Bold Sons of Erin (5 page)

At last, he looked up. He stared at me. Pale he was, although by nature florid.

“This is infamous,” he said.

“By the power invested in me by the President of these United States,” I told him, “I forbid you to speak of the contents of that letter with any man.”

He let the letter drop to his desk, then shook his head in anguish. When he spoke his voice was chastened, wounded and low.

“And he calls that democracy, does he?” He gave a little puff, but could not work up his old steam. “What, are we living in a new age of
lettres de cachet
? When an innocent man might find himself hurled into prison? At the whim of his political enemies?” He looked at me then, with that coldness I would come to know too well, that self-regard that would drive men to the gallows. “He’s thrown away
habeus corpus.
Now it appears the man’s trampling the rest of the Constitution.”

“Mr. Lincoln,” I began, in a voice too much the schoolmaster’s, “is doing what he must to save our Union. Like you, he has read the law and knows his doings. And I will tell you, Mr. Gowen: I will not hear a word spoken against him.”

“He’s becoming a damnable tyrant, if you ask me. Why, look how little appreciation he shows to George McClellan. The ape’s as jealous as a caesar.”

“That is enough, now. As for your
habeus corpus,
I may not have my Latin or my Greek, but I know what it means. If you are so intent upon producing bodies, how is it you object to my inspection of that grave?”

He sighed. “Don’t you see, Jones? I simply want to keep order. Cripes. That’s what I was elected to do. These people of ours . . . these Irish miners and laborers . . . they’ve come here looking for honest wages, not for a war. Certainly not to squander their meager lives to free the nigger. Oh, I’m all for preserving the Union, you understand. I’m as patriotic as the next
man. I wish circumstances had permitted me to serve under the colors. It doesn’t take a prophet to see that we’re all better off with one continental market, rather than with a country split in two. Let us hope for a negotiated settlement among reasonable men. But the Southrons do have a point, as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to the rights of the states.
And,
I might add, the rights of the individual citizen.”

He got a little air back into his lungs. “Look here. The Union needs the coal that these men dig. The government can find soldiers elsewhere, but not skilled miners. Why stir up trouble with this draft nonsense when they’re already doing their part for the Union by digging our coal? You know well enough what this county’s been through this year. Work stoppages. Pumps laid idle, productive mines flooded. Good men driven to bankruptcy, when every other business is booming. All because of Washington’s interference. Federal intransigence, the heavy hand of Washington, has nearly driven this county into open rebellion.”

He rose, heavily, to his feet again. After all, he was a politician. Such men declaim when other men but speak. The vigor was drained out of him, though, the spunk gone. “If cooler heads had not prevailed, we might have had our own civil war right here in Schuylkill County, this very autumn. When hundreds of—nay, a thousand—miners stop work at their collieries to march to intercept a troop train and riot to set the recruits free, then I’d say we had come to the very brink of insurrection.”

“And,” I put in, as he paused for breath, “I believe the cooler head that prevailed was Mr. Lincoln’s.”

Mr. Gowen dismissed the thought, measuring the weight of his pocket watch yet again. “It was McClure. McClure and Andy Curtin. Pennsylvania men. They may be Republicans, but they know their constituencies. McClure knew what he was facing. I’m quite certain he gave Lincoln his marching orders.”

It did not happen that way, for I was there for much of the desperate doings. Forgive me the sin of pride. Mr. McClure, who is a great political fellow of ours, explained the situation to Mr. Lincoln, how the miners had chased off the draft registrars
and destroyed the records, and how all Cass Township was up in arms and refused to go to the war. Hotheads had put it into their ears that, after they were packed off to die, freed slaves would be sent down the mines at starvation wages. Twas a great lie, but lies abound in wartime. They satisfy the ear displeased by truth.

Mr. Lincoln hinted to Boss McClure and Governor Curtin that, if the law could not
be
satisfied, it might be enough should it
appear
that the law had been satisfied. And that had been sufficient for Mr. McClure, who called on the wisdom of Mr. Benjamin Bannon, Pottsville’s own newspaper editor and speculator, who had been made our commisioner of the draft in reward for his party services. Between Mr. Bannon and Mr. McClure, our county enlistment rolls were tallied in such a remarkable way that it proved our draft quota had been met and exceeded, collapsing the need to complete the registration in Cass Township, that bloody-minded, errant outpost of Ireland. Mr. Lincoln was determined to fight our war to the finish, but he never fought unnecessary battles.

