Bold Sons of Erin (39 page)

“Well, I’m not sure how much protecting there is to the business,” Molloy said, “for there is a war going on, ye know, and they’ve jined him up to fight. And there’s no soldier anywhere, not on this earth, who has a greater talent for dying in droves and packs than an Irish volunteer.”

“You were an excellent soldier, Jimmy. When you were sober, of course.”

He gave me a poke. “And sometimes when I was not, if I could squeeze an honest word out of ye.”

“You were a fine soldier, and I have known many fine Irish soldiers, although I must condemn their—”

“Well, an’t that the sorrow o’ the doings? Don’t we make lovely soldiers, though? And handsome corpses, too. But I had proper leadership back when I wore the scarlet . . . proper leadership, starting with yourself. But that Irish Brigade is just what it says, Irish from top to bottom. And I’ll tell ye the truth, ye would not like its bottom.”

“I saw them at Antietam,” I told him. “They showed splendidly, you know. With Meagher of the Sword leading—”

“‘Meagher of the Bottle’ would be more like it,” Jimmy told me. “For he’s fond o’ the broth, that one, and a terrible friend to shenanigans. For all his fine manners and speechifying, he’s more the wild chieftain than a general. If the Rebels don’t kill him, he’ll come to a sorry end.”

The coal-haunted valley we traveled gathered the chill and kept it. We passed broken lines of shanties where bodies crowded for warmth. An empire of coughs those patches were, all coal dust and consumption. Webs of smoke rose moonward, as if to choke the stars. Twas a hard life in those days, and I will tell you: When suddenly you have come into a colliery and mine operation of your own, the bothered lungs and discouraged eyes become a part of your business. Perhaps I would not be a success as a man of property and capital, for now that I had been lifted up I felt a new pity for those who would stay below.

I had become responsible for them, see. Nor do I mean to speak in Christian platitudes, with which we comfort ourselves while doing nothing. I could not see them through their walls, but those ill-fed families were real to me as they never had been before. I knew the mines well enough to know that men would lose lives or limbs to make me richer. Twas almost as if I could see their faces before me, the men who would live on legless and useless, begging a bit of tobacco from sons put to work too young to swing a pick. Our America is the land of opportunity, and there is true. But opportunity is fickle, and unfair.

The wagon creaked, as if its joints had rheumatism. Jimmy wiped his nose on a rag from his pocket. My Colt prodded my hip beneath my greatcoat. And I thought, inevitably, of the Irish, unable to sort their hatred from their fears.

“The Irish follow Meagher, wherever he leads,” I observed, returning to our discussion in a voice slowed by the cold. “Our Union is lucky to have him.”

Twas odd to find myself defending Irish honor against an Irishman.

Jimmy rolled his eyes about, gathering up the moonlight. “And why shouldn’t they follow him, then? He’s brave enough, and I said not a word against himself and his valor. As ye used to say in India, whenever the lads would try to whip them a nigger for stealing or moving too slow, we all must make allowances. No, ye’d never get an Irishman to follow a sober general.”

“But you did. You followed sober generals. And sober colonels. And sergeants.”

“Now, an’t that the silliest thing I’ve ever heard tell? Of course, they were sober, the most o’ them. And I followed them true enough. But they weren’t Irishmen, either. Who would follow a sober
Irish
general?”

“You know, the Duke of Wellington was—”

“And that reminds me, don’t it now, that I had a great, worrisome question for ye. Something that I’ve been wishing and hoping to have your thoughts upon, Abel. What do ye think of this bucko Charles Darwin?”

I did not see why my mention of the Duke of Wellington should have put Jimmy in mind of Mr. Darwin, but he always had jumped about himself, whether leaping parapets in battle, or springing away from a soldier’s chores in camp. He come to me originally from poor Sergeant Bates of the sappers, who died later on, delirious, on the march to Delhi Ridge. Bates had warned me that Jimmy Molloy was the laziest man alive, but when I gave my new fusilier a proper sergeant’s greeting, Jimmy had only replied, “Jaysus, now, I didn’t join the army to work, did I? If it’s fighting ye want, I’m your man, Sergeant Jones, but they tried to put me to honest work in the sappers, and I mought have stayed home in Dublin if that was me purpose.” And he had proved the bravest of the brave, a description I once heard used—doubtless inaccurately—of a French fellow.

