Captains and The Kings (22 page)

irony of the Irish-interested him and pleased him, as one would be interested and pleased by a ballet full of grace, gauzy gestures, pirouettes, and collected harmony. Having read much of Machiavelli himself, Joseph found Macaulay's treatise somewhat heavy and pedantic, though Macaulay had indeed suspected that Machiavelli's gravest advice to princes was given with tongue in cheek. But Machiavelli's dancing-eyed mockery was not Joseph's, for Joseph understood, himself, that his own mockery of men and life came from hatred and pain while Machiavelli's came from sophisticated amusement. Joseph was well aware that he could never laugh at the world. To be the total ironist one had to possess that gift no matter what wounds lay under the laughter. To be a Machiavelli, then, with plots and counterplots, one had to be objective, not an objectivity that came from uninterest, as in his own case, but the objectivity of a man at once apart from the world and subjectively involved in it. Only a few months ago the Union troops under Rosecrans had forced the Southern "rebels" to retreat after the Battle of Murfreesboro. Mr. Lincoln, in January of this year, had issued the Emancipation Proclamation, and a few weeks later the Union had passed a draft law which had resulted in many bloody riots throughout the North. Burnside's Union Army had been almost annihilated at Fredericksburg. The Union, though grief-stricken at the death of its sons, was engaged in merry moneymaking and a war prosperity which elated almost everyone. There were constant bands, exhortations, the movement of troops and excitement in the Union, and particularly in Pennsylvania so near to the field of battle. Yet to Joseph Armagh they were events that had been taking place, and were taking place, on Arcturus and engaged his interest not at all. He was not even a citizen of the United States of America nor did he consider the possibility of becoming so. If he thought of the situation in the most passing way it was with the thought that he was an alien in this world and its affairs were not his affairs, and that he had no country and no allegiances. He got up from his rocking chair for a moment to throw a new handful of coals on the fire. He sat down and opened his book and saw the last letter from Sister Elizabeth, dated ten days ago. He opened it and reread it. She thanked him for the money for Scan and Regina, who were now boasting that they had a rich man for a brother, and their teachers had warned them of the sin of pride, Sister Elizabeth added with a touch of humor. Scan still remained of a "delicate constitution, not, perhaps, physically, but of a too intense sensibility found very rarely in a lad and not approved by the other Sisters." Regina, as always, was somewhat too quiet but still "an angel, devoted to prayer, modesty, gentleness, and a sweet demeanor, a true daughter of the Blessed Mother." Joseph frowned. He stared at the carefully written pages for a moment before continuing. Sister Elizabeth went on to relate, with sadness, of public buildings being turned into hasty hospitals to accommodate the desperately wounded and dying soldiers, and of the Sisters' service in those hospitals, nursing, tending, feeding, comforting, praying, sustaining, the washing of wounds and the writing of letters to mothers and wives. "We are hard-pressed," wrote the nun, "but we thank Our Lord for this opportunity to serve Him and to console the dying and to sustain the living. Trains arrive daily with their burdens of the wounded and the suffering, and the ladies of Winfield give of their money, their hearts and their helping hands. Rich or poor, all divisions are forgotten in these dire times, and we are but servants of the suffering, and we are not concerned whether they are of the Union or the Confederate armies. Captured Confederate physicians work nobly side by side with their Union brothers, to save as many of the young boys as possible, and they toil in their uniforms and there are no reproaches, no cruel glances, no quarrels. Truly it has been said that in the presence of pain and despair all men are brothers, though sadly they are not brothers in health and prosperity and happiness. That is a most mysterious and fatal flaw in human nature. Ah, if this wicked war would but end, and peace be restored! So we all pray, Union or Confederate, and our little church at Mass is filled every day with the Gray and the Blue kneeling side by side and receiving Holy Communion together! Yet tomorrow, restored to health and their respective armies, tiiey will seek to kill each other. Never was there a holy war, Joseph, never a just war, despite all the slogans and the banners. But men love war and though they deny it vehemently, as I hear daily, it is rooted in their Nature, alas." She added, "If you can, say five Hail