Bold Sons of Erin (45 page)

“She was crazy as a loon. She’d already killed Boland’s slut of a sister.”

“Yes,” I said, “that fact was crucial to your calculations, was it not? You knew she was mad, you knew she had killed, and you knew why she had done it. You knew that she thought her husband was worth a killing, if anyone ever tried to take him away.”

He looked at me with a combination of wariness and terror.

“You and the men above you,” I went on, “you knew the Irish already had much to hide on behalf of the Bolands. You knew they would fight to shield Mary Boland, for her husband’s sake. Even if she had murdered President Lincoln. You did not count on Daniel Boland declaring himself a murderer in an attempt to spare his wife, that you did not. That is why you did not wish to go to the magistrate, when he wished to pretend to guilt. But
the Irish settled even that matter for you and schemed to hide Boland away. You were using the Irish like puppets, while the lot of you worked against them. To keep them hungry and hard at work for your pennies.”

“I swear to God . . . I swear I’ll do anything you want. As long as you don’t tell Donnelly . . .”

“Well, I must be off now,” I told him. “Things to do in plenty. I think you may wish to go careful around the Irish, from now on.”

“Please,
man, I swear to God . . .”

“Was it Gowen?”

He hesitated.

“Good day, Mr. Oliver.” I took me across the threshold of his room.

“Yes!”
he cried. “Him. All of them. All of them together. I was only doing what I had to do. For the love of God, man . . .”

I walked away, with the clerks in the outer office forming a gauntlet of curiosity.

I heard Mr. Oliver rushing around from the back of his desk to follow me.

“Don’t!” he cried down the hallway. “Don’t do it, for the love of God.”

I did not deign to give him a backward glance, but left him there, devoured by his fear. I did not tell his secret to Mr. Donnelly, or to any of the Irish, since that would have been murder. But I was content to let Mr. Oliver spend his days in fear, never knowing, looking over his shoulder and jumping at every noise.

The truth was that I could not prove a thing, though all seemed so obvious now. Had I tried to take Mr. Oliver into custody, to have him as a witness against the big men, he would not have survived his first night in our jail. Oh, I saw a great deal now. My Mary Myfanwy was right. I had not known Pottsville. But I knew it better now. A little better.

The bitter thing was that the rich and powerful men were safe. I would give a full report to Mr. Nicolay. But I knew that our government would not welcome scandal in the midst of a
war, nor would they fancy trials that relied on logic, without irrefutable evidence. But it gnawed at me. For I believe that justice must be served.

Mr. Gowen visited me, before I left for Washington. He found me in conversation with Mr. Caxton, the engineer of whom Mr. Cawber had spoken—and a young man who seemed as sure of his business as he was sure to please the ladies and girls. Mr. Caxton was just explaining the cleverness of Mr. Evans’s leases, when Mr. Evans’s servant announced Mr. Gowen.

I suppose I should not say “Mr. Evans’s” when I speak of this or that. For these things belonged to my wife and to my family now, although my Mary took to her change of station more readily than I could do, moving us into the grand house on Mahantango Street while I was reminiscing with Jimmy Molloy and waiting to see if the cholera had a taste for me.

Anyway, Mr. Gowen come in. Clear enough it was that he was displeased at the sight of Mr. Caxton’s charts and maps and person.

“Jones, may I speak to you in private?” he asked.

“This is Mr. Caxton, who—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I need to speak to you alone.”

I nodded to Mr. Caxton, who was the sort of fellow who grasped things quickly. He went out, shutting the door of Mr. Evans’s study behind him.

“Three hundred thousand dollars for the Evans properties,” Gowen said. “Fifty thousand for the whore’s diary. That’s their final offer.”

“Whose final offer?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I will leave it, then. The properties are not for sale. And I have told you that the diary book is in Washington.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I do not doubt it, Mr. Gowen. But fool or no, the properties are not for sale.”

“Don’t you think you should ask your wife before you refuse me?” he sneered. “Or Dolly Walker?”

“Why don’t you ask them yourself? You will find them made of stouter wood than me.”

“Then you’re all fools. The days of the small operator are over. You’ll be broken quicker than a china plate.” He patted his pockets, as if searching for that watch of his. “Matt Cawber won’t save you, either. He’s yesterday’s man.”

“And you, Mr. Gowen? I take it you are a man fit for the future?”

“What do you think?”

“I think that I would like you to leave my home.”

“Your
home?” His eyes looked about dismissively. “You’re like a monkey got up in a swallowtail coat and an opera hat.”

“And then there is the matter of General Stone’s murder, Mr. Gowen. And of your complicity in it.”

He laughed, though the laugh was a hollow one. “Oh, Oliver told me about that little scene you played for him. You know there’s nothing to it, Jones. If you had proof of anything, you wouldn’t have gone after him quite that way.” He smirked. “Would you have?”

That was true enough. But we both knew what we knew. And we knew that the other knew it.

And we knew that we were irreconcilable enemies.

I rang for the manservant, which gave me a childish pleasure, and told him, “Mr. Gowen was just leaving.”

JIMMY MOLLOY had preceded me to Washington by a day, but I did not lack for company on my journey. Mr. Bannon, the newspaper fellow, sat beside me all the way to Philadelphia. He congratulated me on solving the murder case, although he still pretended to have no knowledge of Kathleen Boland or her Pottsville activities. With a grand harrumph, he declared that the Irish had been taught a thorough lesson, although I did not quite see it.

