3stalwarts (89 page)

Dan had come into Ficha Thrall’s Bankside Saloon after dark. He had not found a job; he was lonely. There were men all about him drinking and talking. Sometimes they dropped a remark to him, but he knew none of them. It was hard for him to mix with them. The old man studying his blank sheet of paper had attracted his attention. In all the clatter he was so absorbed by his work that he scarcely stopped to taste the glass at his elbow.

“That’s Andy Hikes,” a boater told Dan. “He’s got education, though you wouldn’t guess it by half. He studies things once in a while and writes poetry. I ain’t no judge,” said the boater, swigging down a noisy swallow of rum, “I wasn’t brung up to understand such notions. But it’s got a good hammer into it when he reads it out.”

“Yeanh.”

The old man ran a hand over his eyes and looked back at his paper. He handled it delicately with the tips of his thin fingers.

“What’s it about?” asked the boater.

“It’s about the capture of Schenectady. I’ll read you the first verse. It goes this way.” He cleared his throat and read it out in a fine voice. The man who had spoken to Dan thumped out the rhythm on his knee.

“God prosper long our King and Queen, Our lives and safeties all; A sad misfortune once there did Schenectady befall.”

“Listen to that, will you?” exclaimed the man next to Dan. “Didn’t I tell you? You could hammer it out with a go-devil!”

“What’re you bringing in the King and Queen for? This is a free country.”

“I don’t mean nothing by it, Stark,” said the old man. “The editor up to the Journal said he’d give me three dollars for a poem out of history-something folks could get a-hold of and say it happened in their grandpa’s time. So I bring the King and Queen into the first line to make the time look proper; and God’s a help anywhere.”

“What’s the safeties for?” asked Stark.

“That’s just to show people was scared. It kind of makes the man reading figure there’s something uneasy going on. There’s lots of tricks to this business; and this here’s a neat specimen, if I say it myself. There ain’t such a lot of poets could put Schenectady into a poem under its own name.”

“Why not?”

“You just try.”

“Cripus! I could make it rhyme.”

“How?” asked the old man, looking up eagerly.

“Well how about Uticy for a rhyme?

“Schenectady, Schenectady, Is halfway up to Uticy.”

“That ain’t the truth. There wasn’t any Utica when this poem is being wrote.”

“Who gives a dang?”

“Well, a reader likes to have the truth.”

“Not if they read poetry. A man that’s reading poetry’s lost his principles.”

“You got to fool them.”

“It’s a poor notion, reading poetry is. Reading rots the mind.”

“Well, I got to get ahead with this,” said the old man. He bent over his paper once more, and the boater left him.

Conversation broke out gustily. One man was trying to sell a mule to another. “Five years, sound as a sand-hill potato, see her yourself.” “You don’t mean that grey one, George?” “That’s the one. Handsome article. That cute she can get by a lock without driving.” “Then she ain’t safe. I don’t like a mule with independent ideas. I had a cook had ‘em. She walked out on me with fifteen dollars.” “Well, this mule won’t. You got a towline on to her, anyways, ain’t you? What’s more, she’s cheap. Sixty dollars for a five-year-old is cheap.” “That’s your mule, Andy?” asked a third man. “Sure, you know her. Ain’t sixty dollars cheap for a five-year-old mule as kind as she?” “Sure. I know her. That mule’s been five-year-old three times.” “That ain’t the one.” “Named Andrew Jackson in full?” “Yeanh.” “What for, if it wasn’t for his first in-aw-geration?” “That was her ma.” “With the same broke knees?” “Just like ‘em. It runs in them grey mules. They’re just like a breed.”

Dan listened and drank. His face was a little pale and he handled his glass with serious care. … He was getting very drunk. He kept his hands on the table as though they alone could keep him in touch with the room. A small, ratty-looking pair of men, at the other side of the room, were watching him… . The old street-cleaner glanced up from his paper; his face was sweaty; his mouth trembled. “Hey, Stark!” he shouted. “Hey, Stark, come here. I’ve finished it.” All the boaters turned their heads as if they had been waiting for him. “Read it out, Andy,” said the man Stark. The old fellow took a stiff swallow and pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs under the table.

“I’m just going to call it ‘A Ballad.’ Good honest title. But I’ve put down a foreword—”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the front end,” said a boater. “It’s like the cowcatcher on to a engine. It’s to clear the track, but it don’t do nothing but make the engine longer.”

