Captains and The Kings (17 page)

you, Joe? I like open things, before I hire a man. So, I'll ask the questions, and I'll take it kindly if you answer them in the spirit they're asked." He was no longer so easily affable. His little dark eyes pointed. His mouth had assumed a tight look, though he smiled. "Yes," said Joseph, and hid his hard amusement. "I got to trust a man," said Mr. Healey, admiringly inspecting the long ash on his cigar. "Can't trust anybody right off the street. I got interests, confidential, and I got to trust. That's understood." "Yes," said Joseph. "Shut-mouthed, and that's what I like," said Mr. Healey. "Never did like a wagging tongue. All right. How old are you, Joe?" "I'll soon be eighteen." Mr. Healey nodded. "Not too old, not too young. Can be trained. All right, Joe, what's your full moniker?" "For the present," said Joseph, "I am Joe Francis." Mr. Healey pursed his lips. "Police looking for you, Joe?" Joseph thought of Mr. Squibbs. "No." "Nobody else?" "No." "What've you been working at?" "Sawmills. Taking care of horses. Driving wagons." "What did your Dada do, on the ould sod?" "He was a farmer, and a millwright." "You mean he grubbed for potatoes, what there was?" Joseph's face stiffened. "I said he was a farmer, and a skilled worker." Mr. Healey waved his hand. "No offense. Where you from, Joe?" "Wheatfield." "How'd you get there?" Joseph could not help himself. "On the train," he said, and smiled his short and taciturn smile. "Getting things out of you, Joe, is like digging with a bowie knife in a coal mine," said Mr. Healey. "Got any reason for not opening up, like?" "Just my nature," said Joseph, and smiled again. "No kin?" Joseph's face became shut. "No," he said. "I am an orphan." "Not married, and running away?" "No." "That's sensible. I'm not married, myself," said Mr. Healey, and chuckled. "Never did believe in it. Here, Joe. Write something on this paper. Anything." Joseph picked up the quill pen with the new steel tip which Mr. Healey had rolled towards him across the burnished table. He considered Mr. Healey, and with growing and amused contempt. Yet, for some reason ven he could not understand, he felt a stab of unfamiliar pit}-. He considered, his ruddy brows drawn together. He wrote: No man is contented until at least one person knows how dangerous he is. He was careful with flourishes and neatness and artistic shadings. Then he pushed what he had written on fine vellum to Mr. Healey, who read it slowly, his fat mouth moving over every syllable. "Right smart sentiment," said Mr. Healey at last, with heartiness. But he glowered a little at Joseph. "Your own sentiments, eh?" "No. Henry Haskins." "That feller," said Mr. Healey, who had never heard of Henry Haskins. "Now, I never wanted any feller to think I was dangerous. It's bad for business. Ain't no place in business for dangerous fellers. Word gets around. Can't be trusted."
"I thought you said it was a smart sentiment," said Joseph. "For city slickers. I ain't one." He scrutinized the writing closely. "You write a fine hand, Joe." "I am not a clerk," said Joseph. "I do not intend to be one." "Joe, how much money did you make at your last job?" "I worked a full week, and I received eight dollars a week. That isn't enough." Mr. Healey's mouth made a soundless whistle. "Nearly eighteen, and eight dollars a week ain't enough! A man with a family's mighty lucky, Joe, to make that. Hard labor, too." "Not enough," said Joseph. "What do you aim to make?" "A million dollars." His square white teeth suddenly flashed in his face. "You're mad," said Mr. Healey, with simplicity. "Mr. Healey, don't you want to make a million dollars?" "I'm older'n you. Got more experience." "I am younger than you, sir, and so I have much more time. And experience comes with living, and doing." "Hum." They regarded each other in a short silence. Joseph thought, If he had not had to fight the world as I am fighting it he would have been a good man, for he'd prefer to be kind. We make scoundrels of each other. "You're a hard customer," said Mr. Healey. "If I weren't, I'd be no use to you." "You never said a truer word, I am thinking," said Mr. Healey. "I see we understand each other. Here's my idea: I show you around. You help manage my business. You study law with a smart lawyer feller. I pay you seven dollars a week until you're worth more." "No," said Joseph. Mr. Healey leaned back in his chair and smiled sweetly. "That includes room and board."
