Captains and The Kings (20 page)

"And it is for sale," said Joseph, pointing out a case which they had just been studying. Mr. Spaulding pursed his large flabby lips. Then he could not help smiling and winking. "To the highest bidder," he said. "See, it is like the Constitution of the United States of America. The Constitution guarantees to the individual States that they have the sacred right to secede from the Union whenever they Desire, and no Hindrance shall be put upon them. But Mr. Lincoln has decided otherwise, for his own reasons, which we hope are Just. We can only Hope. If a President, or the United States Supreme Court, can decide at random what is Constitutional or unconstitutional, to suit their whims or their convictions or their expediency -in spite of express wordage simply and explicitly given in the Constitution -then Law, too, can be decided on the basis of personal convictions and expediency, or whims. One must suit the Law, or the Constitution, to suit the case." "Prologue to chaos," said Joseph. Mr. Spaulding said, "What did you say?" "Nothing," said Joseph. "I was just talking to myself." Mr. Spaulding said, " The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven-blesseth him that gives and him that takes'. The Bible."
"Shakespeare," said Joseph. "Portia. Merchant of Venice." "Smart as paint, aren't you?" said Mr. Spaulding. "I was testing you, dear boy." He gave Joseph a smile of loving malevolence. "Joseph, you and I did not make the Law. Now, any fool can pick up a law book and read what the Law says and what its apparent intention is, but will that stand up in court? No, sir, not always, rarely ever. It is a lawyer's function to convince judge and jury that the Law did not mean exactly that, or perhaps meant even the complete opposite. Only idiots go by a strict interpretation. A wise lawyer can make ducks and drakes out of any law." "The Devil's race," said Joseph. "What's that? I do wish, Joseph, that you would lose that annoying habit of mumbling to yourself. Judges don't like it. To continue: The Law is only what people agree it is, mainly juries, after they have been persuaded by a smart lawyer, though tomorrow they will agree it is something else again when they are in the hands of another lawyer. That is the beauty of Law, Joseph. Its flexibility. The same Law can accuse a man of being a criminal and the very same Law can declare him innocent. It can hang or release in the exact same words. So you must always decide at once what you wish the Law to do for you, and your Client, and convince yourself that that is the only solution. All my Clients," said Mr. Spaulding, "are innocent." Joseph soon discovered in full why Mr. Spaulding was so necessary to Mr. Healey. The evidence was in the files in the locked room. He often found himself sickened at the evidence of collusion between Mr. Healey and Mr. Spaulding and the two local judges. For certain favors the judges owed their elections to Mr. Healey, and Mr. Healey owed considerable to the judges, and all this was presided over by the massive realism of Mr. Spaulding. He once said to Joseph, in a rare moment of vulgarity, "It's a case, dear boy, of you scratching my back, and me scratching yours, and what is wrong with a little proper scratching ,at the right time and in the right place? You can't always reach the itch, yourself, and you need help, and in a way it is Christian reciprocity. Joseph, if we all adhered to the letter of the Law, which I think Christ Himself condemned, there would be precious few of us left free in this world, and very little joy. Or profit." The months went by and Joseph learned in the offices of Mr. Healey and in the richer office of Mr. Spaulding, and what he learned, in spite of himself, made his nature harsher than it was even by birth, and bitterer than he could ever have imagined. More and more he was convinced that as an inhabitant of this world, for which he was not guilty, he must live by its laws and its exigencies if he were to survive and save his family. His last chance for personal happiness winked out and the ponderous darkness settled upon his spirit.
