Bold Sons of Erin (29 page)

“That is all in the past,” I assured him. “We are in America now, where every man may have a second chance. And you are all reformed and prosperous—why, Mrs. Schutzengel has given me to understand that you’ve added a small hotel to your public house, and purchased another outlet for libations, besides. I also hear that your dear wife keeps everything nice and orderly.”

“Oh, that she does and she do. Don’t ye know, she’s got us lookin’ to buy yet another public house to come after, for there’s terrible fortunes to be made o’ the war in Washington.” I do believe a real tear graced his eye. “But an’t it in the Bible itself, God bless us, how wealth is a wicked sin and not to be wished for? She’s out to make me rich, that Annie is. And then where would I be, I’m askin’ ye that? As it is, me life’s a shameful happiness.” He shuddered still more fiercely than before. “Why, it’s in the Gospels, an’t it? If I was to come up rich, I’d be damned for all eternity, and wouldn’t that spoil everything I’ve got planned?”

He come up closer and closer, with those winning young looks that should long since have deserted him, for all his sinful ways and dissipation. I mean in the past, of course. “Tell me the truth, now, Abel, on the honor that lies in our many years’
acquaintance: Ye don’t believe we’re all married forever in Heaven, do ye? We don’t have to set up housekeeping on a cloud? Won’t it be more like the army was, where oncet ye fall dead they strike your name from the rolls?”

Pitiful it was. But how could I help him? It is the queerest thing, how some men cannot settle down to the fortune the Good Lord grants them. I told myself that time would set Jimmy right, that he only needed to accustom himself to the quiet joys of domesticity. I knew his wife to be the best of young women and no shrew, and she loved him after so many had passed him by as irredeemable. In India, harlots welcomed him for his gay teasing and his antics, but they always took his payment in advance.

And I do believe that Molloy meant well when he married, and wished to make Annie happy and to behave. But, behind all his blarney and bluster, twas clear that morning that marriage had broken his heart. For there was not that quality in him that loves a regular life and a pleasant hearth. He was a wanderer. And though I could not say it to him outright, for it was my Christian duty to remind him of his vows and responsibilities, I knew him to be a good-hearted man, as kind as any on earth, and a better soul than many that inhabit the forms that fill the front pews of church and chapel. What are we to do with our brothers who cannot bear the love that good hearts offer them?

I sent him on his way, with false assurances that he need only accustom himself to his new manner of life, after which all would be well. How proud the lass had been, his Annie, when, upon my return from England the summer past, she had asked me to dinner at their modest home. She loved Molloy. And she loved the thought of the life she had planned for the two of them. Twas her and his misfortune.

But let that bide.

I assured my crestfallen friend that, should events in Pottsville require his assistance, I would telegraph for him without delay. But I could not invent a task out of thin air. That would have been dishonest. Nor, if I am to be truthful, did I
wish any of my Washington acquaintances by me in Pottsville until I had found my way through certain personal embarrassments. And until that will had been read. I had my work for our government before me, and I would see it done. Murder had first call on my attention. But my private matters wanted watching, too.

I could not spare Jimmy any more of my morning, since I had to meet my train to go back north. Indeed, I had lacked the little time to say hello to any other friend, either Evans the Telegraph, who was dear to me as Wales itself, or Fine Jim, the newspaper lad, whose thoughts of becoming a drummer-boy alarmed me. For pretty young boys are not well-placed among grown men who lack all wifely companionship, and I will say no more on that sorry subject.

I watched Molloy go, with his shoulders slumped halfway to China.
Herr
Schwinghammer—a new boarder who worked nights in a printing establishment and could not get enough of Jimmy Molloy—accosted him as they passed along the street, asking where he’d been keeping himself all the while. But Jimmy only passed him by, dejected and unseeing, as if they were gliding ghosts from different centuries.

I WAS PUTTING THE LAST of my things in my kit for my departure, when a messenger boy brought a letter from Mr. Nicolay. The lad took my penny and ran off, so I realized the sender did not expect a reply. Still, I opened the missive immediately.