Joseph had had no intention of remaining in this house longer than he could find a boardinghouse in Titusville. He wanted to be, as always, his own man, and not "beholden" to anyone else. But he thought of the books in this house, to which he would have access, and he hesitated. Then he said again, "No. I want eighteen dollars a week, and to pay five for my board. In one month I want a four dollar raise-a week. Then we'll discuss just how valuable I am to you." Mr. Healey ruminated, his beefy face as closed as Joseph's own. He said, "You got a right high opinion of yourself, don't you, Irish? Well, I like that, too. How about the boyeen upstairs?" and he tilted his head at the ceiling. "I've paid you for his room and board, until he can work." "And who's he going to work for?" Joseph shrugged. "He said he has a job in this town." "How about him working for me, too?" "Mr. Healey, that is entirely your affair, and Haroun's, not mine." "You don't want no burdens?" "That is right." Mr. Healey smoked thoughtfully. He said, "Eighteen years old, and talks like a sharpie with pockets full of gold. Well, how do you expect to make a million dollars?" "When I have enough money I intend to buy a string of tools, myself, and drill."
"In competition with me and the other lads?" "Mr. Healey, I'll never cheat you. On that you can rely." Mr. Healey nodded and said again, "We understand each other." He considered. "All right, eighteen dollars a week, and you pay five for board. For yourself. Then I'll find out if you're worth a corncob to wipe my ass. If you ain't, we part. If you are, we'll talk again. Now"-and he leaned back in his chair and assumed a very open expression, candid and even a little pious-"I believe in laying my cards out on the table so a feller can see them. They call me 'sincere' around here." Joseph immediately became wary. "So you can trust me, Joe." Joseph said nothing. Mr. Healey laughed gently. "A real sharpie. You don't trust nobody. You must've had a hard life, Joe." "I did." "Want to tell me about it?" "No. It isn't important." "You got to trust some people, Joe, or you won't get nowhere." "Mr. Healey, the less we confide in each other about our private affairs the better friends we'll be. We'll just discuss our work together, frankly.
"You ain't even prepared to trust me, and I've laid everything on the line to you, Joe. I'm sorry you think everybody's a rascal." Joseph could not help smiling. "Let's say," he said, "that we may learn to trust each other." "Good enough," said Mr. Healey, with heartiness, and slapped his fat hand on the table. "Let's get down to business. I'm the president of eight oil companies. Ever since 1855. Started in Pithole, with the oil coming right out of the ground. No need to drill. Pithole ain't developed yet. But I got my options out there; first one to do it. Just scoop it up off'n the water and out of the holes. For twenty-five dollars I sell twenty-five thousand shares in my companies. Can't get out the certificates fast enough, that's how good business is in Titusville. And I've got three distilleries, too, right on Oil Creek. Up to date, we've been shipping out the barrels on flatboats all over the state and country. Kerosene. And just the crude oil to distilleries elsewhere. Kerosene's going to replace all other fuel for lamps, and the crude oil's being used for lubricants instead of the more expensive oils being used. I got part of a patent for burning kerosene -since 1857. Saw the possibilities at once. I call that the Healey Kerosene Company. And helped develop better lamps than the old ones burning whale oil and such. "When they run the railroad regular from Titusville in a few months, instead of one train on Sunday, my business will be ten times as much. Quicker and more than the flatboats. I got an interest in the railroad, too. You might say I got many interests. Did a lot of business in Mexico not long ago." He stared expressionlessly at Joseph. "Legal, sir?" "Well, it wasn't oil. I told you: I never miss a chance at turning a penny." Joseph thought. He remembered reading, in a newspaper, of men like Mr. Healey who had made fortunes gun-running