“Jimmy, Mr. Darwin has unsettling theories, which could only disturb your—”

“Dr. Tyrone believes him, don’t he? Black Protestant though he is?”

The wagon delivered a sudden and bone-shaking jolt.

“Dr. Tyrone believes in a number of peculiar matters that need not—”

“But don’t Darwin say how we all come descending from monkeys?”

“Yes, but you must not—”

“Well, it don’t seem fair to Jimmy Molloy, blaming them poor apes for the sins o’ humanity. Do ye not remember that lovely little monkey ye had, the one I used to—”

“You fed him sweets,” I said. “Which were not good for the little fellow’s digestion.”

Jimmy laughed. “But he liked a sweet. And he slept atop your own cot, not on mine, so I didn’t see how the poor sod’s digestion concerned me.”

“Jimmy, Charles Darwin is an atheist. His propositions contradict the Bible.”

“Oh, and do they now? Ye know, that’s the very business that’s troubling me. For I don’t for the life o’ me see the contradiction. I look at it this way: Don’t ye remember how long the days seemed when we went marching through the wilds o’ the Punjab? And how we’d sweat ourselves sick, though the calendar tried to tell the world it was winter? Or how long the nights would seem when a battle was all begun, but not yet finished, and the poor, wounded fellows was lying betwixt the lines and gasping their last breaths out o’ themselves? So, maybe a day wasn’t always exactly a day, do ye see what I’m after? Maybe those seven days God used to make us from mud pats and such were longer days than ours? Maybe one o’ his days was a million years? For it does seem to Jimmy Molloy, and I don’t mind telling ye, that making the heavens and earth in but seven of our days would be asking for a ramshackle job round the edges.”

“Now, Jimmy,” I began, “strange it is, but I will admit to pondering similar thoughts myself, in regard to the matter of time and the power of the Lord to alter it. But such thoughts are a snare to the unwary, and the divine wisdom is beyond our comprehension. We must accept that the Bible says—”

“Oh, we know what it says, though the priests would as soon we did not, for they love to have secrets in Latin and all sorts of punishments threatened and intimidated upon a person for all o’ his innocent troubles. But maybe the whole thing was only made up to begin with? By God Himself, I mean. If the Bible is the Word of God, as they’re always insisting it is, He must have
had the devil’s own time deducting out ways to explain all His doings to us. Like a general trying to explain his great plans to a private, to the dullest kiltie in the Highlanders. So maybe He spoke in parables, like Jaysus Himself had to do with those blockhead disciples, who never quite seemed to get what He was about, with their doubts and denials? Like father, like son, ye know. Maybe God was explaining things in a way the likes of us could get through our heads? Maybe he kept things simple in all His explainings, the way ye used to do with the Irish recruits who weren’t as clever or quick or as handsome as I was? Maybe He just explained it all as best he could at the time and He’s up there shaking His head that we took it so serious?”

“Mr. Darwin contradicts more than the Book of Genesis, Jimmy.”

“But didn’t God create Charles Darwin, too? Didn’t ye say near those very same words yourself on some similar matter? Abel, I’m scratching me head and me other parts besides, but I don’t see why it must be a choice between them. Maybe this Darwin’s just figuring out what God really wanted to say back when men were too stupid to understand His meaning? Why, me own grandfather couldn’t sign his own name, so ye can only imagine how foolish and backward the people must have been in those Bible days, all those hundreds of years ago.” Jimmy sighed. “Don’t ye begin to feel sorry for God, when ye think of it? Having to explain how He made the world to some poor, drooling gramps or an English baronet? Why, when I start thinking upon the Good Lord’s disappointments with the pack of us, it’s almost enough to turn me back to the Church . . .”

I never did have very much luck explaining religious matters to Jimmy Molloy.

THERE WAS NO JAUNTY PIANO playing within those tavern walls. Twas late, of course, but that was not the matter of it. Standing in the street with Jimmy beside me, I sensed a foulness of mood I could not explain. But real it was. As real as the Colt in my belt and the cane in my hand.

Jimmy sniffed the air. He was an old soldier, too.

“If we was back in India,” he muttered, “I’d be thinking the natives were less than happy this evening.”

“Well, let us go in and find out,” I said. I fear my tone showed more resignation than fortitude. My body wanted still more rest than my afternoon nap had given it. And a good stabbing tells on a fellow. I worried that I lacked the spunk I needed.