chapter 13
Joseph, out of desperate necessity, had finally been forced to trust the first person, with the exception of his mother, he had ever trusted in his life. It was a trust that was really only partial mistrust, but it had to be risked. He needed to send money to Sister Elizabeth for his brother and sister. He knew that there was only a slight chance that Mr. Squibbs would ever discover that "Scottie" was really an Irishman and that he had a family in St. Agnes's Orphanage, and that through them he could trace the man who had absconded with his money. Still, there was that chance, and life was grotesque enough to permit it, and Joseph dared not risk such Hogarthian jokes. He was saving everything he could, and soon he would have enough for Mr. Squibbs plus interest. In the meantime there was Scan, and Regina, and his unshaken belief that in the event money was not received by Sister Elizabeth they would be separated and adopted, or worse. He considered. Every two months or so Mr. Healey sent Haroun and two older men to Wheatfield to buy equipment for his wells, or other of his enterprises, or to deliver messages. (Mr. Healey did not trust the United States Post Office, nor even the Wells Fargo Express.) Joseph had once suggested that he would not mind such a journey occasionally, himself, but Mr. Healey assured him that his time was too valuable in Titusville. So Joseph had recourse to Haroun, whose dedication to him was frequently embarrassing. ("You've got yourself your own Bill Strick- land, ain't you?" Mr. Healey asked once, with immense amusement.) Joseph wrote a letter to Sister Elizabeth in which he said he sometimes "passed through" Wheatfield on business from Pittsburgh, and he enclosed a full year's payment for his family in gold bills, and extra money for small luxuries for them for the coming Christmas and their birthdays. He added that he was sealing the letter in red wax in three places, and that he'd be obliged if Sister Elizabeth would inform him if the letter had been tampered with and if anything had been taken from the envelope. Then he went to the stables over which Haroun slept and lived in a small hay- scented and manure-pungent room, and Haroun was happy to see him for never before had Joseph visited him here. Joseph sat with the letter in his hand and studied Haroun with the intensity he always gave those he was judging and weighing. He saw the boy's glowing devotion and the wise candor of the huge black eyes. Mr. Healey trusted Haroun to the small extent of the boy's duties, and so did the men with whom he worked in the well houses and in the field. It was as if, to Joseph, he had never seen the boy fully before. He did not often encounter him, and Joseph did not linger for idle conversation on the few occasions he saw him. His indifference to Haroun had not diminished, nor did he think of him for weeks at a time. Had Haroun vanished mysteriously he would have shrugged and forgotten at once. But now he must consider Haroun for Haroun was necessary to him. The boy had lost his starved appearance, due to plain but sufficient food and reasonably comfortable shelter, and a little money. His always hopeful and expectant expression had brightened as his optimism grew. Joseph marveled at the implicit vitality of the boy, the innate exuberance for life, the appetite for living, and the laughter that lay so close to his lips and rarely left his eyes. The crop of thick black curls had become glossy with health, the dusky skin was browner and sleeker, the mouth as red as a girl's and almost always smiling. He looked like a lively cherub though the eyes were hardly angelic. What he did with his small free time was a mystery, to Joseph, who had never thought of it before. Haroun was now sixteen, and still small for his age, but he seemed to vibrate with animation and vigor like a young colt eagerly pawing the green pasture. Haroun suddenly impinged on Joseph's consciousness like a highly colored and unexpected portrait, and he did not like it. But his liking or disliking must not interfere with necessity. Joseph sat on the edge of Haroun's narrow cot and Haroun sat on the wooden crate which was his only chair and which held his few belongings, and in the light of the kerosene lamp Haroun's delight at this visit was embarrassing to the older man. He held the letter to Sister Elizabeth in his hand, and he looked into Haroun's eyes and said, "I want you to mail this letter in Wheatfield tomorrow, when you go there early in the morning." "Yes!" said Haroun, and held out his small brown hand for the letter. But Joseph still held it. Would Haroun ask why it should be posted in Wheatfield? If he did then he could not be intrusted with the posting. But Haroun did not ask. He only waited, his hand still extended. If Joseph wished something it was enough for him, and he almost palpitated with the pleasure of the thought that he would be helping his friend. "You must not let anyone else see this letter," said