Captains and The Kings (19 page)

Chapter 12
Joseph discovered that Mr. Healey had been somewhat modest about his holdings and activities and financial worth and prospects. He had hinted that his main interests were in Titusville, but Joseph found that Titusville was merely his base of operations and that he preferred not to conduct his business in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia because of a certain stringency on the part of the police and political enemies. However, his operations in Titusville were only a small part of his affairs. In Titusville he could protect himself from impertinent investigations with the aid of the men he employed. He also "owned" the sheriff and the latter's deputies, something he could not do in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia where the thieves were bigger than himself and had greater financial resources even than his. Yet his fortunes came from Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, and even from New York and Boston. "Everything is organization, wit and an eye for opportunity, Irish," he would say to Joseph, and Joseph soon understood that this was a profound truth. In most ways he was typically Irish, but not an Irish which Joseph knew, which was reserved, cold, restrained, melancholy, powerfully but secretly emotional, aristocratic, disdainful, proud, unforgiving, unrelenting, austere, "high-nosed," poetic and reluctantly mystical. Mr. Healey understood, if humorously resenting, Joseph's Irishness, but Joseph could never accept Mr. Healey's kind of Irishness which he considered vulgar, ostentatious, demeaning, and noisy. Mr. Healey's steel files were kept in a room next to his "suite of offices," as he called the dirty and dingy rooms he rented, or owned. There were bars on the windows here, too. There was a cot with blankets. In this room each man in his employ slept for two nights a month, or at least dozed, with pistols and a shotgun. Mr. Healey dealt with banks in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, and with a new one in Titusville, but he always kept a large sum in gold in the enormous iron and steel safe in that central arsenal in his offices. His men had orders to shoot to kill any intruder, and this was known well in the township. Each of his men was an expert marksman, and practiced in the country at frequent intervals. Joseph was not exempt. His immediate mentor, Mr. Montrose, was his teacher, and Mr. Montrose reported to Mr. Healey that "that boy has an eye like a hawk, and never missed from the beginning." "Never mind the law if you should shoot somebody trying to get into this room," Mr. Montrose said to Joseph who had proffered the suggestion. "Mr. Healey is the law hereabouts. Besides, it's legal to kill a thief on your own property. Or maybe you don't like the idea of killing?" Joseph thought of the desperate and murderous and bloody battles between his people and the English military, and he said, "I have no objection to killing. I just wanted to be sure that I wouldn't be hanged if I did it." "Careful, aren't you?" asked Mr. Montrose, but not with ridicule or rancor. "Only a fool is careless and doesn't know the odds before he acts." Joseph soon learned that Mr. Healey despised rashness and impulsive actions, and as he disapproved of them himself he cultivated his native cautiousness. None of the men knew the history of his companions, and none confided in anyone. It was obvious, however, from their accents that they had come from various sections of the country. Mr. Montrose had a soft deep-South accent, was courtly of speech and had gentle natural manners. He was also the most deadly of Mr. Healey's men, in spite of his Cavalier appearance, his fascinating voice, his air of polite consideration, and his unfailing civility and the unmistakable signs of superior breeding. He was always urbane and elegant and quietly patrician, so Joseph guessed that he had come of a family of gentlemen and had chosen to be a rascal either out of sudden poverty or innate inclination. He guessed the latter. Mr. Montrose's allusions were the allusions of a well-educated man, and not the absurd pretensions of a vulgarian. He was a man about thirty-eight and very tall and slender with graceful postures and movements. He dressed expensively, but with taste. Joseph thought of the ginger cat which his grandmother had owned in Ireland, or, rather, who had owned her in the way of cats. Mr. Montrose had light ginger-colored hair and wide yellow eyes and dainty if effective mannerisms. His face was long and creamily pale and unreadable in its expressions, and his nose was almost delicately fine and