Twas a reminder. And a warning. Not to tell Secretary Seward anything I might learn about Russian involvement in the murder of General Stone.

I marched back into the kitchen to bid farewell to Mrs. Schutzengel, but found her uncommon glum amid her pots. Nor was she merely saddened by my leaving. Twas clear she was mulling old and future sorrows. Our journey of the evening before had conjured spirits she had not yet put down.

I gave the dear woman my best and took me off out the front door, for I barely had time to walk to the railway terminus. And I did
not
intend to squander my funds on a cab, even should one appear for my convenience. There was no threat of rain, and bodily exercise aids the soul and the digestion.

Halfway down the block my conscience stabbed me.

How often now had I turned to Jimmy Molloy for help when I needed it? And in his litany of remembrance and complaint, he had not mentioned a fraction of what he had done for me. Now, you will protest and say: “You did the Christian thing and what was right, returning him to the holy bonds of his marriage and his honest wife.” But I will tell you, though you disagree: At times I fear I am too narrow a man, too quick in judgement and even a touch self-righteous. Only sometimes, of course, and not severely. But had I not just washed my hands of my old friend? Pilate, at least, could claim no standing acquaintance with Our Savior.

And I thought I saw a way that I might bring the illusion of our old adventures to Jimmy, while doing his Annie no harm, and possibly even help myself for my trouble.

I scrambled off toward Swampoodle, as fast as my leg would go. Twas not so far out of my way.

Now, I have told you of Swampoodle in the past, a slum that would shame the lowest Hindoo beggar. It is populated by the Irish, of course. Yet, the wealth of war was even telling in those intemperate streets. A year before I would have paused at entering the place by day, and had nearly received a beating there one night. Now, at least in the daylight hours, the place was mostly passable. Irish soldiers in Union blue brought Yankee dollars to those lanes of indignity, even as other Irishmen cursed the war. They were a people divided and, although the place was filthy and full of measles, even a Welshman could go there to see to his business nowadays. At least until dusk.

I found proper buildings under construction, and fewer morning drunkards sprawled in the alleys, with less of the leavings of night pots dumped in the walks.

When I come upon them, Jimmy and his Annie were hard at work in their little saloon, with her on her knees with a bucket and rags and Jimmy polishing up a new bar of mahogany and brass. Months before, there had been only planks and stools.

Jimmy looked over and Annie looked up, and their faces told a story. Jimmy was all cock-a-hoop with delight at seeing me prancing in, for he understood it meant I had been thinking on matters. Annie smiled at first, as she always did, but then her face took on a guarded look that was new to me. Once, she had pressed her Jimmy to serve my needs, but other needs had passed mine in importance.

Annie rose up slowly from the floor, drying her hands on her apron. She was no beauty, but honest and decent and kind. She presented a welcoming smile.

“Major Jones,” she said carefully. “Isn’t this the happiest of surprises? Himself was just telling me how you went off on the cars, and here you are! Will you take a cup of tea, for the chill of the morning?”

I waved off the invitation. “Thank you, Mrs. Molloy. It is a gracious one you are. But I must hurry along. There is a train I must be on, see.”

That reinforced her smile a bit.

I really lacked all time, so I plunged straight into things. Still, I spoke to her, though my words touched Jimmy. “It has occurred to me that your husband might be a help to my present efforts.” Oh, her poor face fell at that. While Jimmy could hardly contain his child’s delight. I continued, “And he may assist me in a manner that will return him to the warmth of his own home each and every night, if you will give your leave, Mrs. Molloy.”

They swapped expressions, her own returning from the desert wastes to the sweet waters of relief, while Jimmy’s mouth curled toward anger. His red mustaches took on a fanged look.

“And since when is it ‘Mrs. Molloy this’ and ‘Mrs. Molloy that’ between us, Major Jones?” she asked almost gaily. “I was always ‘Annie,’ before, and I hope I’m ‘Annie’ still.”