“It’s old style,” said Andrew, “just to give the notion that this here’s a fact. It says:—

“In which is set forth the horrid cruelties practised by the French and Indians, on the night of February eight last; which I composed last night and am now writing this morning Friday, June twelve,

“Wait a minute, Andy. That’s good and written fine. Them long words go good there. But you ain’t said how long it took to do. If it’s actual, then people want to know how long it took. People always want to know how long a thing takes to do. Why don’t you put in ‘Wrote in one hour’s time’? That looks as if you knew all about it and only had to figure the rhymes.”

“That’s a good idea,” said the old man, making an insertion.

Then he began to read: —

“God prosper long our King and Queen, Our lives and safeties all; A sad misfortune once there did Schenectady befall.”

The boater next to Dan began beating the rhythm on his knee, a smile of admiration on his hot red face.

“From forth the woods of Canady The Frenchmen took their way, The people of Schenectady To captivate and slay.”

“He rhymed it!” Stark exclaimed. “He done a regular rhyme on Schenectady! Can-ady: Schenectady. What do you know about that?”

“They marched for two and twenty days, And through the deepest snow; And on a dismal winter night They struck the horrid blow.

“The lightsome sun that rules all day

Had sunk into the west, And all the drowsy villageers Had sought and found their rest.

“They thought they were in safety all,

And dreamt not of the foe;

But at midnight they all awoke,

In wonderment and woe.”

Between stanzas, the old man would take another drink from his glass, —which Stark was careful to keep filled,— shake back his hair, run the back of his hand across his lips, and fling it out in a gesture. He was unsteady on his feet; his white hair swayed dizzily to Dan’s eyes;

“For they were in their pleasant beds, And soundly sleeping, when Each door was sudden open broke By six or seven men. …”

The doors to the street banged open and swung shut; and a man stood suddenly in the strong yellow light of the bar lamps. His hand was raised halfway to his mouth to remove the quid, but he began talking before it was out and his tongue stuttered under it.

“There’s a case of cholera up above the combines.”

They swung round on him like one man.

“Where?”

“Up above the combines.”

“Who was it?”

“Henry Hindkopfer. Him and his cook and a driver-boy.”

In the stillness they became momentarily aware of old Andy’s voice sonorously repeating his poem.

“… They then were murdered in their beds, Without shame or remorse; And soon the floors and streets were strewed With many a bloody corpse.

“Oh, Christie! In the still night air It sounded dismally… .”

“God!” cried the man Stark. “Asiatic?”

“Bad,” said the man. “All three of them deader’n turnips.”

“I knew him,” said Ficha Thrall from behind the bar. “He owes the house four-sixty-three. You can see it wrote there on the board.”

“It’s going to be another plague. I don’t remember it good. I was a lad then.”

“I do.”

“I don’t believe it is cholera at all. It must be the dyree.”

“They give ‘em green strawberry leaves, but it didn’t do no good,” said the man, shaking his head. “The doctor said it was a clear case.”

“We’ve been having hot weather, and a lot of rain.”

Dan lifted his head to stare at the men’s set faces. He had heard stories of the Great Plague of ‘32. How the cholera came down Champlain to Albany, and traveled to New York along the Hudson, and found its way up the Erie as far as Rome. There had been great fog that summer, and men were struck as they steered their boats to a landing; or as they walked behind their mules they fell without a sound, letting the boat go by, to be found dead when the next team shied. It had been a time of terror; fog-it had been foggy.

The voice of the old man rang out again: —

“… But some ran off to Albany,

And told the awful tale; Yet, though we gave our cheerful aid, It did not much avail.

And we were horridly afraid,

And shook with terror, when …”

“I’ll tell you one thing right off,” said the man who had disbelieved the news. “I ain’t starting west tomorrow, nor the day after, neither. I’m going to see what’s going to happen first. I’m going to stay right here.”

“… The news came on the Sabbath morn, Just at the break of day… .”

“Me neither,” said another boater.

“It generally comes quick to the cities,” said a third. “I’m danged glad I’ll be starting for New York on the Ronan’s.”

“Cripus! It hit New York worst of all in thirty-two. Better’n a hundred people a day!”