his mouth handsome with its good teeth. He was rarely known to frown or to raise his voice or to speak insultingly or to show anger. His attitude was disciplined yet Strangely tolerant. A man might make a mistake once, but only once. If more than that Mr. Montrose was his enemy. Joseph found something military about him though Mr. Montrose smilingly denied that he had ever been in the Army. However, Joseph did not quite believe this. Authority and discipline over self and others came from command, and' ''* Mr. Montrose, in spite of his elegance, was commanding. His companions respected him and feared him, and he was their superior. They knew that he was even more ruthless and lethal than themselves. They remembered two of their number who had inexplicably disappeared from one day to another in the recent past and Mr. Montrose had expressed no surprise. The two were soon replaced. For Mr. Healey all the men had devotion. Joseph had at first thought they only feared him, but Mr. Montrose enlightened him. "The man they fear and detest and who is the subject of their nightmares is not Mr. Healey, who is a considerate gentleman," Mr. Montrose told Joseph. "They know he is human as they are human themselves, and is frequently sentimental. They trust him. Certainly, they will avoid any opportunity to annoy him-for various reasons. Their real hate and fear, is Bill Strickland, the white trash with the soul of a tiger." (It was the first time that Joseph had heard the term "white trash," but he understood it at once.) "Bill Strickland," Mr. Montrose continued, with the first glare Joseph had ever seen in his eyes, "is atavistic. He is mindless, as you have possibly observed yourself, Mr. Francis. He is a living and murderous weapon and Mr. Healey holds the trigger. There is something in mankind, Mr. Francis, which is horrified at primeval wildness and unthinking savagery, no matter how contemptible a man is, himself, or how despicable and conscienceless. If men have enemies, they know that those enemies are impelled by something they, themselves, can understand, for are we not all men? But creatures like Bill Strickland are outside humanity, and are incapable of even the most distorted reason. They kill impersonally without malice or enmity or rage-and that is something other men cannot comprehend. They kill like swords or cannon or guns-at the pull of the trigger of the man who owns them. They ask no questions. They do not even demand money for their slaughter. They simply-are. Do you understand me?" "Yes," said Joseph. "Is he an idiot, or feebleminded?" Mr. Montrose smiled, showing his excellent teeth. "I have told you: He is an atavism. Once, I have read, all men were like that, before they became fully men, homo sapiens. The alarming thing is that their number is not small. You will find them among the mercenaries, and you will even find them in the best of families. You will find them everywhere, though frequently they are disguised as men." Mr. Montrose smoked reflectively. "I have never feared any man in my life. But I confess to fearing Bill Strickland-if he is behind my back. He makes my flesh crawl." "And Mr. Healey employs him." Mr. Montrose laughed, and touched Joseph lightly on his shoulder. "Mr. Francis, he employs him as men employ guards or guns. He is a weapon. If Mr. Healey carried a pistol you would not fault him, would you? You would say he is a man careful of his safety. Mr. Healey does not carry a pistol. He has Bill Strickland." "Why is such a creature devoted to Mr. Healey?" Mr. Montrose shrugged. "Ask that of a dog, Mr. Francis, who has a good master." It came as a mortifying shock to Joseph, who had reached his conclusions about Bill Strickland through his own reason and observation and the conversation with Mr. Montrose, that young Haroun Zieff knew all about Bill by pure and artless instinct. Yet Haroun was the only one of Mr. Healey's entourage who felt no mystic horror of the man or instinctive revulsion and loathing. "I'd never cross him, and I'd stay away from his muzzle," he told Joseph. His great black eyes shone with a light that Joseph could not interpret. "But I wouldn't run away from him. You don't do that-with a jackal." For the first time Joseph encountered the quiet courage and peculiar ferocity of the desert-born, though he did not recognize it as such at that time. "Don't you ever be afraid of him, Joe. I'm here, your friend." Joseph had laughed, his brief cynical laugh which was only the slightest sound. For the first time he was unpleasantly aware that he was beginning to trust Haroun, who now answered to the name of "Harry." To trust was to betray one's self. He