A Passionate Girl (27 page)

Suddenly there was Michael's harsh voice cutting through the music and clapping and cheering. “My God, look at the news. The news from Ireland.”

He was holding up a late extra of the
Herald.
The black headline leaped at us like a blow. BRITISH SMASH FENIANS. HUNDREDS ARRESTED.

Reality, history, returned. I looked about me. I was standing on a table in the center of the rented mansion of a patent medicine tycoon. I was in New York City dancing with my sister, who was much too drunk for her own good. The same could be said of me. I jumped down from the table and said to Michael, “Climb up here and read it to us.”

He readily accepted. “Shortly after midnight on Sunday the British government suspended the habeas corpus act in Ireland and began a series of raids on Fenian circles from Belfast to Cork. Hundreds have been arrested and are being held without bail. In Dublin the Fenian newspaper,
The Irish People
, has been suppressed and the members of its staff arrested. British authorities say they obtained evidence of a dangerous conspiracy between native Irish and Irish from America from the papers of two prominent Fenians who have been traveling in Ireland for the past three months. They were under close surveillance by detectives, and when they carelessly left behind them certain documents in a Cork hotel, the detectives obtained the evidence they needed to attack the conspiracy, which has been gathering strength in Ireland for the past year.”

“The Americans, Michael Meehan and George Dunne, were also arrested in Dublin and deported from Ireland. They are en route to America aboard the steamship
Queenstown.
”

“Oh, thank God, thank God,” said Mrs. Meehan, tears on her cheeks. She was grateful that her husband was at least safe.

“This is your doing,” Michael shouted, pointing his finger at William Roberts and several of his circle of councilors. “You ordered Meehan to betray the Irish to prosecute your land-grabbing scheme in Canada.”

“That is as foul a lie as has ever been told,” Roberts cried.

Chaos erupted. Red Mike Hanrahan dragged Michael off the table before he could say more. The party became a melee of shouting, cursing arguments between native-born and American-born Irish. The British prime minister himself could not have invented a better apple of discord. Our glorious celebration ended in a barrage of name-calling and mutual disgust between the two sides of our rapidly dividing movement.

Who should arrive in New York the very next day but Robert Johnson, panting to see his Fenian girl. Colonel Roberts sent Mike Hanrahan with a note, warning me of his presence.

He brings us the best possible news,
Roberts wrote.
Authorization from President Johnson to buy muskets and ammunition at cost from the federal arsenals. Whether you wish to see him, to express your personal appreciation, is something only you can decide.

Like Pilate, washing his hands, I thought. I showed the note to Dan, who flung it back at me. “You ain't goin' near that son of a bitch,” he said.

“I would love you none the less, no matter what happens,” I said. “Can't you do the same?”

“No,” he said.

“If I'm any judge,” Mike Hanrahan said, “our friend will be very, very disappointed if he goes back to Washington without seein' you.”

Dan grabbed him by the throat. “How would you like to spend a year in the hospital?”

Mike dangled off the floor, gasping. “'Tis only—the truth—I'm tryin' to tell. For—the good—of the brotherhood.”

Dan threw him into a chair with an obscene comment on the brotherhood.

“I must see him,” I said. “If I can stand it, surely you can. We never needed a friend at the seat of power more. This division is sure to get into the papers.”

“I say no,” Dan snarled.

“I say yes,” I replied. I turned to Mike. “Find yourself a girl and prepare to do the town with us. I'll need help if he gets too drunk.”

I was privately hoping the crown prince would drink himself into imbecility and I could somehow convince him that we had made glorious love but he had forgotten it. There was no hope of explaining this to Dan. He stalked out with a titanic slam of the door.

“That fellow's a killer,” Red Mike said, looking after him. “I hope this isn't a mistake for both of us.”

“Never fear. I'll protect you,” I said sarcastically. “No doubt Roberts told you to talk me into it no matter what.”

Mike grimaced like a boy swallowing medicine. “He did.”

“Go find yourself a lady for the evening,” I said.

