head humming. His wife! Timothy's thoughts rang with wild surmises of bigamy, of madness, of polygamy, of threatened scandal, of a brood of unknown brats, of blackmail. The Press! He put his hands to his head and groaned. Rory was giving the number of his suite. Now his voice was the voice of a boy, speaking with his first love, exuberant, joyous, excited. His face was the face of a lover. His weariness was forgotten. He was bending over the telephone as if he would kiss it, devour it. His eyes shone and glittered, became deeply blue. lie glowed. He radiated delight. His voice was deep, shaken, stammering. Then he said, "Until tonight, my darling, my Maggie." He hung up the receiver, slowly, lingeringly, reluctantly, listening to the last when only silence was there. He turned to Timothy. He tried to speak, then sat down on the bed, clasping his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. His throat worked. He said, "It was Maggie. My wife." Then his face changed, became savage and terrible. "That son of a bitch. My father." Then he told the aghast Timothy. He spoke without emotion, but Timothy could sense the charge of rage and hatred that impelled his voice which was slow and without emphasis. "All these years," he said, and he seemed heavily indifferent. "All these wasted years. I haven't been alive. Only partly alive. He did that to me, and I thought he-I thought he had some feeling for me. He did that to me. He must have known what that would mean, but he didn't care. I could kill him. Perhaps I will." Now his look changed again, and his face was eloquent with sorrow and despair and incredulous acceptance. "He did that to me, his son." "Now, wait a minute, Rory," said Timothy, who was sweating with his own emotions. "I've known your father a long time, since you were only a child. If he did that, then he did it for you. A nice Boston girl, who couldn't meet his ambitions for you. You had to have someone who was -important-and spectacular, though I hate that word. Someone who was known, who could do you proud, as your father would say. Someone perfect for your position. Claudia is that. Perfect for the wife of a politician. Come on, Rory. You are a man, not a boy in his first, puberty. You must realize your father did it for you." "For me, for what?" Timothy tried to smile, and it was sickly. "You know what Kipling said about women. A woman's only a woman. But you are a man, with a future. Your father knew that. Give him his due, Rory. I know it must have hurt- when it happened. But you aren't a kid any longer. You have to be realistic. If the young lady is-willing-well, romp awhile with her tonight, though God knows how I'll manage it, to keep down scandal. She isn't a kid herself, any longer. How old? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? She should have had better sense than to call you, you a married man with four children. Women! A middle-aged woman, older than Claudia." "My wife," said Rory. "I never had any other wife, all these years. I comimitted the worst kind of bigamy when I married Claudia." "Who happens to be devoted to you," said Timothy, with pity. "Claudia loves only her image in the looking glass," said Rory, and so dismissed his wife. "Maggie. Let her in tonight, Tim. She's the only thing I have, and I mean it." He threw himself down on the bed and moved restlessly, as if hisi thoughts were too tumultuous to let him be still. "I'll take it all up with dear Papa, when I get home," he said. "I'll divorce Claudia. I'll marry Maggie again, and the hell with everything. 'Marry her again?' Why, I was always married to her, my Maggie, my darlin'." "Jaysus," said Timothy, and threw up his hands. "All these years of planning, and it comes to this! Rory, think of your future for a minute, just a minute." Was it really possible for a man to give up his whole life for a woman-a woman! Incredible, nightmarish. "I'm thinking," said Rory, and smiled, and turned on his side and slept like a contented child, satisfied at last after a long and weary day. Timothy watched the sleeping man for some time and felt broken with hopelessness. Not only had Rory talked devastatingly to the Press this afternoon, and would probably talk so tonight, though the general, himself, had hinted at discretion. But he had just entangled