tried repeatedly to mistrust Haroun, to find occasions when the boy was ambiguous and devious, or to catch a look in his eye that would reveal the general malice of men. He never found them. He did not know whether to be relieved and touched, or vexed. Haroun now occupied a small but comfortable room over Mr. Healey's stables. His wounds had healed, though sometimes he limped. He never complained. He accepted life with high-heartedness and a simple wisdom which was beyond Joseph's capabilities. He was never resentful nor grudging. He gave largely of himself and his big glowing smiles, and his native merriment. He appeared to trust everyone, and to take them to himself, which was deceptive. He had his secret thoughts, but never betrayed the more somber of them except to Joseph, who, startled, would stare, and this would make Haroun burst out laughing-another thing which baffled Joseph. "You are never serious," he said once to Haroun, to which the boy answered, "I am always serious." It was not for many years that Joseph began to realize that Haroun was subtile and not to be understood completely by the Western mind. Haroun was proud, but it was not the pride of Joseph Armagh. It had something of the Spaniard about it: a point of honor. Mr. Healey, on Joseph's insistence, paid Haroun ten dollars a week to haul nitroglycerin from the depot in Titusville to the deeper-drilled wells. Mr. Healey had looked with smiling meditation at Joseph. "Now, then, your lordship is very concerned with the vassals-is that the word?-all at once. Are you not the one who told me that Harry was nothing to you, and that you wished to be rid of him? Yet now you say 'a laborer is worthy of his hire.' Irish, you are a conundrum." "If you hire Haroun, he must not be robbed, as he has been robbed all his life."
"It's the soft Irish heart in you that makes you say that?" "Mr. Healey, Harry could get that much money from other drillers. Do you want to keep him? If not, I'll tell him to go. Why should he not make as much money for such dangerous work as other men do?" "So, it's fairness, is it?" "Fairness has nothing to do with it. Money has." Mr. Healey smoked for a few moments. Then he said, "Irish, you are not as tough as you believe you are, I am thinking. You've got wounds, you have, and they don't heal, so you stand guard over them with your pistol cocked for fear of them bleeding again. Boyo, every man has his wounds, even me. And that explains a lot about human nature which the .Religious don't know about. When you talk about 'fairness' to Harry, you are thinking about yourself, and damn me if I don't think that explains the saints, too!" He was elated with his sudden intuition and insisted on Joseph joining him, in the study, for a glass of brandy. "Yes, sir," he said, "a man don't want something for somebody else unless he thinks of himself in the same hole. Drink up, Irish. Life's not as sour as you think it is. At your age! Damn me, but I was a fine cockerel when I was eighteen, and not a monk like you!" That had been ten months ago. Haroun was now earning eighteen dollars a week and Joseph-who did not consider it surprising though his associates did-was receiving thirty-eight dollars a week. In a town where a doctor or a lawyer felt affluent if his earnings were thirty-five dollars a Week this was remarkable. Joseph paid Mr. Healey five dollars a week for his board, something which Mr. Healey found hilarious though Joseph could see no occasion for amusement. He put his savings in the bank. He would not have spent money on clothing had not Mr. Healey been insistent. "I'll have no ragged beggars working for me!" So he dressed somberly and plainly and cleanly. Not for him the ruffled shirts of the men in the offices or the rich jewelry. He wore modest clothing of a dark cut, unbe- decked white shirts and a cheap watch across his lean middle. His boots were inexpensive but polished. His russet hair might be shorter than was fashionable but it was well-barbered. His changes of pantaloons and waistcoats were fewer, but the clothing was meticulous and spare. He was never to have the easy grace of his father, but he did have something of Mr. Montrose's obvious discipline of movement and economy of words. He was invariably grave and unsmiling, and sleeplessly industrious and aware. Mr. Healey, regarding him covertly, often nodded to himself. But he could not understand Joseph's joylessness. The saints know, Mr. Healey would think, I've had as rough a road as this young spalpeen, but it never took away my appetite and my enjoyment in living. There's fury in this boyo, I'm thinking, but the fury will never get in the way of