Marys a day for the souls of the sick and dying, for I cannot believe, in my heart, that you have totally forgotten" Joseph had sent her ten dollars extra in his last letter and in accordance with his request Sister Elizabeth had sent him a daguerreotype of Sean and one of Mary Regina, somewhat highly colored, by hand, by the photographer. But not even the too-florid and vivid touches could conceal the smiling and poetic face of Sean Armagh, overly sensitive and refined, and the shining gaze and immaculate countenance of Regina, fragile yet exquisitely strong and softly ardent. It was the face of Moira Armagh, yet not her face, for there had been a sweet and tender earthiness in Moira. There was no earthiness in Regina's luminous eyes, blue and fearless, nor in the carving of her nose and the firm innocence of her beautiful child's mouth. In contrast, Sean was another Daniel Armagh, full of grace and light and hopeful merriment. Sean was now almost thirteen, his sister, seven. It was the portrait of Regina that held Joseph's attention, though the dark and suppressed pain always struck at him in spite of self-discipline even at the thought of her. He studied the black glossiness of her long curls, the smoothness of her white forehead, the blue large stillness of her eyes between her golden lashes and for some reason Joseph was suddenly frightened as if by some foreboding undefined by his consciousness, and formless. He forced himself to look at the likeness of Sean and tried to feel the old bitter resentment he had felt for his father. All at once-and he was incredulous at the thought-he believed that he would always have to protect Sean but that Regina was beyond his protection and had no need of it. What nonsense, he thought with some anger. I will make a man of my brother if I have to kill him doing it, but Regina will always need me, my darling, my sister. He went to his coat which hung with his other few items of clothing in the rosewood wardrobe and brought out his leather pocketbook and he put the portraits of his brother and his sister in one side and tried, with sternness, to control the sudden turbulence of his foolish thoughts. He returned to his chair and gloomily studied the fire, then reread the final page of Sister Elizabeth's letter. "Among our dearest and most devoted helpers is Mrs. Tom Hennessey, the wife of our senator. So kind and gracious a lady, so dedicated and tireless! Sometimes she brings her little girl, Bernadette, to our orphanage, for you cannot instill too soon a spirit of charity and love and kindness in a Child, and Bernadette, a most charming Child, is as thoughtful as her mother and brings gifts to the Little Ones who have no one to remember them. She and Mary Regina have become friends, for all Mary Regina's natural reserve and reticence, and it is well for Mary Regina to have so blithe a spirit sometimes near her, for she is often too grave. I have often heard Mary Regina laugh, her quiet little laugh, and it is music to my heart. We love her dearly." His first vexed thought when he had originally read this letter was to command Sister Elizabeth to keep his sister from the daughter of Senator Hennessey, that corrupt man. But his realism soon convinced him that his real impulse was jealousy, and he was mortified. Still, he could not suppress that jealousy, for Regina was his own and she belonged only to him, and the very thought that others saw her when he could not was misery to him. He had not seen her for several years, but he wrote her a small note to be enclosed in his letters to Sister Elizabeth, and he never once thought of writing to Sean though Sean wrote to him. Looking at the fire now he said to himself that time was growing short and that when he returned from his mission he would go on business for Mr. Healey to Pittsburgh and have another conversation with the man he had met there. Having decided this, he picked up his book of essays, closed his mind to all other thoughts, and read. The carved clock below in the hall struck one, two and then three, and the fire died down and the room became cold and Joseph still read. Mr. Healey did not come to his offices the next day as was his usual custom. Nor had he been present at breakfast with Joseph. Little Liza timidly informed Joseph, on his indifferent question that no, Mr. Healey was not sick. He had but gone to the depot to meet an Important Personage who would be a guest in this house for a few days, a very Important Personage. No, she did not know his name.