“I’m going to get back to the boat and tell the old woman. It’ll tickle her anyway. She thought she wasn’t going to have no chance to get her a new hat.”

“Guess I’d better move along.”

“Me too.”

The man who had brought the news whirled and ran out. They stamped after him, the clatter of their quick talking fading down the street. A few remained: the two ratty-looking men who were watching Dan, Stark, Ficha Thrall, at the bar, one or two others, old Andy, staggering, but finishing his piece.

“… And here I end this long ballad, The which you just have read; I wish that it may stay on earth Long after I am dead.”

The glass dropped from his fingers; it smashed on the floor with a bright glitter; Thrall moved to the board and made a mark; Dan started drunkenly; the old man slumped down on his chair… .

“It’s all right,” he said in a low voice. “It’s good. It’s pretty damn good, Andy. I liked it a lot.”

Andy dropped his face on his loosely folded arms and went to sleep.

“Sure,” said Stark. “Surely.”

He shook Andy by the shoulder.

“Better leave him be,” said Thrall. “When he wakes up I’ll kick him out.”

All but the ratty-looking men, Stark, and Dan left.

“I’ll take his paper up to the Journal” Stark said. “It’s worth three dollars to any man. Don’t he write a pretty hand?”

“Come on, you,” Thrall said to Dan. “Get out. I’m shutting up.”

Dan stared at him without appearing to hear.

“Come on, you,” Thrall said. “Get out of here.”

One of the ratty-looking men touched his arm.

“All right, brother. Leave him be. Me and Frank here’ll take him home. Me and Frank knows him. Don’t we, Frank?”

“Sure,” said the other. “We know him.”

“Sure, we know where he lives. We’ll take him back. Poor feller, he comes from our town; he’s new on the canal. He’s drunk.”

“Sure,” said Frank. “He’s drunk. We’ll take him back.”

Each took hold of one of Dan’s arms.

“Come along, Will,” they said to Dan.

“My name ain’t—”

“Come on,” they said. “We’ll take you back.”

“My name ain’t Will,” said Dan. “My name’s Dan.”

“Sure, William Daniel.”

“Just Dan.”

“All right, Dan.”

“Thank you,” said Dan.

“He’s drunk,” Thrall said.

“Sure,” said Frank. “He’s drunk. We’ll take him home. Poor kid.”

“I ain’t drunk, neither; I’m sleepy. Just kind of sleepy.”

“That’s it,” said Frank soothingly, “just sleepy.”

“Thanks,” said Dan. “Pleased to meet you.”

They walked him through the door. Behind them they heard the bolt bang in.

It was cool and still. At the end of the alley a light mist trembled on the canal. The feet of the three of them beat oddly along the board walk. Up over the city a bit of moonlight showed them a roof here and there, glistening as though there were frost.

“Where’U we fix him, Jack?” asked Frank.

“We’ll take him over the lock. There might be somebody coming for him here.”

“That’s a good idea. Come along, you. Lift your feet and set ‘em down ahead. That’s the way a man makes progress walking.”

“They ain’t your feet,” Dan mumbled. “How can you tell?”

“Snub him,” said Jack.

They yanked him off his balance. Dan stumbled, his feet trying to catch up. They knew how to handle him.

The great basin opened before them. The boats showed vaguely in the mist, here and there a blob of light from a night lantern. The air was fresh. The river lapped softly against the lower gates of the lock.

“Hullo,” said the keeper, coming out of his office, a pipe in his hand giv-ing out heavy, sweet smoke that made Dan gag. “Taking sonny home to momma?”

“Just about,” said Frank.

They ran him across to the embankment.

“You’re good fellers,” said Dan. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Sure,” said Frank.

“How about here?” asked Jack.

“Back of the ear, Jack.”

“Take his hat off.”

Frank took it off. Dan grabbed for it unsteadily.

“Say …”

A dull tunk. Frank eased Dan down.

“He’s heavier’n you’d think.”

Let’s see what he’s got.”

Frank bent over him.

“Try the pants pocket.”

“Ain’t much.” He fumbled a couple of bills. “Not over two dollars.”

“Well, come along. We might pick up another.”

“Not much chance. This damn cholera.”

“Come along.”

“Wait a minute. I’ll put his hat on. He might catch cold.”

“Oh, come along.”

Their feet moved off quietly through the mist.

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