what he wants. It'll only kindle it higher. In an effort to awaken Joseph's joy in living-which Mr. Healey fully believed lay latent in every man-he gave Joseph a silver token which would admit him to any brothel he desired in Titusville, and to the prettiest girl, and at no cost. "I've got the handsomest wenches in the whole Commonwealth," he said. "Never one over sixteen, youngest about twelve. Farm-fed, rich with butter and cream, plump as doves. Makes a man smack his lips. They know all the tricks. I've got madams who teach 'em. No gutter drabs in my houses! All clean and scented and healthy, and not cheap. You go and have a good time, boyo." "No," said Joseph. Mr. Healey frowned. "You ain't got a hankering for-? No, reckon not, though you never can tell. Well, you're only nineteen still. Hell, they say that's the hottest time. Think so, myself. Couldn't stay away from the wenches, when I was eighteen, nineteen. Just about used myself up." He chuckled. "You keep that token. One of these days, you damned monk, you, you'll look at it, spit on it, and polish it, and off you'll go just like everybody else." On three nights a week after supper at five o'clock, Joseph went to the office of Mr. James Spaulding, a lawyer whom Mr. Healey "owned." He also spent two hours on Saturday afternoon there, and half a day on Sunday. Here he studied law with Mr. Spaulding as his teacher. Mr. Spaulding was a man to whom the word "creamy" could be most aptly applied. He was as tall as Joseph, but pleasantly massive though not fat. Not one of his expressions was sincere, except avarice. He was fifty years old and kept his long, waving gray hair dyed a rich chestnut, and it flowed to his nape. He was clean-shaven; his features were big and somewhat rubbery, which gave them their mobility. There was nothing edgy, awkward, abrupt or combative about Mr. Spaulding, and no one, not even liis wife and his wenches, ever guessed his true nature. Blanc Mange, thought Joseph on first seeing him, remembering his mother's pale bland I pudding which quivered slightly when moved and had no character or no emphatic taste. He almost immediately revised his opinion, and for Joseph to revise his opinion was an event that was deeply disturbing to himself, for it lowered him in his own rigid estimation. Mr. Spaulding had a large face in proportion with his bodily measurements, the face of a blackguard or a successful politician, and his eyes were the same color as his hair. His expression was one of composed amiability and sweetness, enhanced by a tender smile and a deep dimple in his chin and one in his left cheek. His voice was velvety and rich, like warm chocolate, and resounding and even musical, never grating, never quickened, never hostile even to the most recalcitrant. He invariably wore black and gray-striped pantaloons, nicely cut, a long black coat, a shirt with a wide soft white collar, and black silk cravats fastened with one pearl pin of impressive size. Always suave, always considerate and polite, always deferential, speaking in periods, always sympathetic and conciliatory and attentive, he was a most dangerous and clever man. Truth to him was an uncivilized attribute and a gentleman never used it if a colorful lie could be used instead, and he had no honor and no principles and was always for hire. He knew law thoroughly and had a memory which none could surpass. He admired but two categories of men: the very rich who could pay well and so had power, and the intelligent. This did not mean that he liked them. Mr. Spaulding never liked anyone but himself and love was a word he used only in the courtroom to move "the jackasses" to tears and a favorable verdict. His opinion of judges was little less unflattering. If they could be bought he respected them. If they could not be bought he despised them. He had two sons who lived in Philadelphia, and were as unscrupulous as himself. They sought his advice on the most difficult cases-and paid well for the advice. Mr. Spaulding was not one for family feeling, nor were his sons. They were very successful but they did not make, together, half the money Mr. Spaulding made in Tirusville, and Mr. Spaulding's interests were not confined to Law. (He spoke in capitals.) He and Mr. Healcy were as much friends as two such men could possibly be. There was a symbiosis between them. When Mr. Healey brought Joseph to him Mr. Spaulding thought, What's the old bastard up to behind my back? He smiled happily and gave Joseph a warm and meaty hand to shake and made his eyes shine .paternally. "Jim," said Mr. Healey, "this here boyo is Joseph Francis, he calls himself. Good enough moniker if he likes