I stepped a bit deeper into the saloon and stopped where a band of wet gleamed on the floor. The air was rich with the smells of soap and beer, of sweat, slop water and ashes.

“Here is the thing of it.” I turned to face Jimmy. “I would ask you to inquire about a certain Daniel Boland, who has confessed to a murder then run away. Most like, he is in Canada, but the asking will not harm him, if he is. And I will tell you: I do not think him a killer, but may be wrong. There is more of a story to matters than I can tell you this morning. But ask, if you will, after Daniel Patrick Boland and see—”

“Daniel
Patrick
Boland?” Molloy asked in a bewildered tone. He gave a lightning stroke to his red mustaches. “But everybody knows the poor sod’s dead. Didn’t the English hang the poor bucko for his deeds in the Forty-eight? Only Boland out of the whole sorry lot o’ them took to the hills when their whole silly scheme fell to pieces. And only Boland fought like a man, while the rest o’ them hid in the rafters or under their beds.”

He shook his head at the fortunes of his race. “The rest o’ the Rebels was gentlemen bred, so the English couldn’t hang many o’ that lot at all, but packed the lads off to their disciplines, down in the dreads of Botany Bay, or some such carnivorous place. Boland, the sod, was only a blackleg miner, is how they tell it. A hard one who give up his all for Ireland, and killed two constables and an English sergeant, besides. They hanged him in the Castle yard in Dublin. And a lovely commotion it was, so I’m told, with no end o’ cheerin’ and weepin’. Oh, he’s famous and honored and happy in his grave, that one, for there’s nobody loves a dead martyr like a living Irishman. But he’s dead as Coogan’s cat, is Danny Pat Boland.”

“No, no,” I said, although I was thinking the while, “I am speaking of a young fellow from Pennsylvania, who was alive just weeks ago. And still is, if I am not mistaken.”

“Well,” Jimmy mused, “Boland’s a common enough name, an’t it? And there’ll be no harm in my asking around, I suppose.” He glanced at Annie, testing the waters there, then turned his curiosity back to me. “I wonder if Boland’s own son might not carry his name?”

The very thought had struck me as he spoke. Twas one of those moments when things begin to make sense. At last I might have found one piece to fit into the puzzle: Why those truculent sons of Erin were so determined to spirit young Boland off. If the lad was the son of a famous Irish rebel, they would move Heaven and earth to protect him. A priest might even be convinced to lie. For the Irish will do far more for heroes dead than ever they do for their champions while they live.

And I saw another likely thing. The son of a great Irish rebel would not go to Canada. Where the queen’s writ ran and such a one would be watched. Or handed over to the U.S. authorities, and good riddance. The English government don’t like ours, but they like the finest Irishman even less.

I had to take me off without delay. I imagined I heard train whistles and saw the pillowy steam clouds of departure.

“Jimmy,” I said, “just
find
him. Find Boland. Wherever he’s gone. Find him, man. You can do it. Daniel Patrick Boland. Find him for me.”

I fear my voice betrayed an ill-mannered excitement, for Jimmy grinned like a crofter who had stumbled on a pot of fairy gold. He said, “Sure, and I smell the smoke, but from over here I can’t see where you’re on fire, man. Ye’ll be dancing a jig for us next, and buying the round.”

My face and voice returned to a proper sobriety. “Find him for me, Jimmy.”

He opened his mouth to assure me that he would traipse across the stars if need be, but I had no time to listen to his merriment. I had an undesired thing to say. And it broke Annie’s heart.

“When you find out where he is, Jimmy, don’t use the telegraph. Come to Pottsville and tell me in person, you understand?”

Oh, he beamed and nearly bellowed in the throes of his new-found liberty. At last, he had the license that he wanted.

I looked at poor Annie, who was fighting back her tears. I realized that we were opponents now, and that the poor child might even learn to hate me.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Molloy,” I told her, tipping my cap. And thus I ran away from what I had done.