(Joseph had not asked.) But Miz Murray said that before she, Liza, had come here the Personage had been a frequent visitor, though now Mr. Healey visited him instead. As Liza sounded somewhat breathless at the honor about to be bestowed on this household, Joseph glanced up at the girl and saw that she was quite flushed with importance and that her color made her plainness attractive and even appealing. She was barely sixteen now but her slightness, her immature figure, her air of old starvation and remembered cruelty and her chronic fear, still gave her the look of an abused child. She had thin but bright light brown hair under the oversized mobcap, and there was something clean and touching about her, and her shy smile had the poignancy of unforgettable suffering. Her eyes were big and brown though they had a tendency to flutter between their lashes. Miss Emmy came yawning into the dining room, her pretty hair rolling down her back, her naughty eyes heavy as if with recalled and recent pleasure. She wore a morning gown of deep blue velvet laced with cherry ribbons and her face bloomed though her glance at Joseph was old and wise and teasing. She touched him lightly on the shoulder as she passed him on the way to her chair, and he drank his coffee hastily in preparation for departure. Miss Emmy saw this, and was amused. One of these days, she promised herself, he would forget to be indifferent and uninterested. Had she not already driven him to a brothel? At least that had been her conjecture when Mr. Healey had boisterously confided in her. She was becoming somewhat impatient. She had but to glance at other men to cause them to lick their lips and shift their pantaloons, but this one looked at her as if she did not really exist. She told herself that she was not fooled. He rarely, now, replied to her most pointed remarks, and that was an excellent sign. Sagacious in the ways of men, she hummed softly under her breath as Liza served her, and when Joseph almost fell over his chair in his haste to leave the room she nearly burst out laughing. The next moment she pettishly but painfully slapped Liza's hand when the girl poured her coffee a little too fast. The April morning had suddenly turned warm and balmy, and Joseph put his greatcoat over his arm, and then settled his tall sober hat over his brows. Mrs. Murray came into the hall and said in her detesting and sullen fashion that he was not to go to Mr. Spaulding's office tonight but to return to this house at half-past four. There was a Visitor and lateness on Joseph's part would be uncivil if not unpardonable. Joseph said nothing, and did not acknowledge this message from Mr. Healey. He ran down the steps outside and began to walk rapidly. Mrs. Murray stood in the doorway and watched him, and her face took on its usual gray malevolent look when she encountered the young man. Joseph knew that she hated him, but did not ask himself why, and he knew that Bill Strickland, in his mindless way, was also aware of him and hated him also. But Joseph had encountered too much hatred in his life to be concerned at this, in Mr. Healey's house. He accepted unmotivated malice as part of human existence. After Mrs. Murray shut the door, muttering in a malign undertone, she went upstairs to her daily task before Liza or the other little maid began theirs. She entered Joseph's room and carefully and quickly searched every drawer in his commode, deftly opened the locked desk with a similar key and started at encountering within the drawer a thick sheaf of gold notes and a new pistol and a box of ammunition. "Ahah!" she cried aloud. Then to her immense disappointment she saw Mr. Healey's handwriting on the band which held the notes and the words, Joe Francis. She relocked the drawer and her thick whitish lips moved in and out surlily and with resentment. Mr. Healey should have told her last night. She moved to the wardrobe and searched every pocket lingeringly, and felt every seam, hoping for some evidence which would convince Mr. Healey that his protege" was a thief or perhaps a murderer, or some other kind of criminal. Diligently, she ran her hand over the tops of books, almost praying for a forgotten and incriminating letter. She shook Joseph's book of essays which he had left on his bedside table. She turned up the mattress and felt between it and the bed boards, then looked hopefully under the bed itself. She felt the pillows, examined the seams for an entrance. She lifted the corners of the rug, felt behind the one large picture on the wall which depicted a pale woodland scene. She examined the backing. She searched behind the draperies at the window, and at the window ledge on top. All this was familiar to her and she searched deftly. More and more disappointed- though she was positive that on one of these days she would uncover some baleful proof of her intuition regarding Joseph-she glanced down into the cold fireplace. Aha, he had burned another letter, as he had burned others, the sly cunning fox! She crouched fatly and with difficulty on the hearth and turned the black flakes over with the poker. Her breath stopped when she found a torn piece which had been only charred at the edges, a small