Joseph."No!" exclaimed Haroun, shaking his curls until they flew. "You will take it to the post office," said Joseph. "And there you will arrange for a postal box for me, Joseph Francis. I will give you the two dollars rent for the year." For the first time Haroun was puzzled. "I do not understand this, about a box," he said. "You must tell me so I can be sure." So Joseph explained and Haroun listened with the older boy's own intensity and concentration, and then Joseph made him repeat the instructions at least twice. Then he gave the letter to Haroun who tied it in a kerchief and stuffed it into the pocket of his only coat. Joseph watched him closely, but the boy showed no curiosity, no slyness, no speculation. He was only happy that Joseph was with him. "How do you like your work for Mr. Healey, Harry?" Joseph asked, not with interest for he could feel none, but he felt that some amenities should be included. "I like it," said Haroun. "I am making money, and isn't that enough?" He laughed and his white teeth shone in the lamplight. "I will soon be a rich man, like Mr. Healey." Joseph could not resist smiling. "And how do you think you'll manage that?" Haroun looked wise. "I save almost all, and when I have enough I will buy a string of tools for myself. One of these days." "Good," said Joseph. He did not see that Haroun had stopped smiling and that he was regarding Joseph with earnest attention as if listening to something that had not been spoken. Joseph looked at the floor and thought, rubbing his foot against some straws on the wood. Then he glanced up at Haroun and was a little confused at the boy's expression, for it was both sad and very mature, the expression of a man who knew all about the world and was not enraged at it but only aware. "Harry, here are two dollars for you, yourself, for doing me this favor." Joseph held out two cartwheels, for one must always pay for what is received or one becomes the lesser, and nothing but money bought loyalty. There was a sudden sharp silence in the little musty room as if someone had slammed a brutal hand on a table in threat or anger. Haroun looked at the money in Joseph's hand but did not take it. His face became absent, averted. Then he said in a very low voice, one Joseph had not heard before, "What have I done to you, Joe, that you insult me, your friend?" Joseph started to reply, then could say nothing. Something moved in the cold stiffness of him, something painful and unfamiliar, something infinitely melancholy and ashamed. He stood up, slowly. He felt a vague anger against Haroun that the boy should touch him so acutely, and presume to call him "friend," a silly incredible word. "I'm sorry," he said in a cold voice. "I didn't mean to offend you, Harry. But you are doing me a great favor, and then-" "And then?" repeated Haroun when Joseph stopped. Joseph moved his head restlessly. "You don't make much money, Haroun. I-I haven't even seen you for a long time. I thought perhaps the money-I thought you could buy something for yourself with it. Call it a present, if you want to, and not payment." Haroun stood up also. His head hardly reached Joseph's chin but he was suddenly endowed with dignity. "Joe," he said, "when you really want to give me a present I'll like it and take it. But you don't want to give me a present now. You want to pay me for doing something for my friend, and friends don't take pay." Joseph felt another unfamiliar emotion-curiosity. "What is the difference between payment and a present, Harry?" Haroun shook his head. "Maybe, sometime, you'll know, Joe. If you don't ever, then don't try to give me money." Joseph could find nothing more to say and so he turned and went down the ladder to the warm dark stables and heard the stamping and the snufflings of the horses, and he went out into the cold night and stood for several minutes on the packed clay of the ground and did not see anything at all. "Nothing like a good war for prosperity!" said Mr. Healey to Mr. Mont- rose, showing him an advance cheque on a British bank for delivery of four thousand eight-chamber repeating rifles which had been manufactured by Barbour & Bouchard, quite illegally, considering that the British owned the patent entirely at present. (Barbour & Bouchard, munitions makers in Pennsylvania, were quite realistic about the "temporary appropriation" of the patent, as they also had a large interest in Robsons and Strong, British munitions makers, who did own the patent. It was only a matter of time until amicable arrangements would be made, which could not now be made in view of the War between the States and the blockade against all ships, mainly British, which Washington had promulgated.) No name was issued on the British bank draft, but Mr. Healey quite understood. The rifles were to be delivered to a small unbusy port in lower Virginia, where Mr. Healey had done business in some trifles before, none of which would have received the hearty approval either of the police or