himself in an impossible and scandalous situation. No doubt that woman would slyly talk to reporters, too, simperingly, calling Rory her "husband," for God's sake. She would want to be important in the eyes of the public, and the hell with Rory's prospects. Timothy could just see her, pretending to be< meek and plaint, ogling her eyes, wetting her lips, affecting modesty, and burning with ambition. She would swing her little bottom seductively and look from under her lashes, and she would cling to Rory's arm publicly, and everything would fall into the trash barrel. The Press, already newly hostile to Rory, would go wild. "Jaysus," groaned Timothy. It was all over now, as they said, except for the shouting. He could see big black headlines all over the country. He could hear the bellows of indignation and incredulity. The Committee for Foreign Studies would be coldly satisfied. Timothy had a thought. It was very possible that that ambitious nobody< had been induced to do this to Rory Daniel Armagh-for a great deal of ^ money. Timothy tried to reach Joseph by telephone. He was not in Green Hills. He was not in Philadelphia. Where the hell is he? thought the desperate and sweltering Timothy. Where is he? No one knew. Like father, like son, said Timothy bitterly to himself: Probably in some discreet hotel I with a trollop, tonight of all nights. Timothy, to his shame, was taken with a childish desire to cry. He had served the Armaghs the greater part of his life, and he was full of grief for them, not for himself. He could hear the distant band playing "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls." All at once it sounded like a mournful dirge, of centuries of sadness. Why the hell did we pick that damned song? Timothy asked himself, and he wiped his eyes and cursed. All I need now, he thought, is to hear the banshees wailing the end of the Armagh ambitions-and a man's whole life. He was thinking of Joseph Armagh. Now he sniffled, and cried the bitter tears of a man, sparse and scalding.
Chapter 56
"Tim," said Rory, with a kind and admonishing look, as he dressed. "Don't take it so hard. Everything isn't lost, you know. What will be will be." "Don't be so fatalistic," said Timothy. "I come of a fatalistic race. Come on, Tim. Cheer up. Where's the Irish in you? Maybe what I say tonight to that big audience will-what is the phrase-ring round the world. Have a drink, Tim. This may even get me the nomination. I want a drink." "You've had enough. All right, it is half-past seven. Let's go downstairs." Never had he seen Rory so confident, so alert, so colorful, so potent. He also appeared larger and taller than usual, as if some power in him was expanding. His eyes glittered with excitement. He even hummed a little as he gave a last pat to his tie and shrugged his coat into position on his broad shoulders. He had brushed his hair until it shone like a red-gold helmet. Timothy, in the face of all that youth and romanticism, let himself hope a little. It was unfortunate that women could not vote. They would go mad for Rory Armagh, mindlessly mad. The rougher suffragettes vowed that men thought through their bellies. But women thought with their organs of generation, and Rory was the erotic dream of women. "For the first time," said Rory, as they went to the elevators accompanied by six bodyguards, "I feel, I really feel, that I will capture the nomination. There's an old saying: 'Let the people know.' I have confidence in the American people and their common sense." That's more than I have, thought Timothy. Still, he let himself hope. He blinked in the glare of the photographers' ignited powder as they took photographs of Rory near the elevators. Rory smiled and waved, and even those cynical members of the Press were surlily charmed. The enormous lobby below was crowded from wall to wall with heads, really nothing but heads, Timothy thought, for the crush, shoulder to shoulder, above and below, obliterated body and feet. The heads moved constantly, wordlessly bellowing, back and forth, pouring into eddies, into torrents, into swirls and backwaters and whirlpools, into roaring brooks and rivers and tributaries, into seething clots that dissolved to become bigger clots, larger whirlpools, broader rivers. There were hundreds of gray heads, red heads, brown heads, black heads, and auburn and yellow heads, mingling, blasting apart, milling, disappearing, reappearing. The noise was stupendous, a howling and clamor to be found nowhere else but in a frantic zoo out of control. Over them all floated one solid and writhing cloud of smoke. The lobby had gold damask walls and half-columns of waln