but clear piece with chaste writing upon it. Snatching up the scrap she read it: "Sister Elizabeth." So, he had a sister, had he, hidden away probably in jail, or perhaps in a brothel. Yet he had told poor, trusting Mr. Healey that he had no kin! Men did not conceal the existence of blameless sisters or deny that they possessed any. The drab had been kept out of sight, though she probably advised and guided her brother into plots and schemes and infamy. Why, they could be conspiring together at this very minute to rob and murder Mr. Healey in his bed! Why else would a man hide such a relative? Trembling with triumph and joy she carefully wrapped the scrap of paper in her kerchief and rumbled rapidly out of the room. She met Miss Emmy in the hall and abruptly came to a halt. Miss Emmy smiled at her bewitchingly. "Anything found today?" she asked. Mrs. Murray said in a surly voice, "I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Emmy. I was just making certain that the girls do not fault their cleaning." Then she could not contain herself. "I always knew he was a sly deep one, probably a thief or a murderer! I did find part of a letter he had burned, but he overlooked this! See it!" She gave the scrap to Miss Emmy who examined it curiously. Then the girl laughed and returned it. She said, "Why, Mr. Francis is Irish and a Catholic, Mr. Healey told me, and 'Sister Elizabeth' is probably a nun! He'd know them, just as Mr. Healey knows some in Pittsburgh. He even sends them money at Christmas for orphanages and such." Seeing Mrs. Murray's bloated face becoming grayer and grayer with frustration, and her eyes blinking rapidly, the girl asked with sharper curiosity, "Why do you hate Mr. Francis so much? I've seen you looking at him, and you'd like to stick a knife in him." Mrs. Murray lifted a massive hand and shook a finger at the girl. "I've lived a life, Miss Emmy, and I can tell a criminal when I see one, and you mark it, it will all come out one of these days, and maybe then you'll be sorry you laughed at me." She trundled off with her behemoth tread and the floorboards shook and her whole thick body expressed her malignance and hate. At the head of the stairs she stopped, swung about with amazing rapidity and said to the girl who was still standing watching her: "And don't think, ma'am, that I haven't noticed you watching him, too! But you're one, Miss Emmy, who don't want to stick a knife in him." Why, the horrible old bitch, thought Miss Emmy, and the two women's eyes held together and Mrs. Murray smirked knowingly and went down the stairs. Miss Emmy was frightened for a little while when she returned to her bedroom, which was all gold and blue and white. She sat on the edge of her rich flounced bed with its plump pillows. She would have to be careful, very careful indeed. She ought to have remembered that Mrs. Murray had once been a Madam in one of Mr. Healey's brothels, and Mrs. Murray knew all about the glances and gestures of men-and women, and what they meant. Fool, fool, thought Miss Emmy and she lay back on the bed and smiled as she considered Joseph sharing it with her on some hot midnight when Mr. Healey was in Pittsburgh or New York or Boston. Her erotic thoughts became wilder and more acute, and soon she was panting and sweating, and Mr. Healey had never seen her face as it was now and the languishing humid eyes and the swollen red mouth. Joseph thought of Sister Elizabeth's last letter, and his family. He had written her upon opening the postal box in Wheatfield that he "traveled" and had no permanent address, and that she was to write letters to his box number. Sister Elizabeth had then inferred that he was a "drummer," "that is," she wrote, "a man we call a 'traveler' in Ireland, one who sells. I understand it is a very precarious means of making a living, Joseph, but I pray for your success. I also pray that you do not encounter rude and uncivil and rough people who could wound you when they reject your offerings. It is possible that Our Lord, when He was a carpenter, did not always find customers for His wares." This had made Joseph smile. He had always mistrusted Sister Elizabeth, in the belief that if he did not send funds regularly for his brother and sister they would be separated or adopted by strangers. Yet, paradoxically, he also believed that when Sister Elizabeth received money for Sean and Regina she would do the very best for them and that she could be trusted. It was always money, he would think, when the paradox emerged to his conscious mind and demanded reconciliation. Aware of the paradox, if only briefly, in his own mind, he became more and more aware of the paradoxes among those with whom he was forced to associate, not with sympathy but with impatience for himself and others. When he arrived at Mr. Healey's offices Mr. Montrose accosted him and invited