it. Ain't in no trouble with the police; no one's looking for him. Teaching him my business. Mr. Montrose thinks he's right smart and no fool. So I thought, seeing he's learning to handle my business, he ought to learn law, too, and who's better to teach law than old Jim, I said to meself." Mr. Spaulding had long wanted to "handle" Mr. Healey's business, and so had one of his sons. Mr. Spaulding's smile grew wider and more glistening, and fonder as he studied this raw youth in his plain clothing. Was old Ed getting senile? Then Mr. Spaulding remembered that Mr. Healey was a considerable number of years his junior. He wafted the two visitors to two of the six black leather chairs in his office, sat down behind his mahogany desk, folded his hands as if preparing to pray, and suffused his face with love and attention. His office was large and warm in the October chill, and a fire rustled briskly in the grate of the black marble fireplace. There were several worthy Currier-Ives prints on his paneled walls, and a noble view of the distant gaudy hills-resplendent in autumn fire-through his wide window. It was a brilliant day with a sky like blue polished enamel. "Sharp as horse-radish, this boyo," said Mr. Healey. "That's what Mr. Montrose says." "No one," said Mr. Spaulding in a middle-octave organ note, "has a higher respect for Mr. Montrose's opinion than I have. No indeedy." He wore a signet ring and a watch chain and everything about him was decorous, solid, and reliable. Sunlight lay on his imposing wall of law books and on his deep crimson thick rug. His fingernails, broad but shallow, were faintly tinted pink and shone with buffing. What the hell? he thought and looked more closely at Joseph, who was scrutinizing him in turn. This took Mr. Spaulding aback somewhat. He was not accustomed to strangers, and especially callow strangers, studying him coldly and showing no signs of being impressed with his office or his person. Joseph suddenly seemed hostile, to him, and this was sheer impudence. Who did the young rat think he was, to stare at James Spaulding in such a cynical fashion? Weighing him, by God! Looking him up and down as if he were a houseman humbly searching for a job! Mr. Spaulding did not like small sunken blue eyes, and particularly not these with the darker spark glittering in their depths. He did not like reddish hair on a man, nor freckles, nor stark pallor which hinted at an uncomfortable asceticism. A sharpie, thought Mr. Spaulding, city scum picked up from God knows where by this fool of a Healey. Perhaps a wood's colt, Mr. Spaulding's thoughts continued, and he smiled benignly at Joseph who did not smile in response. Joseph thought, An actor, a smooth criminal, a liar and a thief, and never to be trusted for one instant. Mr. Healey leaned back expansively in his chair. "He can come couple of nights, and time on Saturdays and Sundays. Teach him fast, Jim, and you'll not regret it. Criminal law, and such. And a lot about politics. Aim to make him governor some day," and Mr. Healey grinned. "Could use a governor in my business." A sum was named, hands were shaken, cigars passed, and little glasses of brandy. Joseph accepted his glass and sipped at it slowly, watching Mr. Spaulding openly or covertly as his rapid thoughts continued. Mr. Spaulding in his turn watched Joseph, and all at once he said to himself, aghast, This one's meaner than a rattlesnake! Mr. Spaulding was shaken as he had not been shaken for many years. He reconsidered Joseph and now it seemed to him that Joseph was not a callow youth but an aged and powerful man, crusted with experience and knowledge as a rock is crusted with shells. It was incredible! This impression did not diminish when Joseph became his student. Joseph seemed not to enjoy the study of law, but he pursued that study with intense concentration as a means to an end, and this Mr. Spaulding guessed almost at once. Then Mr. Spaulding acquired a hating respect for the youth, for Joseph's mind raced but not with immoderation or facility. He seized a problem in law, as it were, with his teeth and shook it until it gave up its solution, and often that solution had not occurred to Mr. Spaulding, himself. His memory was apparently as prodigious as Mr. Spaulding's own. Once he said to Joseph, "It is not what the Law says that is important. It is how it is interpreted, how it is used-" "Yes," said Joseph. "Law is a harlot." Mr. Spaulding cleared his throat and assumed a shocked expression. "Hardly that, dear boy, hardly that. No indeedy. But the Law, it has been said, is a blunt Instrument. One must learn to soften its Blows or turn them aside, if possible."