Captains and The Kings (13 page)

poured onto it and Joseph coughed spasmodically as he clung precariously to his handhold. "You should never let go of what belongs to you," he added, in a strangled voice. If he could just find a corner into which he could flee from Haroun! But not even a garter snake could have entered either of the stuffed coaches. Then Haroun screamed, a scream of mortal pain and terror and Joseph turned back to him. One of Ilaroun's thin feet, in its broken boot, had been seized at the ankle between the jostling and sliding steel plates on the platform, and he had fallen on his knees. Light spilled from the coaches and Joseph saw the boy's anguished and terrified face and then the blood oozing from his captured foot. The plates still slid backwards and forwards but now they did not entirely close because of the frail flesh and bone caught between them. "My God! You fool! Why didn't you hang on?" Joseph shouted with mingled rage and fear. He dropped his box and fell to his knees beside the screaming boy. When a plate receded slightly he tugged at the caught foot, but it was wedged. The opening was not wide enough, and each lurch of the pounding train and each sway around a curve and each of Joseph's tugs only enhanced Haroun's agony, and he screamed without let. Now the blood splashed Joseph's pulling hands and he suddenly thought of his mother's blood which he had seen, and he became sick. He tugged harder. He clenched his teeth and despite Haroun's pleas of agony to desist he turned the small foot, telling himself that what had entered could be released. "Shut up," he commanded Haroun, but the boy was beyond hearing anything but his own pain and his own terror. Joseph soon saw that he'd need help. He shouted over his shoulder at the coach ahead. Three heads emerged and saw what was to be seen, but no man offered to help, though one jeered hoarsely, "Cut off his foot, damn you!" The others laughed, drunkenly, and watched with interest. Then Joseph thought of his truncheon. He pulled it from his pocket; he waited until the plates slid apart at their widest aperture and thrust the truncheon between them. Then he wedged the steel-shod heel of his sturdy boot into the opening also, and pulled it from his foot. He looked down into the gray darkness between the plates, closing his ears to Haroun's shrieks. He bit his lip. He would have to reach down into the forced opening and push off Haroun's shoe, which was hopelessly caught in the metal. In doing so he risked having his own hand caught and perhaps losing it between the jaws of the plates. He hesitated and a lightning thought rushed through his mind, Why should I risk this for a stranger who is nothing to me? He looked at Haroun's face, lying now near his thigh, and he saw the tortured innocence of it, the brutalized innocence, and he looked over his shoulder at the laughing and jeering men who were enjoying the spectacle of childish suffering. The edges of the stout leather and steel truncheon were already being chewed by the plates, and so was the heel of Joseph's boot. He would have to act at once. He closed his eyes and pushed his hand between the plates, caught the back of Haroun's shoe and waited for an instant until the orifice widened slightly again. Then in one rapid motion he pushed off the shoe and tore Haroun's foot from the aperture and released his own boot. The truncheon broke and fell down upon the track. A moment later and it would have been too late. Haroun lay on his face on the sliding plates, shocked into mere whimpering, his tears running over the metal. His ankle was turned and heavily bleeding, his bare little foot piteous in the lantern light which swayed onto the platform. Gasping, Joseph put on his boot and sat beside Haroun. He stretched out his hand and held the other boy's shoulder. "It's all right now," he said, and his voice was low and gentle. He frowned at the flowing blood and at the dirt mingling with it. My God, how had he become entangled in this dangerous situation? He should never have spoken to the boy in the beginning. This is what came of becoming involved with others, and it weakened and destroyed a man. One thing led to another. He would have to do something, now, for the wounded and suffering boy, and he despised himself. He dimly heard the raucous comments and jeering of the men who had watched the struggle. Haroun was no longer whimpering. Shock had overcome him. He lay flaccid and prone, his meager body moving rhythmically on the sliding plates. The train