ut or mahogany, and there were many scintillating chandeliers, all lit, all swaying as if in a tropic wind. For it was very hot in the lobby and smelled of heavy smoke and sweat and pomade. There were few women there, except for a small number huddled for protection against the walls and absently guarded, from time to time, by their men who kept plunging into the torrents that filled the major part of the lobby. Doors at both ends of the lobby had been left open, and through them poured more men intent on joining the congested and yelling throngs already there. Some carried banners and flags. There were many white silk flags with a green harp imposed on them with the legend: "A Harp for a Harp!" "Erin go bragh!" was also seen on banners. A band was playing somewhere, patriotic songs and marches, and Irish ballads, inspiring those nearest to sing and enhance the general confusion and weltering roar. There were stairs on each side of the lobby, one set leading to dining rooms, the other to the ballroom. Men stood on them, brandishing whiskey glasses and yelping jovially and laughing, and milling up and down, and smoking, or happily pushing each other. All were sweating profusely and mopping foreheads with handkerchiefs like banners themselves. Uniformed men in blue and purple, employed by the hotel, tried to coax those frenzied, drunken, and shouting men up the stairs to the ballroom, and there was a large blue contingent of the Boston police also trying for the same end. They were frequently swept off their feet, helplessly. Glasses were pushed into their hands, and cigars. "Good God," said Timothy, half-pleased and half-dismayed. "This is far worse than Chicago." The elevators had opened on a shallow elevation above the lobby. The two men stood there, unseen for a moment or two, and surveyed the scene below. Hoarse voices surged up to them, clamoring, ebulliently babbling, and tumultuous pandemonium, senseless but joyous riot, feverish hubbub. And the heads seethed with increasing excitement, and the mobs increased and men fought to enter through the jammed doors and the band, losing its mind, devoted itself mainly to drums and trumpets, possibly in a last effort to be heard. Now a wave or breeze of air came to Rory and Timothy, and it was permeated with the smell of whiskey as well as sweat and pomade and smoke. It was both nauseating and choking and too hot and acrid. "Good old pols," said Rory, in Timothy's ear. He had to bend and put his mouth almost against Timothy's ear to be heard. "How many do you suppose are here?" "Thousands," said Timothy. The gold-colored carpet of the lobby could not be seen under that heaving carpet of heads moving in vapor. "Shouldn't wonder they'll start climbing the walls next or swinging from the chandeliers." Their bodyguard shifted uncomfortably close to them, in all that heat and stench, and new crowds were being disgorged by the elevators, all bawling, all waving to no one in particular, all bulging frenetically of eye, and all very, very drunk. To them the clot of men standing quietly close by was an impediment. They shoved against them, and cursed and glared, but did not as yet recognize Rory. "Nowhere into the ballroom but through this damned jungle," said Timothy. "Come on," said Rory. "You'd be first to complain if the place were half empty."
Placards appeared, with Rory's overcolored portrait on them, and a thunderous shout went up: "Rory! Rory! Rory! Harp for a Harp! Long live the Irish!" They had been recognized at last. A tidal wave of wet men swarmed upon them, literally carrying them off their feet, bearing them with bellows and shouts and hoarse chanting into the center of the lobby. The bodyguard struggled and punched to keep up with the two men. Rory's red-gold head bobbed, sank, rose, turned about around and around, and his flushed and handsome face was laughing automatically. Timothy was close by, but having trouble even touching the floor.