“What ever was he thinking?” Mr. Gowen grumbled on, “this rail-splitting hero of yours? Calling for a draft, then announcing that he intends to emancipate the nigger? What does he ex
pect
the Irish to think, for God’s sake? As it is, they can’t support their families, boom year or not.
And,
I might add, all because of the incompetence and mismanagement of colliery owners too blind to see the economies consolidation would bring them.” He shook his head in wonder at such foolishness. “Millions to be made.
Mil
lions, Jones. Yet, the skilled miner can’t be paid a living wage, and the colliery laborer lives a life of wretchedness. Then you tell him the nigger’s to be freed to come north and do his work for half a loaf.”

“Mr. Lincoln did not tell that to anyone. I believe the telling was by the Democratic Party, in these last elections of ours.”

“Let’s not make this a political discussion, Jones.”

Now, I had gathered my temper back in and wanted no further fuss. “On that we are in accord, Mr. Gowen. Look you. Disagree
we may about certain matters, but we both wish to have peace here in our homes. It is best that we appear united, at least where the law is concerned. And I have told you what I found last evening. There is a murdered girl set in that coffin. And not Daniel Patrick Boland, who likely is in Canada by now.”

“There’s no record of the murder of a young woman—or of any other woman—these last several months. Nor even of a disappearance. I’ve told you that.” He steeled himself to look me in the eyes. His own were brown, but cold as the coldest blue. “I don’t see the point in stirring up any more trouble. And we don’t want to frighten people with tales of murdered young women, I don’t think. What would you prove? For God’s sake, man, even if there
is
a woman in the box, if no one’s reported her missing, she can hardly be of consequence. Perhaps she’s a beggar-girl, or a gypsy they found dead by the side of the road.”

“Or perhaps she is not from our county,” I said. “Or it may be that her death was kept concealed. I cannot say. But this much I will tell you, Mr. Gowen: A girl is dead, and murdered as ugly as the sins of ancient Rome. Before her, a brigadier general of the United States Volunteers was assassinated. That is two murders. And you are the district attorney, I believe. Now, I would think that you might take an interest.”

“Some things take time. I’ve hardly taken office.”

“Time will not help us solve these murders, see.”

“If murders they are.”

“General Stone was stabbed in the heart, I am told. Where he had stopped along the high road to Minersville. And the girl was stabbed until her body was pulped like a rotten apple. I think we may conclude that such is murder.”

“And you suggest they’re related? These murders? I don’t necessarily see it.”

“The man reported to have killed the general was said by every soul in Heckschersville and Thomaston to have died of cholera. But this is not the cholera season, and no other case was reported. And in the fellow’s supposed grave I found a murdered
girl. Now, Mr. Gowen, I cannot say
how
these matters are related, but a reasonable man might think them tied together.”

“In the pursuit of justice, nothing may be assumed.”

“In the pursuit of justice,” I responded, “much must be assumed. And I assume that I will have the cooperation of the authorities of this county.” I had my letter back in my hand and I gave it the slightest of waves.

He stared at me hard for a moment. Hard as coal deep in the earth. “You realize, Jones, that I’m the man who passed your name on last year, when a good fellow was wanted. I saw to it that your name went all the way to George McClellan. I got you started in this business. Now you’re a major. We’re members of the same social class now, you know. We have shared interests.”

“I am not certain that I owe you thanks, Mr. Gowen. For happier I was working at my sums in the War Department. And I believe you would be happier if I were still there, too. That is what I think, begging your pardon. But we have both come some distance over the months. And now we have a task we must face together. To keep the peace while our country is at war.”

Yes, he had passed along my name. As a fellow who knew his place and would do as ordered. Young Mr. Gowen had known a part of me, see, from our slight Pottsville acquaintance. But he was a man who drew conclusions quickly. In the end twas that would tumble him from his throne.

“And . . . you want me to provide you with political backing while you dig up that grave?”

“No, Mr. Gowen. I want you simply to enforce the law. You know as well as I do myself that, if soldiers are sent to dig her up now, there will be riot and bloodshed. It must be done by the hands of the local authorities. By men the miners may trust to some degree. By the power of civil law and hands they know. With mine the only uniform in evidence.”

He snorted. “They might decide to hang you, anyway. As the district attorney, I could not guarantee your safety.” He smiled at a small, private amusement. “And I don’t think our noble sheriff would be much help.”