Robert Johnson was drunk when he arrived at Sweeney's Hotel with Mike and his lady friend, a pretty redhead named Peg O'Connell, who looked younger than I but wore the sophisticated smile of Broadway. Robert seized me with a smack of a kiss that almost asphyxiated me while his hands went wandering, practically pulling my dress off.

“How's my Irish girl?” he said.

“She's fine,” I said.

“We couldn't keep his mind on politics over at Moffat House at all,” Mike said.

“Not true,” said Robert. “On to Canada. That's all the politics we need.”

We began with dinner at Delmonico's. Naturally the crown prince rated one of the better tables. Across from us sat Bill Tweed and Jim Fisk with two spectacular beauties. Fisk was just beginning his rise as the profligate railroad tycoon. He was a huge glob of a man with long waxed mustaches. Robert Johnson regarded him with awe. “Two years ago he was runnin' contraband cotton up from Mississippi through Tennessee,” he said. “Now he's a millionaire.”

Money had a truly hypnotic effect on Americans. To this day I cannot understand why so many of them are impressed with mere wealth, no matter how the man made it. Robert began talking about his father, the president. He was too honest, he said. “Too damn proud—or too dumb—to take advantage of his opportunities. You know he ain't got scarcely a dime of money outside his salary?

“But I ain't dumb,” Robert said. “I want it understood that li'l ole Robert Johnson has his pick of Canada land. That's what I told them at Moffat House.”

He was saying this loud enough for half the restaurant to hear it. Red Mike assured him that the bargain was sealed and there was no need to say another word about it. I found myself remembering what Michael had called our Canada campaign—an American land-grabbing scheme. Could we hope for success when we permitted such corruption to permeate our methods? Once more I struggled with Michael's rage for purity and the contrary knowledge that corruption seemed to have no effect on the power of England—or America, for that matter.

I watched Robert Johnson gorge himself on roast pheasant and beef Wellington at our expense. The French wine flowed and after it the brandy. I found myself losing the fine edge of bravado with which I had begun the evening. The liquor and rich food seemed to depress me, although I drank and ate only enough to be polite. No doubt it was the knowledge of what awaited me at the end of the night. Nor were my spirits raised by Peg O'Connell, who breathed envy of my “thundering catch” when we were in the ladies' powder room.

Delmonico's was only our first stop, of course. Robert had to see the other sights of New York after dark. We wended our way to Harry Hill's dance hall, where Robert manhandled me about the floor for an hour. We were joined at our table by Dick Connolly and Annie and Peter Barr Sweeny and his Kate. The meeting was probably prearranged by Mike. The Tammany men attempted to talk politics with Robert, but he was too drunk.

“Is he always so soused?” Annie asked me.

“At this time of night,” I said.

“A strange emissary for the president to send, if he hopes for Tammany's support,” Annie said.

I kept my already grave doubts about Robert to myself. About 1:00
A.M.
he announced a desire to buck the tiger. We headed for John Morrissey's opulent gambling house near the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Dick and Annie came along, and Annie wanted to play. Dick gave her a hundred dollars, which she lost in five minutes. She held out her hand for more, and he sternly shook his head and insisted on leaving early. “He's mad at me,” Annie said with a pout as they departed. “I lost two thousand in here last week. He says it would have been easier to give the money to Morrissey direct.”

I had begun to accumulate small signs that all was not well with Annie and Dick, but that night I was too preoccupied with my own worries to think about it. Robert Johnson stationed me behind him, as he had at Chamberlain's in Washington. “No faro bank in the world can beat the luck of my Fenian girl,” he said. Mighty John Morrissey, resplendent in evening dress, took a personal interest in the contest. The best champagne was placed at Robert's right hand, and the play began.

A kind of premonition had stabbed me when Robert made that boast. It is always a mistake to predict good luck in a game of chance. Luck runs by opposites. Sure enough, my luck was miserable. I could not call a card. Robert lost a thousand dollars before he won a single play. He began making his own calls and did no better. Another thousand, at least, drained through his hands. A third thousand vanished almost as swiftly, and he played on credit for another hour, grim and humorless as every gambler becomes when bad luck is on his back.

