Rod gazed at Lynch, quite overwhelmed by the suggestion. It was as if a sudden breath of the freshest air he had ever breathed had just swept in the door. But ... how could he possibly accept such an offer?
‘If it’s money you’re short of,’ McGann went on, apparently unaware that he was treading on very private ground, to an Englishman.
‘I have some funds,’ Rod said.
‘But not enough, eh? You keep your funds until you can spare them. If you come to the States, and I sure hope you will, you come as my guest.’
Rod had to blink very hard. ‘And you do not call that charity, Mr McGann?’
‘The name’s Jeremiah. But my folks call me Jerry. I call that friendship.’
Rod looked at Lynch. How could he possibly accept such generosity? But how he wanted to.
‘I think you should go along with Jerry, Rod,’ Harry advised. ‘America’s the place to make a life for yourself now. Right now, I wish I could come with you. And maybe I will, one of these fine days.’
Rod hesitated for a last time. ‘I’ll accept your offer, Mr McGann, Jerry,’ he said. ‘On one condition.’
‘You got it.’
‘That everything I cost you is a loan, which I will repay you just the moment I can start earning.’
Jerry McGann held out his hand.
*
‘Now, over there,’ Jerry McGann, pointing at the low outline of the coast emerging from the mist. ‘That’s Cape Henry. Not much of a headland, right? But it marks some famous history. You’ll see when we get closer that behind it there is one hell of a stretch of enclosed water. That’s Chesapeake Bay. You ever heard of Chesapeake Bay?’
‘Indeed I have,’ Rod said enthusiastically, as he had grown more and more enthusiastic about this adventure throughout the journey north from Jamaica. In the beginning, he had not known how to compose himself, because, whatever Jerry McGann had claimed, hewasoffering charity, out of gratitude, andhe was accepting it, out of necessity. He had known that to wait in Kingston for a steerage berth, and then to endure five weeks of humiliation, and then to have to face his family at the end of it, an utter failure, would have been to descend to a depth from which regaining the surface of life would have been a difficult, perhaps impossible task. He did not know if taking himself to the United States would be any the less calamitous, but at least he had a friend, and a past which hopefully would not matter. In America he would be an unknown, and perhaps be able to begin his life all over again, without any dreadful burden of disgrace hanging over him.
But he had appreciated that, having accepted the American’s invitation, and thus his charity, he would for the foreseeable future find himself in the position of a sort of hired appendage, perhaps even required to act the servant from time to time. And had discovered himself to be entirely wrong. If Jerry McGann paid for their every necessity, he did it in such an unostentatious way as to leave everyone convinced they were two gentlemen travelling together who had pooled their resources, and for whom he was the banker.
But there was much more than that. Jerry McGann had also turned out to be a most interesting person. Behind the somewhat slow — deliberately slow, Rod had decided — exterior, which went well with his size, the American had a brain as sharp as a razor, and a considerable wit. He was as well versed in seamanship as any British officer, and a good deal more versed in history than most; additionally, he apparently came from a family with more naval traditions than any Englishman Rod had ever met.
As he was now about to demonstrate. ‘Inside the Chesapeake is Jamestown, the very first British settlement,’ Rod ventured. ‘And a little farther up the river is Yorktown, where Lord Cornwallis surrendered the last British army in 1781. And then, well up the bay, is your capital city of Washington. Am I right?’
‘Right every time,’ Jerry cried in delight. ‘The last of which you British once burned, remember? During the War of 1812?’
‘We were retaliating, I think,’ Rod suggested.
‘Sure you were. We burned York, in Canada, first. I guess we suffered more in that war than you did. But right here, where we are sailing now, is where the most decisive battle of the War of the Revolution was fought. You know anything about that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Rod said. ‘The combined British fleets, commanded by Admirals Graves and Hood, failed to defeat the French fleet, commanded by de Grasse, and thus failed to relieve Yorktown. Which led to Cornwallis’s surrender, and thus to the independence of the United States.’
‘Right again,’ Jerry said. ‘My greatgrandfather, Fighting Harry McGann, commanded a frigate in the battle.’