Another group was struggling towards them, flailing arms and kicking, and the hysterical band began to play, "Kathleen Mavourneen!" and hundreds began to sing the song of Old Syrup, former Mayor of Boston, former congressman, former looter who had been discovered with both hands and both feet in the public trough. He had been consigned to "private life," and had never remained there, execrated and adored, incredibly fat and gross and huge of red wet face, and genial and honey-tempered as always, and perpetually engaged in politics, always regrettable and enjoyed by his public. Though he was in his seventies, married and with ten burly sons-now surrounding him and kicking and pushing too worshipful citizens-he had his "lady friend," as she was coyly called, with him, a tall slender woman with bright red hair and big protuberant green eyes and roped with pearls and pinned with diamonds and clad in her favorite virginal color-white silk-and showered with lace and wearing a huge plumed and flowered hat. Unkind rumor said she had been the esteemed madam of one of Joseph Armagh's most expensive houses of joy, but in fact she was really a burlesque queen from New York, though she had been born in Boston. At any rate, Old Syrup had been devoted to her for nearly two decades-she was now in her lush ripe forties-and her name was Kathleen, and he had adopted the old Irish song "as her own," in her honor. What Mrs. Old Syrup had to say about this was not recorded. Nor was the source of his wealth ever questioned. It was expected that politicians looted. It only became reprehensible when they were caught at it. Old Syrup was once reported to say, anent investigations: "Reform movements? I love them, now. They make money for me. Couldn't buy that advertising." He and his sons, and his lady, fell upon Rory. Rory was wrapped in huge fat arms, encased in bursting broadcloth, and smacked on both cheeks. "Jaysus!" shouted Old Syrup. "And it's a gladsome sight for me, boyo, to see the son of that old rascal, Armagh, campaigning in me own town, then! Old Joe! God bless him! Never a better Irishman in this whole damned country, God bless him! How's old Joe?" Rory had met Old Syrup many times before, and was always amused by him, and fond, for there was something charming about the old scoundrel, something both innocent and wicked, honestly goodhearted and kind, and ruthless, pious and blasphemous, ready to weep-and sincerely-at a story of want and suffering-and ready to exploit and rob the very same day, even those who were already exploited and robbed. "An Irishman," Rory once said to his father, "never makes a good Machiavelli. He can't master either his heart, his emotions, or his lusts. Nothing devious about us, sad to say. Whatever we are, we are with full soul and bad temper and our very, very uncontrollable tongues. Saint or sinner-we go all out on it, hammer and tongs, in spite of a lot of us trying to act like High Church bishops with gaiters, drinking tea and eating crumpets in genteel society. It galls us, finally." Rory knew what Old Syrup was, and it amused him, and he let himself be heartily thumped and embraced and knew that for this moment, at least, Old Syrup was passionately honest in his greetings. (What he would think the next day, and before the primaries, and in close consultation with his cronies, was something else indeed.) Tonight he loved Rory like his favorite son. Tonight he was bursting with affection for "Old Joe." Tonight he desired nothing more than to establish Rory as the idol of the Boston Irish, and make him President. It was evident. His vast face, like the face of a happy child with naughty blue eyes, looked up at Rory with delight and affection. "Mr. Flanagan," Timothy said, and had to repeat it several times before Old Syrup heard him. "Is there any way of getting Rory into the ballroom before he is stamped to death?" "Eh?" said Old Syrup, and looked up at his mighty belligerent sons. "Sure and we can. Bhoys, out with the feet and the fists."