There was hardly half the crowd I had found when last I paid a visit to Ryan’s Hotel. And less than half the welcome, cold as the first had been. The miners looked up from their pipes and cards as if they had spotted the hangman from Dublin Castle.

But the men I wanted were there. Donnelly sat in his corner by the stove, below the dusty green banner that hung on the wall. Kehoe was with him. And only Kehoe this evening.

I made my way between the tables, with Jimmy on my heels.

Mr. Donnelly met my eyes, but did not pretend to greet me.

“Good evening to you, Mr. Donnelly,” I said, “And to you Mr. Kehoe. This is my friend, Mr. James Molloy, of Washington.”

Mr. Donnelly looked up into Jimmy’s face. “Why Mr. Molloy, when ye first stepped inside, I took ye for an informer. But here at close quarters I see that you’re only a fool.”

The taunt was meant both to provoke and test, but Jimmy only answered with a smile. Perhaps his months as a publican had taught him that jibes are better off ignored.

“And a pleasure it is to make your acquaintances, gentlemen,” Jimmy said.

I saw there was no point in false politeness. “Mr. Donnelly . . . may we sit down? I have serious matters to discuss with you.” I glanced at Kehoe, who remained impassive. “Very serious matters.”

“Ye may sit, if sit ye must. But not that one. I’ll have no Irish traitors at this table.”

I turned to Jimmy, who appeared not the least bit troubled. He always was unflappable in a fray, a man who could load his musket steadily while swords flashed round his head.

“I’ll stand by the bar and wait for ye,” he told me, “for a man of business must pay attention to the ways of the competition. Though I can tell you already the place needs a wash.”

And off he went, with the hard, late drinkers grumbling in his wake.

I sat me down. Before I could begin, Mr. Donnelly had something of his own to say.

“Major Jones, if I found myself in your circumstances this night, I’d take my companion and ease out on the quiet. For the men ye see about ye are unhappy. And worse than unhappy. Far worse. For they know ye as a man with a fondness for corpses. And this very morning, before the dawn, the body of a little girl was stolen from out of her coffin, before her family could plug her in the ground. Dead of the croup she was, not six years old. The good people of our village have morbid suspicions.”

“You know that I had nothing to do with such a thing.”

He raised one eyebrow, then the other. “It does not signify, does it, what I may know or I don’t? The truth of things is often the least of the matter. It’s what folk believe is in the pot that makes the porridge taste.”

“Mr. Donnelly, I know where Daniel Boland is.”

“And do ye, now?”

“He’s enrolled with the 69th New York, in the Irish Brigade. Under General Meagher.”

“More fool him, if it’s true. And Meagher’s a fool for fighting for a Union that would rather squander Irish lives than niggers.”

“We both know why he was sent to Meagher for shelter.”

“Ye know what ye know, and I know what I know. They may be different things.”

“I have in my pocket a warrant for the arrest of Mary Boland. For the murder of Kathleen Boland. I believe the woman killed General Stone, as well, though I will admit there is more to that than I have yet put together.”

“And what do ye plan do to with your grand piece o’ paper?”

“I want your help.”

He chuckled. “Now, isn’t that a high ambition on your part, Major Jones?”

“I want your help in bringing Mary Boland to justice. You know she’s mad. She won’t hang. She will be put where she can do no more harm. I want your help in finding her and bringing her in without injury to herself.”

“Ah, I see you’re a man who has a great faith in miracles. Are ye certain you’re not a member of our Church?”

“Look you. I know Daniel Boland is innocent. I know he made a false confession to save his wife. Because he loved her so dearly, no matter the terrible things she had done. I want to help him.”

“Then you can leave him alone.”

“I can’t. He must recant his confession. He has to justify himself in the eyes of the law.”

“And testify against his own wife?”

“Then you admit that she killed Kathleen Boland. And—”

“I admit nothing. We’re only having a pleasant conversation. Did ye notice how the weather has turned toward winter, Major Jones?”

“He would not need to testify against her. The law allows—”

“Whose law?
Whose
law, Major Jones? Your law, not mine.”

“Help me, for the love of God. The woman might kill more innocent people.” I held up my bandaged paw, as a frustrated child might have done. “She tried to stab me last night.” I looked at Kehoe, who remained silent and grim-faced. Then I turned again to Mr. Donnelly. “But you know that, of course.”