shrieked into the night. Clouds of smoke gushed onto the platform. The feeble light of a small depot fled by the train. Wheels pounded. Joseph's breathing began to slow. Then a rough coarse voice sounded over Joseph's shoulder. "What's all this, eh? What's wrong here?" A stout short man had appeared in the doorway of the coach ahead, a man of about forty, a man richly dressed but with a bald head like a huge pear rising from broad thick shoulders. His wide face was florid and jowled above a folded silken cravat held with a diamond pin. He had tiny eyes like wet raisins, and restless, and enormous pink ears and a fat pursed mouth. A watch chain loaded with gemmed trinkets spread across a bulging waistcoat dazzling in its brocaded colors. His plump hands, which clung to each side of the doorway, glittered with jeweled rings. He was a man of authority and importance, for the men he had pushed aside stood behind him, still grinning, but respectful. Joseph looked up at the glistening and well-fed face. "He caught his foot. He hurt his ankle. He's bleeding. I got him out just in time," said Joseph with hard and contemptuous curtness. "His foot's hurt. He needs attention." The man's face quickened at the sound of Joseph's voice. A big cigar was held between stained teeth. He removed the cigar with his sparkling --fingers. He grunted then. He looked down at the prostrate Haroun. He said, "Got him out, did you?" Joseph made no reply. He suddenly felt spent. He hated this bloated man who could do nothing but smoke and stare while Haroun bled and lay in a half-faint on the plates, and was choking and coughing between muffled sobs. The stranger suddenly shouted in a voice louder than the uproar in the coaches and the howling of the train. "Come on, here!" he bellowed, looking over his shoulder. "Clear another seat, damn you all! Lift this boy and take him inside, or I'll have your lights and livers, damn you!" No one contested or argued. Men rose in the billows of cigar smoke and a seat was miraculously vacated. The stranger gestured. Two of the men who had watched, jeering and laughing, picked up Haroun and bore him inside the coach and sat him on the seat. The boy's eyes, flooding with tears, remained closed. Blood dripped from his torn ankle. "And in with you, too, boyeen," said the stranger. Disbelieving, Joseph struggled to his feet and entered the coach, and there was a little silence among the crowd and a wider staring, surly and curious. Joseph fell into the space beside Haroun. The back of the seat ahead was reversed and the stranger sat down ponderously upon it and surveyed the two boys. Crowded faces peered. The stench of sweat and smoke and pomade and whiskey choked Joseph's breath. Voices called inquisitively from the front of the coach, and were answered. The lanterns' light was the light of lamps in a twirling fog. "Well, now," said the stranger, planting his fat hands on his fatter and gleaming knees. "We gotta do something for this spalpeen, don't we? Don't want him bleeding to death. Where you lads from?" "Wheatfield. Going to Titusville," said Joseph. "To work." The man bellowed again, without looking away from Joseph and Haroun. "Whiskey, damn your hides, lots of it, and clean kerchiefs! Fast!" There was a flurry behind and about him. He smiled at Joseph. "And what's your moniker, eh? And his?" His teeth were small and stained and crooked, but there was a certain rude geniality in his smile. Joseph said, "Joe Francis." He nodded at Haroun. "He says his name is Haroun Zieff." But the stranger was staring at Joseph intently. "Joseph Francis Xavier- what?" Joseph's internal muscles contracted. He looked more closely at the broad and glistening face opposite him and at the little dark eyes, so shrewd and cynical. "Just Joe Francis," he said. The stranger grinned knowingly. "Now, then," he said, "I'm an Irisher, nieself, though born in this country. Dada came from County Cork. Name's Ed Healey. Never been on the ould sod, but heard enough from Dada. So I know an Irisher when I meet one. Afraid to say you are, is that it? Don't blame you, in this country. But an Irisher is match enough for anybody, ain't he? But don't never be ashamed of your name, boyeen." "I'm not," said Joseph. "But you're running from something, is that it?" "Perhaps," said Joseph, and thought of Ireland and not of Mr. Squibbs. He also thought of his father. "Not a long tongue in you, is there?" said Mr. Healey, in a tone of approval. "That's what I like: A man of few words. So, Joseph Francis Xavier