Now, I am a civil fellow and ever ready to learn from conversation with a cleverer man than myself, but the truth is I had been looking forward to a bit of private time upon the railway. I
fear I must make a confession, see. You have heard me complain about the iniquity of the novel, which is, after all, no more than a book full of lies. But I have also admitted to indulging myself with that tale from Mr. Dickens, which brought a tear to my eye before its end. Poor Pip. I really thought he deserved a greater happiness, and that girl was nothing but trouble, from start to finish. But Mr. Dickens behaved as Mr. Shakespeare would have done and made things true to life. My confession is that I had procured myself a copy of
The Pickwick Papers,
which had been recommended to me by Mr. Barnaby. And I found it a great delight, all chock-a-block with characters who rise up from the pages to make friends. I had hoped to read more about Mr. Pickwick’s travels and travails, but Mr. Bannon commanded my attention.

Now, you will say: “You told us that the novel was an instrument of the Devil.” But I will tell you: A man must live and learn, and I was wrong. And that is what comes of condemning a thing of which a man has no knowledge. I find the novel a wholesome thing, and edifying. So there.

As we rolled toward the metropolis of Reading, Pennsylvania, Mr. Bannon described a fantastic array of crimes and sins, assigning each to the Democratic Party, for he remained displeased with the recent election. He let loose for fifteen minutes on Mr. Gowen, but I learned nothing new. Then he explained why the Irish would never be fit to become Americans. Thereafter, he mocked Irish fears of abolition.

“Their dread is a mockery of reason,” Mr. Bannon explained to me. “Once freed—once his breeding is no longer supervised—the Negro is bound to die out among the superior races. He never will come north in significant numbers. His tropic constitution could not bear the cold at a civilized latitude. I expect that the moment he finds himself free, every last Negro will line up to go to Mexico, or to South America. To warmer climes, where he can indulge his penchant for indolence, his lack of natural ambition. I suspect he shall find a happier welcome among the Latin races. After all, the Spaniard
isn’t particular about such matters, from what I hear. No, Jones, you just wait ten years and there won’t be a Negro left in these United States . . .”

Well, he was an educated man and I could not then say whether he was right or wrong. But well enough I knew that, before the Negro might go anywhere, there remained a war to be fought for his liberation. And I was to see even more of it than I had seen already. For after I rendered my full report, which was nicely received by all, one final task remained to me.

Even though he was innocent, Daniel Boland had to return to Pottsville, for the sake of the legal formalities. He had made a confession and needed to recant before Judge Parry, to make things right and tidy. Although I had not yet laid eyes on Private Boland, I intended to stand by him, for I judged that he had suffered enough for his folly.

Jimmy Molloy had found young Boland in the 69th New York, in the Irish Brigade, in the Army of the Potomac. When I set out to bring him in, that army had gathered to smite the Rebels at Fredericksburg.

WE WERE WELL INTO THE EVENING DARK WHEN JIMMY and I crossed the pontoon bridge into Fredericksburg. The first thing we saw, by a bonfire’s light, was a sergeant wearing a lady’s private garments over his uniform. He danced about, waving a bottle, while soldiers enjoying the warmth of the flames cheered him on.

Twas not the way a sergeant should behave.

I would have given the fellow a proper talking to, but his own officers stood about unconcerned. Some even seemed to think his jig amusing. Then I heard the sound of breaking glass. Windows shattered from a second story, as rifle butts thrust out and retreated again. A family’s possessions come flying after, dresses and draperies, night pots and pictures and shoes. The soldiers in the street below ducked out of the way and laughed. Chairs and a cabinet crashed down next, followed by a mattress. The lot went on the bonfire.

That was but the beginning of the night we shamed ourselves.

The battle had not yet been joined, save for some hours of skirmishing, but a great attack was planned for the morning and nobody kept it a secret. We had stopped to pay a call on General Burnside’s staff, to have our passes countersigned, and found matters disordered, with a useless commotion of officers plunging about. The headquarters had been put up in a landowner’s house, along a ridge on the safe side of the river. It
felt a bit removed from the fight for my tastes. If a general cannot control his battle after it has begun, his plan had best be a fine one, that I will tell you.

The Army of the Potomac was a curious thing in those days. The staff men had nearly mastered the art of feeding and clothing an army, of marching on time and even of massing their forces. But they could not plan a battle to save their souls. The generals, one then another, waited too long to strike, demanding certainty before they moved, dallying over maps until General Lee gave each fellow his whipping in his turn. As General McClellan and all his successors proved, a well-drilled army meant little unless its leaders were fond of a scrap. Calculation is well and good, but too much caution makes a man a coward, and perfect plans on paper are naught to boldness of heart.

The best that I could say of us was that we had learned to lose without disaster. Nor could the men be faulted, in my opinion. We had veterans now, troops every bit as soldierly as our enemies. When handsomely led, they fought like blue-backed devils, only to lose the day when their generals failed them. Our boys took their lickings, then went another round. The Rebels must have grown annoyed, for time and again they beat us fair in battle, but could not make us quit. The Rebels might defeat us, see, but lacked the means to destroy us, and the war in the East had come down to a bloody stand-off. And bloody it was, with a wastage of life that would have shamed a heathen potentate.