Rod turned his head in surprise, and Jerry grinned. ‘Oh, he was fighting on the French side. But she was an American ship. He’d been in the Royal Navy once, though. As an impressed man. He escaped when he was sentenced to keel hauling for striking an officer. Oh, he had an exciting life.’
‘Which turned out well in the end,’ Rod said.
‘Well, he became a national hero. Got a gold medal from Congress and all. He’s still the family hero, I guess.’ For just a moment a shadow crossed Jerry McGann’s face. ‘Gives us all something to live up to.’
*
Jerry had to report for duty on their arrival at the naval base of Norfolk, Virginia, situated on the inside of Cape Henry, and looking out across the enormous expanse of the Chesapeake, which was far larger than Rod had ever imagined: its furthest shore, the Head of Elk, was situated some hundred and fifty miles to the north. Here too Rod gazed in amazement at the very large number of warships riding to their moorings, at the busy work going on in the shipyards, for Norfolk was also a construction centre for the Navy; he had never realised the United States disposed of quite such a fleet, to which it was clearly adding all the time.
Once having reported, Jerry took Rod out to one of the frigates to introduce him to the captain, Stephen McGann, his father. At fifty, Stephen McGann was still an immense figure of a man, an upholder of everything that was famous about the McGanns. He had earned himself a reputation in keeping with those of his ancestors by his deeds in the War with Mexico some ten years before, when, in company with his close friend Raphael Semmes — a tall, taciturn man whom Rod also met — he had led a naval force ashore in support of General Winfield Scott’s march from Vera Cruz to Mexico City.
His father, Jerry’s grandfather, Toby McGann, had also been a famous fighting sailor, who had earned his immortality during the Tripolitanian Wars at the beginning of the century, and also in the War of 1812 with England, when he had taken part, with distinction, in the famous Battle of Lake Champlain, probably the decisive encounter of that struggle. Listening to the McGann list of battle honours, Rod began to understand something of the burden of required achievement which Jerry McGann had to carry — a burden he had not yet been able to lighten in any way, because the United States had so far been at peace throughout his period of service, but which, Rod surmised, had probably influenced his decision to chase Juan Delmorde into the shallows, whatever the risks involved.
As perhaps Stephen McGann recognised. He knew the entire story of the incident, of course, and when he met Rod, and folded the Englishman’s hand into his massive grip, he said, ‘Glad to meet you, Mr Bascom. Anyone who lends a McGann a helping hand is a friend for life. Glad to meet you.’
Jerry also introduced Rod to several of his colleagues, who equally knew of the engagement off Cuba and its disastrous end, and were eager to congratulate Rod on his courage and resolution in going to the aid of a warship belonging to another country. No one mentioned his presence in America — although he had no doubt that they knew of that as well. But as Jerry was about to go to sea, theMontgomery having been fully repaired, he had to give Rod directions on how to reach Long Island and the family farm, as well as providing him with the necessary funds to do so. Rod was more reluctant than ever to continue accepting aid from his new friends, but Stephen McGann waved his objections away. ‘You’re in America, now, so you need dollars. Ke
ep your pounds until you know whether you’re going to stay.’ There was no suggestion of repayment.
Rod felt equally guilty about descending on their family, unannounced ... ‘But you are announced,’ Jerry pointed out. ‘I have written them and told them exactly what happened. So has Father. They are looking forward to meeting you.’
‘You make me feel like a ... God, I don’t know.’ Rod looked out of the window of the restaurant in which they were enjoying a farewell meal, and saw some black men, like all black men in Virginia clearly slaves, carrying goods along the street. ‘Like one of those chaps.’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ Jerry said. ‘Those are the most unfortunate people on earth.’ He had spoken with unaccustomed rapidity and vehemence, and Rod turned his head in surprise.
Jerry’s face relaxed into one of his easy grins. ‘It’s not a matter on which a serving officer is supposed to hold an opinion,’ he agreed. ‘But, spending so much time here in the south, it’s difficult not to.’
‘Do you, then, disapprove of slavery?’
‘Sure I do. Don’t you? Your people abolished it, twenty-five years ago.’