something-or-other, you're going to Titusville with this lad with the heathen name?" "He is no heathen. He's a Christian," said Joseph. He was still wary. And his profound exhaustion was growing. He looked up at the crowding and avid faces clustered around their seats and they were like faces in a nightmare, and as alien as the countenances of hell. Mr. Healey's crimson and enormous face swelled and retreated before his eyes. From a sudden vast dark silence Mr. Healey's voice roared in on him. Eh, you drink this, boyo! Can't have you dying on me!" Joseph became aware that some hiatus had come to him, a dim unconsciousness, a mindless blank. He felt the edge of a tin cup against his lips, and he turned his face aside. But a gigantic pink hand was pressing the edge again to his mouth and he had to drink to escape it. A scalding and smarting and burning liquid ran into his mouth and then into his throat, and he gasped. Then there was a widening warmth in his empty stomach, and he could see clearly again. "Need your help," said Mr. Healey. "Irishers don't faint like the ladies. Now, look here. I'm going to give this lad of yours a jolt, too, but a bigger one, so he won't feel nothing. You've got to hold him for me. Can't trust these drunken sods of mine." Even Joseph, resentful of and resisting always the force of authority, instinctively obeyed. He said to Haroun, "We are helping you, with your foot." He put his arms about the whimpering and weeping boy, tightly. Haroun opened his wet eyes and Joseph saw the trustfulness in them, and he frowned. "Yes, Joe," said Haroun. Large and clean and scented kerchiefs had been produced in profusion. Mr. Healey kept them folded on his knee. He gave Joseph the tin cup again, with swirling pale liquid in it, a considerable amount. "Bourbon, best white mule," said Mr. Ilealey. "Make him drink ever)' drop." He held a large jug in his hand and nodded and smiled encouragingly. "It'll kill him," said Joseph, whose senses had become exceedingly acute after his own drink, and were painful. "Life's no bargain," said Mr. Healey in a voice of reason. "But never ^reard of a man dying of good ole Kentucky brew. Not even anybody with a heathen name." Joseph said to Haroun, "You must drink this. Quick, now." "Yes, Joe," said Haroun in such a meek and trusting voice that Mr. Healey blinked. Haroun held his breath and drank quickly. After the cup was empty his face bulged and his great black eyes started from his head, and he strangled and held his throat. Mr. Healey chuckled. "In a minute he won't have no pain," he commented. Mr. Healey, smiling widely, soaked two or three kerchiefs in whiskey from the jug he held. Joseph was still holding Haroun who was slowly subsiding though still coughing. "Why do you do this for us?" asked Joseph. "We're nothing to you." Mr. Ilealey studied Haroun keenly, but he said to Joseph, "It's like that, eh? If you don't know, boyo, don't you ask." Joseph was silent. Mr. Healey still studied Haroun, lying in the circle of Joseph's arms. He said, "This heathen ain't anything to you, either, is he? But you got his foot out and saved it. Why? Don't you tell me, now. You think on it."
Haroun's eyes closed. He lay limp in Joseph's arms. Then Mr. Healey became brisk. He leaned forward, muttering, and wiped the dirty and bloody ankle quickly and expertly. Haroun moaned once, but did not move. "Best thing for anything," said Mr. Healey. "Beats the divil for curing." The kerchief was soon soaked with blood and filth. Mr. Healey wet another. "Don't think there's anything broken," he said. "Just tore up. Bad, though. Could have been cut off. Now, it's clean." He deftly swathed the lacerated ankle in fresh white kerchiefs and generously poured raw whiskey on them. Haroun was now in a stupor. His little toes emerged from the kerchiefs in a pathetic fashion. He seemed to have shrunk. He was hardly more than a starved child in Joseph's embrace. Mr. Healey contemplated him, ignoring the jostling faces all about them. "Well," he said, "seems I heard that the meek'll inherit the earth, and maybe the helpless, but not until the rest of us have eaten the lion's share and don't want no more. But no use quarreling with things as they are. Only a fool does that." He looked at Joseph. "You ain't no fool, and that's for sure, boyo." "I am going to survive," said Joseph, and suddenly, his head fell back against the rattan seat and he slept. The train screamed on into the night like a triumphant banshee. Flickering red fire glared briefly at the windows.