By the time we quit at 3:00
A.M.
Robert was at least five thousand dollars behind. We retired to the bar, where John Morrissey insisted on us tasting some rare French brandy. Robert drank morosely, saying nothing. A clerk arrived with a statement of what Robert owed. I heard Mike Hanrahan mutter to Morrissey, “Rip that up, y'big lug, if you give a damn for Ireland.”

Morrissey looked blank for a moment but quickly understood. “Mr. Johnson,” he said, “I liked the way you stood up to that tiger, even though it was eatin' your head off tonight. You took it like a man. I can see you're a fighter, and that's what an old pug like me appreciates.”

Morrissey ripped up the paper loss and stuffed it into the pocket of Robert's coat. This cheered him very little, though he managed to stammer some thanks to the ex-heavyweight champion. The crown prince had expected to win, and nothing could console him for his failure. Out on the street, Red Mike suggested a nightcap at the Blossom Club. I think he was trying to fulfill my hope of getting Robert so drunk he would be harmless, but my prince declined to cooperate. He said he was tired and the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where he was staying, was just across the park. He seized my arm and said good night. I glanced over my shoulder at Mike. He raised his hands helplessly.

At the hotel, Robert ordered a bottle of champagne sent up to the room. My hope of escape rose, but the wine had little effect on him, except to deepen his dark mood. “So much for the luck of the Irish,” he said.

“Surely you can't blame me for your bad run,” I said. “Your own calls were no better than mine.”

“I lost three thousand at Chamberlain's last night,” he snarled. “I came up here thinkin' you'd change my luck. Instead you made it worse.”

“Perhaps it's time to think of moderating both your drinking and your gambling,” I said. “You may be risking your place in your father's affections—and his councils.”

“That son of a bitch don't give a damn for me and never has. I got to make my own deals, find my own luck. Ah!” With a curse he flung his champagne glass across the room. “Take off them clothes and get in bed.”

“It would help if you spoke in a more loving way.”

“Who the hell's talkin' about
love
?” he said. “Just do what I told you.”

He retired to the private bathroom. I took off my clothes and slipped under the bedcovers. A moment later Robert emerged from the bathroom wearing his shirt. He pulled down the covers and gazed truculently at my nakedness for a moment. Then he pulled up his shirt and said, “Suck it.”

“What?” I said.

“Suck it. Get me goin'.”

“I won't do such a thing. I'm not a whore,” I said.

He laughed in an ugly way. “You ain't?” he said. He dragged me out of the bed and thrust his finger deep into me. “Now tell me you ain't a whore.”

“I—I'm not.”

He moved his finger up and down, clutching my breast so hard with his other hand that I cried out with pain. Withdrawing his finger, he flung me face down on the bed, and entered me from behind. “You—owe—me—three—thousand—dollars'—worth,” he growled, punctuating each word with a savage stroke.

I felt the gush of his release. I lay there like one of the ambushed black soldiers on Main Street in Memphis, wishing for a moment I were like them, dead, unfeeling dirt and mud. It was preferable to the shame and loathing that were engulfing me.

Without speaking another word to Robert, I dressed and left. I could not tell whether he was ashamed or still blamed me for his ruined evening. He did not speak to me. When I turned to give him a farewell glare, I saw that he had sat down in a chair beneath the gas lamp and was reading a newspaper.

A single hack waited in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I rode down Broadway staring numbly at the shops and theaters of the great city. I felt bereft, betrayed by its stolid immensity. How many other women in how many other hotel rooms had been violated like me tonight? Most of them had submitted for money, a few in hopes of something more profound or lasting, offering themselves as sacrificial pledges of their faith in a dubious promise. I could tell myself that I had done it for the nameless poor from whom I had taken money and to whom I pledged fidelity in Chicago and Cincinnati and New York. But nothing could alter what had happened to me. I had been treated like a thing, a receptacle.

At Sweeney's, I trudged up the silent stairs and down the hall to our suite like a forlorn ghost. I opened the door with my key and found myself face-to-face with Dan McCaffrey. My heart leapt with joy at the sight of him. My first thought was that he had waited for me, to take me in his arms and restore my womanhood. Then I got a better look at his face in the dim gaslight. I saw the bottle on the floor beside him.