Rod nodded. ‘The year I was born. Which is probably why I’ve never thought very deeply about it. I always understood it was a permanent institution, here in America.’
‘I guess it is. But not all institutions are good, right? Quite apart from the moral issue, there’s the plain fact that slavery has become a canker in our community. The rights and wrongs, the belief in the system or the abhorrence of it, eats at people’s minds. It’s causing the devil of a lot of trouble, because, as Abraham Lincoln says, we can’t go on being half slave and half free.
‘Who’s Abraham Lincoln?’
‘A lawyer who’s stirring people up against slavery, out west. But he’s right. Why, in Kansas and Missouri they’re virtually fighting a war to gain control of the state legislatures, slavers against abolitionists. You see, right now, there are equal numbers of slave-holding states, and equal numbers of free states, and therefore all decisions about slavery are at a stand off in Congress. Now, both Kansas and Missouri are applying for states rights. Should they both go for slavery, then itcould become a permanent institution. But if they were both to go for abolition ... well, Congress might just feel up to passing the necessary legislation one of these days. And that would put a spoke through the wheels of some of these southern millionaires.’
Rod continued to be astonished at the intensity of feeling being revealed by his so easy-going friend, but as usual Jerry ended his outburst with a grin. ‘It’s a controversy you want to keep out of, Rod. You won’t find any slaves on Long Island, I can promise you that. Just people. The best in the world.’ He leaned across the table. ‘I know how you must feel. But heck, what can be wrong in accepting a helping hand, when you need it? I called for your help once, without even knowing your name, and you gave it to me without a second thought, no matter what was involved. You haven’t called for mine in return, but I want you to have it, anyway.’
Rod smiled, and sighed at the same time. ‘And if I turn out to be a no-good son of a gun?’
‘If I had any doubts about that, I wouldn’t be helping you. But if you do, why, maybe it’ll be good for me. Now say, we must fix you up with a weapon. You know anything about revolvers?’
‘Revolvers? Well, I had one, a service issue. I think I can shoot one. But why on earth should I go armed?’
‘Well, everybody does, I guess. Especially travelling across country.’ Jerry considered. ‘I mean, suppose some guy insulted you?’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to shoot him for that.’
‘What would you do?’
‘I suppose I’d punch him on the nose.’
‘Holy Smoke. Say, you know anything about fisticuffs?’
‘Some. There were professionals who used to train in our village in Somerset, in England. Far away from the police, you know.’
‘Sure. The law don’t hold with fist fighting here, either, at least for money. I never learned the art.’ He looked down at his huge fist. ‘Never had to, I guess. But fists ain’t much use against a gun or a knife. You keep out of trouble, eh? I sure want you around when next I get up to Long Island.’
There was no way Rod could possibly refuse an offer like that.
*
There had been no time before, and indeed, no inclination — he had left Jamaica with too mixed feelings — but from Norfolk Rod wrote to his father, to acquaint him with what had happened, and tell him he was seeking his fortune in the United States, the land of opportunity, and would hope to return to him before too long, with his reputation and his finances restored. Then he made his way north, which proved to be surprisingly easy to do. It was necessary to journey by stage coach to the capital of the state of Virginia, Richmond, an uncomfortable experience over rough roads in the company of drawling men, most of them armed as Jerry had warned, who clearly regarded the Englishman as an intruder into their wealthy society, but from Richmond he was able to board a train, which took him through the capital, Washington, thence to Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia, and New York.
Throughout the journey he was struck by the beauty as well as the prosperity of the country he saw, and by the almost arrogant contentedness of the people. At least, those who were free. But once he had crossed the Potomac River and entered Maryland, and even more in Philadelphia, the only black people to be seen were also free, and these seemed as buoyantly aggressive as their white compatriots, for all that most of them appeared to be in a state of considerable poverty.