Chapter 10
Joseph was awakened by brilliant sunshine lying on his eyes and face. Stiff and aching and weary, he moved on the rattan seat where he and Haroun had spent the night in heavy slumber. The younger boy's head lay on Joseph's right shoulder, as a child's head lies, his dusk}' face empty of everything but innocence and pain. His thick curling hair, black as coal and as shining, spilled on Joseph's arm and neck. One of his hands had fallen on Joseph's knee. The iron wheels of the train rumbled and clattered; the engine howled and pounded. The bright air outside was frequently dulled by smoke and steam. Most of the men in the crowded hot coach still slept, snoring and grunting. Empty bottles rolled and collided over the filthy straw-strewn floor. A rancid wet ceiling, occasionally splashed by sunlight, was still lighted by the kerosene lanterns, and appeared to drip. The wooden walls of the coach were thick with filth and the accumulations of soot, dirt and smoke, and tobacco stains. The door of the latrine banged persistently and each breath of wind carried the effluvium into the coach. Joseph looked about him with dull and sunken eyes. Mr. Healey slumbered peacefully and noisily on the reversed seat oppo- 89 site the boys, huge fat legs spread wantonly, bulging waistcoat moving rhythmically, the jeweled trinkets and seals on it winking in the sun, soot- filled white silk cravat loosened, fat arms slack against his big though short body, polished boots dusty but still shining, fawn pantaloons stretched, coat creased. His great rosy face was like an infant's, and his fat sensual mouth drooled a little and his big gross nostrils expanded and contracted. One large pink ear was crumpled against his bald head. Pale short lashes nickered, and there was a pale stubble on his cheeks and double chin. Porcine, thought Joseph, without malice or disgust but just as a matter of fact. He looked at the short thick fingers with their glittering rings and the jeweled buttons that fastened the fine linen of the fluted shirt at the bulky wrists. Joseph's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Mr. Healey. His instincts told him that his benefactor was a rascal, but unlike Tom Hennessey's rascality Mr. Healey's was open and frank and in a way admirable and a sign of strength. He was a man who would use but probably could not be used. There was a strong shrewdness in him, an alert intelligence, a benign implacability-in short, a man to be feared, a capricious man perhaps, a man who had authority of his own and therefore did not fear authority and could outwit it, and who had little regard for stringent opinions concerning wrong and right. Mr. Healey, it was possible, ran his affairs dangerously close to the cutting edge of the law, and no doubt he had defeated it many a time. Men in this coach had deferred to him, had obeyed him without question, even the deadly quiet men who saw and knew everything, and all of them were scoundrels in their own right. Scoundrels did not respect, obey, and admire probity: Therefore, Mr. Healey did not possess probity. But conscience, Joseph reflected, and in the words of Sister Elizabeth, "bought no potatoes." He suddenly felt for his money belt and his concealed twenty-dollar goldpiece. The train was full of sleek robbers. The money was intact. Who would think that a hungry and ragged boy would possess money, anyway? Still, Joseph was relieved. He looked again at Haroun, and frowned. He was still resentful and now even more so that Haroun had attached himself to him, had involved him in dangerous difficulties, had artlessly confided in him and so had made him in a way responsible for his troubles. Haroun now possessed only the shirt and the pantaloons on his body, and only one boot, and the "six bits" in his pocket. It is none of my business, thought Joseph. He must, as the Americans say, take his lumps like anyone else, and his lumps are not mine. As soon as the train reached Titusville he, Joseph, would immediately abandon Haroun. Mr. Healey was another matter. He exuded wealth, competence, authority, and strength. Joseph continued his study. Musing, he looked at the passing countryside through the evilly stained window. The land was rolling and green here in early summer, and appeared colder and more northern. Cattle walked amiably in the valleys; an occasional gray farmhouse huddled under sparse trees and feathers of early smoke fluttered from their chimneys. A boy here and there, barefoot, leaned on a rail fence to stare at the noisy train, idly chewing on a slice of bread. There was a dirt road nearby, and a loaded wagon or two ambled along it. Farmers waved; the harness of the horses shone and sparkled in the early sunlight. There was a herd of sheep in the distance. A dog ran barking for a few feet beside the train, then fell back. The sky was polished, cold and blue like steel. "And what will you be thinking, with that look on your face?" Mr. Healey inquired. Joseph flushed. Apparently