him for a consultation in an empty room. Mr. Montrose said, "We leave, as you know, very soon. We are to travel in the private coach, at Mr. Healey's order, for, are we humble and unknown travelers?" Mr. Montrose smiled, and his cat's eyes gleamed at Joseph. "We are gentlemen, and important as Mr. Healey's employees. When we arrive in New York we will stay at the best hotel. Our wardrobes will be irreproachable." "My wardrobe is sufficient," said Joseph, thinking of his saved money. "No," said Mr. Montrose. "What is it Shakespeare said? I believe it was something regarding the glass of fashion, rich but not gaudy. Mr. Healey has commissioned me to be certain that you are attired so. It is not 'charity,' Mr. Francis, for I, too, must dress for the occasion, at Mr. Healey's expense." "I thought," said Joseph, "that dangerous work demands anonymity." Mr. Montrose looked at him as one looks at a child. "Mr. Francis, when we travel for Mr. Healey we are not on dangerous work. We are agents traveling on his very respectable business, and so we stay at respectable hotels and conduct ourselves respectably and noticeably in New York-, or wherever. We consult with others concerned in Mr. Healey's affairs; we dine with them; we converse with them; we walk with them. Mr. Healey is not unknown in New York, Mr. Francis. When we do our other-shall I say manipulations-we do it quietly and unseen, and who is to suspect us, we who are on important business in New York, admired and esteemed, above reproach or suspicion?" Joseph considered this, frowning. Then he said, "I am not being foolish in believing that those with whom we will associate also have a dangerous side to their 'business?' " Mr. Montrose laughed softly. "On those aspects we are silent, for it would be crude of us to suggest, would it not? Mr. Francis, there is not a rich and powerful man alive who arrived at that sumptuous estate who could bear scutiny. But, when one comes down to that, who could? You? I?" Joseph said nothing and Mr. Montrose studied his shut face with inner amusement. He said, "You will acquaint yourself with the-ah-equipment Mr. Healey gave you. You understand, certainly, that I am to familiarize you with certain aspects of this new work, but later you will do it yourself, alone." "I understand," said Joseph. "I have heard you permit only one mistake." "True," said Mr. Montrose with an amiable smile. Joseph's teeth clenched together as he thought of Mr. Healey, the benevolent, the generous and even sentimental, the paternal and jocular. He thought of Bill Strickland. "You are young," said Mr. Montrose. "But not too young to learn. Only the stupid believe that the young should be indulged and their errors condoned. Mr. Francis, your errors will never be condoned." Joseph spent the rest of the day studying and searching the reports of Mr. Healey's men who worked for his various enterprises. Eight thousand dollars income the last ten days from the brothels of Titusville and vicinity, over and above expenses. Illicit gambling was another huge source of income, and there were discreet notations to the effect that "drinking supplies" were vastly increasing, also the incomes of saloons. These did not include revenues from Pittsburgh and Philadelphia and New York and Boston, which were separate items and kept under lock and key, nor the income from oil wells. Joseph summarized the ones on his desk; it was a monthly task. The April day was becoming warm and stuffy and though the sun shone brightly there was a dull mutter of thunder in the air. The wages of sin, thought Joseph, are not hell. They are a comfortable old age and universal respect and admiration and accolades and, at the last, an impressive funeral. He thought of Sister Elizabeth and all the Religious he had known, and smiled in himself. Their wages were humble or unknown graves after lives of adversity and service, remembered by none, not even by their God. I did not make this world, thought Joseph. But, I have come to terms with it. He left early, remembering Mr. Healey's message. The sun was brighter, yellower, more vivid, than in the morning, because the eastern sky had turned purple and ominous. All things, buildings, streets, people, walks, the dusty roads, were suffused with an especially hurting light. Even Joseph noticed this, though usually he ignored his fellows and their habitations. He saw the patriotic banners flowing from windows, standing at doors, the Stars and Stripes he had first seen on that bitter morning in the harbor of New York. He heard martial music at a distance. He passed a little starveling newsboy, not more than six years old, who was selling newspapers with the urgency of hunger. He had seen the boy scores of times but now he was aware of him, and angry at his awareness. The boy proffered him a newspaper. He shook his head, then reached into his