“Then I will take my chances. But the grave must be opened proper. Perhaps you could approach the Catholics to have the local priest see that order is kept. The Irish will listen to such.”

“I’m not sure they even listened to Bishop Wood when he was here.”

“Well, I leave that much to you, the matter of writs and priests. But we must open the grave and take her out.”

“And when do you expect to do this, pray tell?”

“This afternoon would be best. If that cannot be managed, then tomorrow. In the morning.”

“Can’t be done today. Or tomorrow.”

“It will be done tomorrow, if not today. For the people by the graveyard must not be given time to think too much of matters. Certain I am that they are already unhappy.”

“Doubtless. Once they found one of their graves disturbed.”

Now, there is a thing I did not tell our district attorney. I did not tell him about the woman I caught in the wood, who I judged to be Mrs. Boland. She had astonished me, and repelled me. But the wretched creature would not leave my thoughts. I had thought of her as I washed myself clean at the pump in our backyard. I thought of her as I walked, as a man remembers a serpent found in his cellar. And I thought of her now. I planned to seek her out, to find a way to press her for answers. I was not yet convinced that she was mad. I had met things in India the wantonness of which refuses words. Suffice to say that demons lurk in some men. And in certain women, though you disbelieve me. I feared that woman, and smelled her in my nostrils.

“Well, then . . .” Mr. Gowen rustled about his desk, as if we had agreed our talk was ended, “. . . I suppose we’ll have to see what can be done by tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Of course, the federal government will pay all costs.”

“All costs within reason, Mr. Gowen.”

He nodded. Then he threw a lever inside himself, the way a switchman throws one along the railway. He primped himself back to a confidence and straightened up his shoulders.

“You know, Jones . . . you and I do have a great deal in common, if only we let ourselves see it. Politically, we may not see eye to eye, of course. But politics are hardly permanent. Quicksilver, rather. Let me be frank: I’m well aware of those railroad investments of yours. You’ve been buying up shares with every penny in your pocket.” He smacked his lips, as if approving of a tasty stew. “Well done, that’s what I say! Good for you! There’s money to be made, and if anything will win this war, it’s going to be capital. Making money is the most patriotic thing a man can do.”

I looked at him reproachfully, giving the floor a slight tap with my cane.

“
One
of the most patriotic things a man can do,” he corrected himself. “But I also know you’ve been relying on Matt Cawber, following his money with your own. Well, Cawber’s yesterday’s man. Over the hill. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. Ever since his wife died, he’s become the laughing stock of Philadelphia. Tearing down a mansion he’d only just built.” Mr. Gowen tutted. “They say he doesn’t even wash himself anymore.”

“Mr. Cawber grieves for his late wife, I believe. She was a great, high beauty, and he loved her.”

“Oh, grief. Yes. Well and good. But that sort of thing can be carried too far, don’t you think? Anyway, take my advice. Pull your money out of those western railroads and put it right here, in the Reading. I tell you, Jones, the good years have only begun here in the anthracite fields. This war’s a blessing, whatever little problems it may create. And the Reading’s going to be the queen of all the railways in this land. She’s going to become an empire, an empire of capital. Harrisburg is bound to amend the laws, to clear the way for the big investor, for the combination of resources. One power has to own the land, the mines, the collieries, the railroads, the waterways . . . even the docks in Philadelphia and New York. The ships that carry the coal. All in one great empire.”

His eyes looked into the future he described, and I sat largely forgotten. “That’s what this is: the Age of Empire. An
Empire of Capital. And it’s going to belong to men of vision, modern men. Even old man Heckscher doesn’t understand. He thinks small. And that goes for Johns, too. And for Evans, your wife’s uncle. It’s all about consolidation, about concentrations now. The age of the small operator, of the family shop, is over. They’ve got the right idea up in Luzerne County, but we’re going to overtake them. Wait and see. Give me ten years, and you’ll see a changed landscape for business. Economies of scale, the efficiency of the monopoly.” His expression grew rich as a cream sauce. “We have great years ahead of us. Great
decades.
If anything’s holding this county back, it’s nothing but damned obstinacy.” He fingered his watch a final time—and now he paused to mark the fleeing time. “This war’s destroying the old ways of doing business, that’s the one good thing I’ll say of it. Whatever else may happen, American industry can never turn back now . . .”