Mr. Healey had awakened recently and had studied Joseph in his turn. "Joseph Francis Xavier What?" "Joe Francis. That is all," said Joseph. He was vexed. It was all very well for him to reflect and weigh others, but his pride rose at the thought of being so inspected himself. It was an affront, and unpardonable. Mr. Healey yawned vastly. He appeared amused. He leaned forward to inspect the sleeping Haroun's foot. It was swathed in kerchiefs no longer immaculately white, and it was badly swollen and appeared red and hot. "Got to do something about your friend," Mr. Healey remarked. "He is not my friend," said Joseph. "I met him on the platform last night, and that is all. And why should you help him?" "Well," said Mr. Healey, still examining Haroun's foot, "what do you think? Out of the goodness of my heart? Brotherly love or something? Touched by a lad so young and his plight? Wanting to help the unfortunate? Kindness of my big soul? Or maybe I can use him? You pays your money and you takes your choice, as the horse-race fellers say. You figure it out, Joe." Joseph was increasingly annoyed. It was apparent that Mr. Healey was laughing at him and that was unendurable. He said, "Are you a wildcatter, Mr. Healey?" Mr. Healey leaned back in his seat, yawned again, produced an enormous cigar and carefully bit off the end and then lit it from a silver box containing lucifers. lie contemplated Joseph. "Well, boyo, you can call me a Grand Panjandrum. Know what that means?" "Yes," said Joseph. "It was a burlesque title of an official in a comedy by an English playwright, long ago. It means," said Joseph with a cold smile, "a pretentious official." "Hum," said Mr. Healey, looking at him in shrewd disfavor. "Educated feller, ain't you? And where did you acquire this famous education? Yale, maybe, or Harvard, or Oxford, in the old country?" "I read a lot," said Joseph, and now he stared at Mr. Healey with derisive amusement of his own. "So I see," said Mr. Healey. He moved one bloated hip and produced Joseph's thin leather-bound book of Shakespeare's sonnets. He rubbed one fat finger on the binding, never moving his little black eyes from Joseph's face. "And you had money to buy a book like this, Joe?" "Books were given to me by-I don't know," said Joseph, and tried to take the book from Mr. Healey. But Mr. Healey deftly put the book behind him. "You don't know, eh? Some kind soul, who had pity on a boyo like you, and wanted to help him? But you feel grateful, anyways?" Joseph said nothing. His small blue eyes glinted in the sun. "You don't think anybody does anything out of goodness of heart, eh?" Joseph thought of his father. "Yes, I do," he said in a loud uninflected voice. "My father did. And that's why he lies in a pauper's grave, and my mother lies in the sea." "Ah," said Mr. Healey. "That explains a lot. That happened to my father in Boston, too, where he landed. And my mother, when I was seven. Pauper's graves for both. Was on my own when I was seven, working in Boston at anything I could turn my hand to. Never regretted it. Nobody owes anybody anything, in this world. Anything good comes, it is a blessing out of the blue. Fit for pious thanksgivings. Except you don't believe in thanksgivings?" "No," said Joseph. "And nobody did nothing for you, all your life?" Joseph unwillingly thought of the Sisters of Charity on the ship and the old priest, and Sister Elizabeth, and the unknown man who had supplied him with books, and the nuns who had occasionally forced a dinner on him. He also thought of Mrs. Marhall. "Think it over," said Mr. Healey, who was watching him closely. "It may be important to you one of these days. Now, I'm not one of them who thinks you should slink around with prayers and talk sweetness and light all the time. It's a bad world, Joe, and I didn't make it, and I learned soon not to quarrel with it. For every good and charitable man there's a thousand or more who'd steal your heart's blood if they could sell it for a profit. And ten thousand would sell your coat to the pawnbroker for two bits, even if they didn't need the money. I know all about this world, boyo, more than you do. Eat or be eaten. Your money or your life. Thieves and murderers and traitors and liars and grafters. All men are Judas, more or less." Joseph had listened intently. Mr. Healey waved the cigar and continued in his resounding and suetty voice. "Just the same," he said, "you sometimes find a good man, and like the Bible or something says, he's worth more than rubies, if he ain't a fool who is feckless and thriftless and believes in a wonderful tomorrow that never comes. A good man with a head on his shoulders is worth something, and that I know. Could be all the good people you met were fools?" "Yes," said Joseph. "Too bad," said Air. Healey. "Maybe they wasn't though. Maybe you just thought they was. That's something for you to ponder on, when you have the time. You never had much time to ponder on anything though, I'm thinking." "True," said