll deal with the manager about the damages. I’ll see Mr. Gates in the morning.”
“Right, sir. Sorry I was so long in comin’, but me night assistant he jus’ up an’ quit not more than ten minutes ago and, well, like I ’ad to look after an earlier call.”
“It’s alright, Ben. Can you clear this up for me and bring me sheets and pillows and an eiderdown for the bed?”
“Certainly, Mr. Macdonald. Right away, sir. If my assistant hadn’t quit … those bloody Irishmen. You can