in Mexico. But he held his tongue. It was none of his affair just yet. "I own salt mines here, too," said Mr. Healey. "And I do a good business in lumber. Lumber's what made this town, before oil. Wide interests, Joe. All in all, I got about two hundred men working for me, townsmen and outsiders. I'm a director in the new bank, too. Own a couple of lawyers, but they ain't smart. But one of them can teach you what you need to practice law, yourself. If I was you, Joe"-and Mr. Healey leaned forward in a most paternal and confidential manner, as one speaking to a beloved young relative, perhaps a son-"I'd concentrate on patent laws, criminal laws." "Especially criminal law," said Joseph. Mr. Healey laughed expansively, and leaned back. "Well, I don't do nothing downright criminal, you understand. But every businessman runs close to the edge, or why else is he a businessman? Couldn't make a living if he didn't. Now law's law; you got to have laws, or the country wouldn't hold together. But sometimes law can be-well, can be-" "Ambiguous," said Joseph, with a little malice. Mr. Healey frowned. He did not understand the word. "Well, anyways. I mean you take two lawyers, and they can't agree what's legal and what ain't, and that goes for judges and juries, too. Laws're written funny, sometimes. And it's the funny part that's profitable, if you're smart." Joseph nodded. "And if you have a good lawyer." Mr. Healey nodded and smiled also. "And there's this here war I hear we're going into, right now. Lots of profit there for a smart man. I hear there's a patent in England for a six- or eight-chamber rifle-but that ain't for tomorrow, Joe." Joseph suddenly became intensely interested. "And Washington will buy the rifle from England?" "Well, sir," said Mr. Healey, "the Sassenagh ain't particularly fond of the Union, boyeen. His sympathies are with the South. Already said so, he did. Still, being a Sassenagh-there ain't anyone keener for a dollar or a sovereign than the Sassenagh in spite of his piety and all them churches of his, and the Queen-he might sell to both sides. I hope not." "Which is the most prosperous side, the Union or the South?" "The South, son, the South. South wasn't hit by the Panic that's here, like the North. King Cotton. Slave labor. Farming. The South's where the money is. And that's what makes the Northern factory owners and businessmen madder'n a hornet. They ain't worried about slave labor because it ain't moral, or something. They just wish they could have slave labor, themselves, though that's just about what they have right now, with the foreign labor they're importing from Europe, foreigners can't speak English, and starving. Still, they got to pay some wages, and that's killing them. No, sir, ain't morals and the rights of man them there suffering Northerners care about. It's the cost of labor. Profits. Joe, if you want to use just one word"-and Mr. Healey wagged a huge finger at Joseph-"to describe wars and the making of wars, it's profits. Nothing else. Profits." "And this war, too?" "Joe! What else? Sure, and Mr. Lincoln talks about saving the Union, and a house divided against itself must fall, and the immorality of slavery, and from what I've seen of him I reckon he speaks without lying and hypocrisy. He's kind of simple, in a way. Businessmen always like simple politicians; they're easier to manage and persuade. So, they give Mr. Lincoln highfalutin' slogans and talk moral-like to him. But all it is is profits. King Profits. Kill off slavery in the South and the South ain't got the big factories and businessmen, and where does that leave the South? The South's where gentlemen live, and gentlemen ain't up to managing business. And so the Northerners can go down there and get rich. Profits, again. Do you follow me?" "Yes," said Joseph. "Who do you think will win?" Mr. Healey winked. "Well, the North, of course. They got the factories for munitions. It ain't fair, it ain't. Somebody ought to even up the balance." Joseph nodded solemnly. "Only fair," said Mr. Healey. "Provided there ain't no interference .in honest trade. But we won't know about that for a little while."