But the crowd had become fully aware of the presence of Rory, and the boiling whirlpool surged towards him with the banners and the placards and the heat and the smoke. His clothing was seized, his shoulders. Arms tangled with his; he would have fallen if there had been anywhere to fall, an unoccupied spot. But every inch had legs and feet in it, struggling for advantage. Screams, howls, yells, expletives concerning trampled toes, rudely affectionate greetings shrieked in the highest and most penetrating tones, ruder questions, demands to shake his hand, demands to be heard, hoots and general bedlam, surrounded him almost visibly. The band went mad, pounding out "'Hie Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" in the most antic ragtime, which Timothy admitted was an improvement. He was fighting, together with the Klanagan brothers, to prevent Rory from being enthusiastically mashed to death, smothered or crushed. Above all that welter
and happy fury Rory's shining head rose and bobbed, was lost, rose again. The crowd was trying to bear him somewhere, and rival contingents were trying to bear him somewhere else, and a few fistfights broke out merrily, to joyous cheers, and the smoke rose to the golden dome of the lobby and the heat became intolerable. Something fell thunderously somewhere, to heightened cheers, but no one seemed to know what it was, or where. "Ah, it's a grand day, then!" cried Old Syrup, hugging one of Rory's arms determinedly and kicking out dexterously and without malice against pressing adherents. "God bless the Irish!" "Somebody had better, or I'll be killed," Rory shouted back. One sleeve had been torn almost free from his coat at the shoulder, and his striped shirt showed in the gap. His tie hung at the side of his neck like a hangman's rope, and he was afraid he would be strangled. His feet had been stepped on so assiduously that they felt both burning and numb. His carefully brushed hair was disheveled, and fell and bounced over his wet forehead, which gave him a very boyish appearance. It was splendid to be hailed this way, but he wondered if he would survive. He was already drained, and he had an important and momentous speech to make, and the ballroom was hardly nearer than in the beginning, and the noise made his head throb. Then the Flanagans, man and boy, stood together like a football phalanx, and charged those nearest to Rory, and many of the crowd, cursing and waving fists, fell back and challenged the Flanagans to "come outside, then." Banners and placards tossed crazily, the band was shrieking its heart out and the drums were like thunder. But Rory found himself propelled towards the ballroom, three or four of his bodyguard with him, and Timothy, who ran with water and was bedraggled. The whirlpools swung together again en masse, and surged after Rory, and everyone poured and struggled and pushed and hit to get into the ballroom to the best seats. The band tried to enter, but was impeded by brass and drums. Trumpets and horn caught the dazzling light of the chandelier in hot gold, and splintered it. Flags blew as if in a hurricane. Throngs continued to struggle through the doors, shouting, hailing. The river came to a brief halt as two men fell before it and tried to scramble to their feet and were either kicked impatiently or thrown off balance. Rory drew a deep breath; his lungs smarted from all that smoke and heat. He looked aside, still smiling widely. And near him, very near, almost within touching distance, Marjorie Chisholm stood, laughing and dimpling. She was thirty-three or more years old and she looked like a fresh girl in her gray linen suit and gay sailor hat with pink ribbons. Her black eyes were merry-he had never forgotten them-and they shone and shimmered with love and joy at the sight of him, and her red mouth pursed in a kiss which she blew towards him, and her black hair began to tumble from under her hat in the way he remembered so dearly, all curls and tendrils and polished waves. In that instant he was not Senator Rory Armagh any longer, a husband and a father, a man aspiring to the nomination of his Party. He was Rory Armagh, the law student at Harvard, and he was meeting Marjorie here and in a moment he would have her in his arms, and there was nothing else in all the world and never was, and his whole body began to pound like one gigantic pulse. "Maggie, Maggie!" he shouted over the hubbub. They were pulling the fallen men to their feet, and cursing them, and there was a little cleared space, miraculously, about Rory, and forgetting everything he plunged towards Marjorie, calling to her over and over, and his face was the face of a youth who sees his love, and it was lighted and passionate and urgent. She took a single step towards him, her gloved hands outheld, and she too saw no one else and every sound died from her awareness except the sound of Rory's voice, and she saw nothing but his face. Someone seized Rory's arm. He never knew who it was. He tore that arm away, and turned his head furiously. It was the last conscious gesture he was ever to make. For a shot rang out, stunningly, shockingly, and