New York itself was huddled on to the small island of Manhattan, although it had spilled over the East River into the little suburb of Brooklyn, at the southern end of Long Island. Manhattan was crowded, busy, and the most aggressive city of all, and the harbour at the southern end, formed by the confluence of the Hudson and East Rivers, was a turmoil of shipping, arriving, departing, loading, unloading, every second of every day being utilised to the utmost. By contrast, when he had hired a horse and crossed by the ferry to the Brooklyn side of the harbour, and walked his mount through the scattered houses and out into the country beyond, he discovered himself to be in something of a rural paradise, as Jerry McGann had described it, but yet with the sea close by on either hand. Jerry had drawn him a map, and when he became doubtful and asked a man he encountered on the road, it appeared that the name of McGann was well known in these parts. ‘Three miles on and to the left,’ the man told him. ‘You cannot miss it.’
Even so he was surprised at the obvious size of the farm upon which he came a few minutes later. It was, in fact, a combination of two properties run together, that of the Palmers and the McGanns, for John Palmer had been Harry McGann’s first friend in America, back in 1769, all but a hundred years before, Rod thought. After Harry’s tumultuous career at sea had been ended by the bullet which had shattered his leg, he had returned here to farm with his friends, and to raise a family.
And what a family. Quite apart from the two he had already met and liked, Rod now encountered Ambrose McGann, Jerry’s younger brother, who was again following the family tradition for younger brothers, in devoting his life to the farm rather than the sea — with all the single-minded enthusiasm that Jerry gave to the more romantic profession. Then there was Ambrose’s wife Jenny, a sparkling girl with already a small son at her breast, and Ambrose and Jerry’s sister Meg, unfortunately, like her brothers, a McGann to the backbone, which meant she stood six feet in her stockings. Lastly, there was Ambrose’s mother Caroline, Captain Stephen McGann’s wife, who came from Chicago and spoke with a flat mid-Western accent, and was a fervent admirer of that Abraham Lincoln of whom Jerry had spoken in Norfolk, who hailed from her home state of Illinois, and whom she apparently considered would be the ideal man to have as president, because of his opposition to slavery. This was a concept of democracy which Rod found quite incomprehensible, as according to Caroline McGann herself, Mr Lincoln had never even been to school.
There was also a host of Palmers, anxious to meet Jerry’s friend, and who were all now related to the McGanns, Rod gathered, as John Palmer’s son had married Harry McGann’s sister, and there had been other inter-marriages between second cousins since.
Then there were the dogs, huge Irish wolf hounds which apparently the McGanns had always kept and bred, the most friendly of creatures to anyone who was introduced as a friend of the family, but no one could doubt as to their temper were the family to be assailed.
And then there was Grandmother Felicity. Rod had already been with the family an hour, overwhelmed and humbled by his welcome, and was slowly identifying each member of it, when the old lady came down the stairs from the apartment she possessed in one wing of the huge, rambling country mansion, which had started as a simple farmhouse, but to which had been added various extensions as either money or mood had taken the family.
At the moment of her entry, the rest of the family fell silent, and formed a sort of guard of honour through which the old lady could pass to greet the new arrival. Felicity McGann was seventy-five, but she could have been ten years younger. She was still tall, only very slightly stooped, and slender, and her face remained beautiful in its bone structure, despite her wrinkles. As the wife of Captain Toby McGann, she had adventured as much as any previous member of the family, as Rod had gathered from Jerry, just as he had gathered that she had been English-born. Now she squeezed his hands and looked into his eyes. ‘They treated you badly,’ she said. ‘They always will. They treated me badly too,’ she added reminiscently, ‘when I returned from Tripoli. I had been a slave, and they treated me badly.’
Rod had also been told by Jerry how his grandmother had spent some years in a harem in North Africa; he had not expected to hear her speak of so horrifying an experience with such matter of fact casualness — even if he was beginning to gain some insight into the reason for the strong feelings this family held on slavery. But Felicity was squeezing his hand again. ‘They treated Toby badly too,’ she confided. ‘For loving me. But they respected him in the end. Long before he died.’ A shadow passed over her face, but quickly. ‘You went to the aid of Jerry,’ she said. ‘We McGanns don’t forget things like that. We are so glad you have come to visit, Rod Bascom. Don’t be in a hurry to go away.’
Iron Ships, Iron Men Page 5