"And Mr. Lincoln wants to abolish slavery?" "Well, not rightly. That ain't exactly what he's saying. It's preserving the Union. Did hear he said that if slavery would preserve the Union he wouldn't interfere with it. But the South's sick and tired of all them howling preachers up North screaming for abolition, and the hungry businessmen and factor}' owners, and interference, and being called names, such as murderers and Simon Legrees. As I told you, the Southerners are gentlemen. The South wasn't used much for the dumping of English whores and thiefs like the North was. Easier to ship them here, the Sassenagh thought, than hanging all of them. So the South sort of despises the North besides being mad at the interference. The South knows what it's all about, and they want an aristocratic nation of their own. Of course, that ain't democracy, and me, Ed Healey, I'm for democracy, too. Didn't vote for Lincoln, myself, that Republican." He nodded virtuously. Then he stood up, and pulled down his florid waistcoat and took out his thick gold watch and sounded the repeater. "Well, Joe. It's three o'clock, and time's apassing. What say we go out and look around a little, so you get the feel of the town and some of my business?" They went downstairs, Mr. Healey shouting for his surrey and Bill Strickland. Joseph saw the almost mute Bill sitting like an image in the hall, waiting. He stood up, galvanized, when he saw his master, and Joseph observed the absolute devotion and blind dedication on the man's ugly face. The back of his neck prickled for no reason he could feel consciously. Then Bill turned his head slowly in Joseph's direction and stared at him emptily. Joseph saw the killer's fervid eyes and an icy finger touched him between the shoulder blades. Mr. Hcaley laid his hand with affection on Bill's incredibly narrow shoulder, and he smiled at Joseph. "Bill," he said, "would do anything for me. Anything." His smile widened as he and Joseph regarded each other in a little silence. The surrey was standing on the wooden bridge overlooking Oil Creek. The green stream was stained with oily rainbows, and the banks were poisoned with oil so that the shrubs and plants and trees drooped in deathly attitudes, and many of them were already dead. Barges and flatboats filled the narrow and curving stream, and were being rapidly and noisily loaded with barrels of oil, and lumber. Joseph looked up at the un- ravished hills with their bowers of light and at the distant folds of tender valleys, and at the polished blue sky which would always resist the horribleness which was man. "It is beautiful," he said, and Mr. Healey nodded with satisfaction and pride. "We made this town," he said, and shifted his cigar. "Nothing but greenhorns sleeping their lives away, and standing on the black gold all the time! I tell you, Irish, people are real dumb." "Yes," said Joseph. He clenched down on all the spiritual anguish in himself and thought of Scan and Regina and what he must do for them in this place. But the hills haunted him. If he permitted them to haunt him there would be no rescue for his brother and his sister. He looked at the narrow little river and forced himself to observe the noisy busyness of the flatboats. "We got enough oil here," said Mr. Healey, "to light every town in the U. S. A. Ain't that a wonderful thought?" "Yes," said Joseph. A tall thin man with a beard was standing on the bridge taking wet photographs of the creek and the flatboats. His enormous equipment stood about him. "That's Mr. Mather," said Mr. Healey. "Takes pictures in five minutes! Ain't that incredible? Five minutes!" "Does he think it's pretty, down there?" asked Joseph. "Prettiest thing you ever saw, boyo! Money!" said Mr. Healey. I must remember that, thought Joseph. I forgot for a few minutes. Your money or your life. He watched the lean black-clad figure of the young man feverishly darting under a black cloth that covered the lens of his camera, which stood on a tall tripod. The surrey rolled on. "Now I'll show you one of my oil wells," said Mr. Healey. They drove out into the countryside, which was, to Joseph, no countryside at all but a raped Eden. Derricks and well houses filled a landscape once placid and silent. Here and there at a distance he could see rich fields filled with black and white cattle, and the shine of a blue pond and meadows with rising corn and clumps of trees. But the air was permeated with the sick and pungent stench of crude oil; smoke, black and oily, poured from the steeples of the well houses which, incongruously, resembled miniature brown churches. The new God, thought Joseph, and oil is His prophet. The white farmhouses had a false tranquillity, as if immune to all this, but Joseph now knew enough to understand that the farmers were equally involved in this havoc, and had connived with it for money.