for a moment or two the roaring stopped, and the seething diminished. Someone called plaintively, someone denounced firecrackers in this place. Men looked about confusedly, suddenly immobile, staring, glaring. There was another shot, a great cry, and then a milling, of terror, of panic, of an animal attempt at flight. "My God, what was that?" asked Timothy. He turned to Rory, for it was he who tried to restrain the other man. But Rory was only standing there, blank and white and blinking, swaying from side to side, his eyes blind yet searching, his mouth open. Then he fell like a post falling, but he could not reach the floor. He fell into the arms of half a dozen men, and they held him and whimpered and called over and over, "Are you hurt? Anybody hurt?" A terrible melee broke out. "Murder!" howled hundreds of men, who still had seen nothing and had only heard. "Call the police! Murder! Get that man! Who's this man, lying here? What-what-what-" The former noise was nothing like the noise which now struck the lobby, wave upon wave of clamor, of curses, of struggles, of yells and imprecations. Every man tried to run in a different direction from his neighbor, and they collided, staggered back, fought, thrust, even bit, in their terror and panic, their eyes starting from their pallid damp faces, their mouths open and emitting grunts and squeals and shouts. The floor of the lobby trembled; the walls trembled. The flags blew straight out. Those who had sought walls for shelter huddled together, panting, arms fending off those who fell against them, feet kicking. Over it all came the hoarse and gasping cry: "Who was shot? Who did it?" Police were using their clubs, raising them and striking down without discrimination. Men fell; others piled upon them, wriggling like a heap of frenzied worms. The police climbed on them, over them, smashing down, and with the instinct of the law moving steadily to where Rory and his bodyguard and Timothy and Old Syrup had been standing. Their faces were fixed, not snarling or threatening. They stared only in Rory's direction, and made for him, their helmets invulnerable to blows, their arms rising and falling like the arms of machines. They had cleared a spot to lay Rory down. His chest was pulsing scarlet. His eyes were open and vaguely searching, though dimming rapidly. Only his hair remained in its resplendent condition, falling back from his forehead. His face was the color of wet clay. His mouth moved a little. "Oh Christ, Christ, Christ," said Timothy and knelt beside Rory and took his hand. He looked down into that dying face and he burst into tears. Old Syrup, his hands on his knees, bent over Rory, muttering, gaping. Then a cry rose: "A doctor! A priest!" "Armagh's down! Armagh's been shot! Armagh's dead!" roared hundreds, and they halted their flight as they realized, aghast, what they had said and what it meant. "Oh, Christ, Christ, a doctor," groaned Timothy. "A priest. Rory? Rory?" Several policemen had reached them and Timothy raised his distorted face and implored them, "A doctor, a priest. He's badly hurt, Rory." He repeated it over and over and clutched Rory's hand and a nightmare dazzle began to blind him and he said, "No, no, no." A ring of faces, appalled, pallid, loomed over him and he begged them to help, and finally someone said, "It's all right, Mr. Dinecn. A doctor's getting through, and a priest." Hands touched him comfortingly, seeing his agony, but no one touched Rory. No one wanted to see what had been done to him, and many men about him began to cry like young children, turning aside, bending their heads, their features grimacing. Old Syrup staggered into the arms of two of his sons and he pressed his face against the chest of one and wept and whimpered, and they patted him, and were grim. Timothy, who felt he was dying, himself, vaguely saw a woman kneeling beside Rory on the other side. She had lifted his head on her knee, her gray linen knee. Her hat was lost; her black polished hair fell to her shoulders. Rory's blood covered her gloved hands, her dress. She drew his head to her breast. She said, "Rory. It's Maggie, Rory. Maggie." Her pretty face was white and petrified. She pushed back his hair. She bent her head and kissed his cheek, his fallen gaping mouth. "Rory, my dearest, it's Maggie." No one tried to remove her. They were all struck by the sight of the dying man in the arms of this strange young woman, dabbled with his blood, holding him as she would hold all the world. Rory was in a dark and swirling place, filled with flashes of scarlet lightning. He was being tossed about on a black sea, helplessly. He could see nothing. But he could hear Marjorie's voice, and he thought he replied to it: "Oh, Maggie, Maggie, my darling. Oh, Ma
ggie." But he made no sound at all. He died an instant later in Marjorie's arms. A priest was kneeling now, beside them, blessing himself, murmuring the prayers for the dying, for the dead. And Marjorie knelt there and knew that all her hopes were finally as dead as the man she held, but to the very last she would not let them take him away.
Captains and the Kings Page 83