Joseph. "Too busy," said Mr. Healey, nodding his head. "I like men who are busy. Too easy to lie down in the gutter and beg. Find lots of them in the cities. Well, anyways, it was bad for the Irish in Boston, and so I worked my way down to old Kentuck and that's where I grew up, Louisville and Lexington, and such. And the river boats." He winked amicably at Joseph. "A gambler?" said Joseph. "Well, say a gentleman of fortune. A Grand Panjandrum. I always thought it meant a man of affairs, but then I'm not educated like you though I know my letters. Some." He looked at his gold watch, then clicked it shut. "Soon be in Titusville. Say I give Grand Panjandrum a new meaning: A man with lots of affairs. Finger in every pie. Politics. Oil. River boats. Retailer. Name it. I'm it. Never turn down an honest penny and maybe never turn down a dishonest one, either. And another thing: Find out the skeleton in every man's closet or his favorite vice or weakness, and you've got him in your hand," and Mr. Healey's fat fingers closed quickly in the hand he suddenly held aloft. "Do him favors, but make him pay for them one way or another. Best way to get rich, though, is politics." The gesture of the ringed hand was both cruel and rapacious. "So you are a politician, too?" "No, sir. Too dirty for me. But I control politicians, and that's better." Joseph was becoming extremely interested in spite of his aloofness. "Do you know Senator Hennessey?" "Ole Tom?" Mr. Healey laughed richly. "I made Ole Tom! Knew half a dozen of the Pennsylvania Legislature. Been living in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia last twenty years or so. Worked like hell to stop that yokel, Abe Lincoln, but it didn't turn out. Anyways, all for the best. We're in a war now, and there's always a lot of money to be made out of wars. Know them all. Did a lot of business in wars in Mexico and other places. People say they hate wars, but governments never made a war and nobody came. That's human nature. And when we win this war, there's going to be lots of good fat pickings in the South, too. That, boyo, is what the war's about, though you hear a lot of drivel about slavery and the Rights of Man. Et cetera. Lot of dung. It's money, that's all. South too prosperous. North in an industrial panic. Simple as that." "I'm not interested in wars," said Joseph. "Now that," said Mr. Healey, "is one Goddamned stupid remark. If you want to make your mark, boyo, you've got to be interested in every last Goddamn thing the world does, and see where it will turn a profit for you if you're smart. You got to learn a lot, Joseph Francis Xavier." "And you intend to teach me?" said Joseph, with contempt. Mr. Healey studied him and his eyes narrowed so much that they almost disappeared. "If I do, son, it'll be the luckiest day of your life, sure and it will. You think you're tough and ornery. You ain't. Not yet you ain't. Tough and ornery folks don't appear to be. It's the soft ones who put on the frout of toughuess and hardness, to sort of protect themselves froxn the real murderers, who are all sweet talk and kind smiles and helpfulness. It don't do them no good, though. The tough fellers can see right through all that shell to the tasty oyster inside." "And you think I'm a tasty oyster?" Mr. Healey burst out laughing. He pointed his cigar at Joseph, and he laughed so heartily that tears filled his little eyes and spilled out onto his fat full cheeks. He shook his head over and over in uncontrolled mirth. Joseph watched him with mortified and furious anger. "Son," gasped Mr. Healey, "you ain't even a morsel of shrimpt" He pulled out another scented and folded kerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his eyes and moaned with delight. "Oh, my God, oh, my God!" he groaned with rich feeling and pleasure. "You're killing me, son." He looked at Joseph and tried to control himself. His whole body quaked with joyous laughter, and he belched and gulped. Then he poiutcd the cigar at Joseph again. "Son," he said in a strangled voice, "I'm interested in you because you got the makings of a scoundrel. Besides, you're an Irisher, and I always had a soft spot for an Irishcr, feckless or not. You can do something with the Irish. And you can depend on their loyalty, too, if they like you. If they don't, you're a dead man. Now, look here, you helped this boy, though he's no kin or friend of yours. Maybe saved his life. I'm not asking for an explanation, because you can't explain it. But I liked that in you, though I don't say I admired it. What is he, anyways, a Turk?" Joseph, in his silent rage, could not speak for a moment. "No," he said at last, in a voice full of hate for Mr. Healey, "he's a Lebanese. I told you he was a Christian, if that means anything. Do you know," said Joseph with unusual malice, "what a Lebanese is?" But Mr. Healey was not humiliated or annoyed. "No, boyo, I don't. Don't even want to know. Never heard of anyone like that, though, come to think of it. He looks