the Federal military. "And this is just the beginning," added Mr. Healey with satisfaction. "What's four thousand rifles? Hardly a flea bite. Of course, Barbour & Bouchard are doing their own gun-running and arrangements with the Confederacy, and making millions. Maybe they want to be generous and let me and other small fry make an honest dollar." He chuckled. "And perhaps," said the elegant Mr. Montrose, "Barbour & Bouchard are testing us to see if we can be entirely trusted with the gun-running, and perhaps they have heard that so far we have been discreet and bold enough to do other running to the Confederacy of contraband, without being caught once." "Knock wood," said Mr. Healey. "And that means that B&B, if we do this right, will have more work for us. Sure, and that it is." He puffed on his cigar, thoughtfully. "When I was younger I did a bit of blackbirding in my time. After all, the black savages were better treated and fed here than in their jungles, where they were the slaves of their cannibal chiefs. Still and all, it came to me at last that they were human, too, and I was brought up a strict Catholic and it went against the grain. I regretted the money, but there's things a man can't always force himself to do." Barbour & Bouchard sold the eight-chamber repeating rifles in enormous quantities to the Federal Government in Washington. Whether or not the four thousand rifles now waiting in New York in a discreet warehouse -the boxes labeled machine parts-were rifles stolen by interested parties from the Federal allotment, or whether Barbour & Bouchard had delivered those weapons themselves to that warehouse, was something Mr. Healey would not have dreamed of speculating about. That would have been uncivil, ungrateful, unrealistic, and unworthy of a businessman. Besides, the bank draft was solely for successful delivery and demanded no investment of Mr. Healey beyond the lives or liberty of his agents. Nevertheless, one had to be careful in choosing those agents. "It is time to break young Francis in," said Mr. Montrose. "I have kept my counsel for two years about him, giving him only temperate commendations to you, but now I am certain not only were you completely correct about him in the beginning but that he has improved so he is, himself, a formidable weapon, or henchman, or whatever you may wish to call him. My trust is rarely given in full, but I think we can trust young Mr. Francis to the utmost-so long as we continue to pay him well and he can pick our brains." "Um," said Mr. Healey. He considered the ash on his cigar as he and Mr. Montrose sat in his study over brandy. "Perhaps it is right you are. I sent him to Corland to buy up some leases, but before he went he said to me, 'Mr. Healey, I want to buy some leases on my own, and next to the leases you want. I do not yet have the money. Would you lend me two thousand dollars?' "Well, sir, I thought that was mighty cool on the part of the spalpeen, whom I pay forty dollars a week now-under duress, you might say." Mr. Healey smiled, but not with annoyance. "Mighty cool. Twenty dollars a week to be returned from his pay, with six percent interest. Well, sir, I did." "I know," said Mr. Montrose. Mr. Healey was not surprised. What Mr. Montrose did not know was of the very least significance. "I had a small talk with him," Mr. Montrose said. He preferred narrow and scented cheroots to the thick and robust cigars Mr. Healey favored. "No, he did not tell me of the loan. I said to him, 'All leases, to be legal, must be in your full and correct name in the courthouse, or later-er, scoundrels-might dispute the matter.' I like the young man, and wished to help him and prevent him from doing himself a grave mischief. He appeared somewhat disturbed at this. To make certain he visited the courthouse himself. He trusts no one, and that is in itself commendable. Apparently he discovered that I had given him correct information." Mr. Healey sat up. "Yes? And what is his correct name?" Mr. Healey knew Mr. Montrose too well to question how he had come by the information. "Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh. That is a strange name." "A high-nosed Irish name!" said Mr. Healey, delighted. "County Armagh. Not your County Mayo or Cork or such. High-nosed. Damn me if I don't have a lordship working for me! I always knew it." Mr. Montrose, as an aristocratic Southerner of Scots-Irish stock-he was related to the Carrolls-was a little impressed, though not too much, as he was an Episcopalian born. "Lots of Protestants, though, in County Armagh, and among the Armaghs," said Mr. Healey with unusually prejudiced feeling. "Got a feeling, though, that Joe's not a Protestant." "No, he isn't," said Mr. Montrose, smiling slightly. "As you know, the court records demand to know a man's baptismal name as well as the name he is-ah-assuming for various reasons, and where he was baptised. Young Joseph was baptised in St. Bridget's Church in Carney, Ireland. His writing was