Honor's Kingdom

by Parry, Owen

  “Mr. Disraeli is a political fellow, I believe?” His name had graced the pages of the newspapers now and again, even in America, but I would be ashamed to tell you how little I knew of him.

  “Perhaps the most political fellow who ever lived,” Mr. Adams said. “He leads the Tory opposition, along with the Earl of Derby. To whom he pretends to be subordinate.”

  “The Tories are hostile to the United States, are they not, sir?”

  This time, Mr. Adams’s smile was genuine, almost full. “Not as hostile as they are to Lord Palmerston and his government.” Then he mastered himself and straightened his mouth. “Do you have any clothing beyond your uniform, Major? I think we might be better served if you were dressed less conspicuously.”

  “I’m afraid I departed in haste, sir, and lacked the time to—”

  A gentle rap tested the door.

  “Yes?” Mr. Adams said, since we both thought it must be the waiter come to clear.

  The door swung wide and two female creatures stood before us, painted thick and dollied up bright as heathens.

  “As you gents is done with your dinner, would you fancy a pair of sweets?” With the speaker in the lead—a tiny, bird-boned thing got up in green—the women pushed their way into our chamber. Brazen as brass they were. “We’ll give you boys a treat like you won’t get back ’ome in Mayfair, and show you something what ain’t in the Exhibition.”

  Mr. Adams, after overcoming his astonishment, shot to his feet. Red-faced, he was, and his tone was not diplomatic.

  “Madame, how dare you suggest . . . the impertinence . . . Waiter!”

  The second creature, bountifully rounded and decked out in organdy satin that was not unstained, grasped her sister in misery by the shoulder.

  “Come on out, Lucy. Din’t I say to you, soon as them two come in through the front door, ’ow they wasn’t but two old spankers by the looks of them? Knickers down and whoops-a-daisy, that’s them sorts.”

  The tiny creature elevated her nose and turned away as if she were a queen. “I know those likes meself, from Mrs. Marker’s, and won’t ’ave nothing to do with ’em. I bet they give each other the dirty freckles.”

  They disappeared and, shortly, we did, too. For virtue must not bide where vice parades.

  We found ourselves another hack, for the legation studied economy and relied upon hire for its transport. As we clattered through the busy, blazing streets, Mr. Adams suddenly laughed aloud, startling me proper.

  “It’s dreadful,” he said. “I really shouldn’t say this—it’s hardly diplomatic. But that little unfortunate in green, the one with the gift for oratory? She rather reminded me of the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston. Although I expect her morals are somewhat better.”

  Twas the first time I saw Mr. Adams jovial. There would be but one other occasion when I would hear his laughter ring so rich and handsome. That, too, would have to do with Lord Palmerston.

  TWO

  ONE ALWAYS FEELS SORRY FOR CORPSES,” MR. DISRAELI said. “They do so resemble the Scots.”

  He twittered. Now, you will say: “That is a figure of speech. Men do not twitter.” But I will tell you: Twitter Mr. Disraeli did, with a hee-hee-hee of delight at his own wit and a touch of the fingertips to his little goaty beard. Above two heavy crescents of flesh, dark eyes reflected the fellow’s delight in himself. Yet, those eyes remained cold, for all their glitter. Suited up in black cloth of the best quality, he spoilt his dignity by wearing a waistcoat bright enough to please pandy. Not one, but two gold chains crossed his little belly, and his florid necktie hung thick as a noose. He didn’t look English, either, but had an olive cast and oiled ringlets. He smelled of lavender.

  For all his merriment and flash, he put me in mind of a cobra. I think it was the way his neck come up out of his collar, floating his head back and forth ever so slowly, as if awaiting the perfect chance to strike.

  “You see my difficulty,” Mr. Adams said, in a polite, but matter-of-fact tone. We sat in our host’s study, surrounded by a rich fellow’s heaven of books, all gilded by windowlight.

  “But of course,” Mr. Disraeli replied. “It really doesn’t do to have corpses littering the path of policy and obstructing one’s efforts. Yet, one musn’t over-estimate the importance of certain losses, as many of my parliamentary colleagues have discovered.” The slightest of twitters escaped him. “The unexpected is the one thing we may fairly expect when diplomacy encounters politics, sir, and the most frightful crisis may simply evaporate. Indeed, it may vanish overnight.” He leaned toward Mr. Adams. “I believe the Reverend Mr. Campbell will be allowed to rest in peace, without the indignity of reinvigoration by the press.”

  Mr. Disraeli’s upper lip curled back. “As for the letter’s ungentlemanly suggestions regarding your own activities, my dear sir, they are as infamous as they are impossible to credit.” He fluttered his hand dismissively. Twas almost a feminine gesture, yet left a body with a sense of danger. His head shifted, and his serpent’s eyes steadied upon our Minister. “I don’t believe you need concern yourself, Mr. Adams.”

  Our Minister lifted an eyebrow, though not by much. For his part, Mr. Disraeli turned those hooded eyes toward me. I wish I could say he found himself impressed. But I am small, and neither fine nor handsome.

  Mr. Adams read what I could not in that stare and said, “Major Jones is absolutely trustworthy. He has my confidence, sir.”

  “‘Absolultely trustworthy!’ Oh, dear,” Mr. Disraeli exclaimed, as if he were an actor on the stage. “Then I shall have to be especially cautious.” He twittered and touched his little beard again. “But you haven’t discussed the matter with Lord John?”

  “I have not, sir,” Mr. Adams told him. “I thought it wiser to seek your advice before proceeding. I am, however, considering a change in my plans so that I may attend Earl Russell’s Saturday reception.”

  “Oh, but I should see no need of that at all!” Mr. Disraeli declared. “Generally, people change their plans to avoid dear Lord John’s receptions.”

  He twittered.

  “The Earl is welcoming Lord Lyons home from Washington,” Mr. Adams said. “For consultations.”

  “Ah, Lyons. Our illustrious ambassador to your glorious Union! But, Mr. Adams, isn’t ‘consultations’ the diplomatic term for ‘utterly befuddled’? Really, you needn’t raise the matter with Earl Russell. It will only confuse dear Lord John. I shall see to it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mr. Adams said. “I shall rely upon your discretion.”

  Mr. Disraeli touched his fingertips to his beard. “Oh, dear, dear.”

  We sat quietly for a brace of moments. Look you. I got a lesson that night in how a man’s silence may draw out more than his questions. Twas clear that Mr. Disraeli expected Mr. Adams to say something further, to want additional assurances, but our Minister had spoken carefully at the outset, got what he wanted, and now he sat there like a Hindoo fakir, apparently willing to let the world proceed.

  At last, Mr. Disraeli, who had a considerable appetite for his own speech, could bear it no longer. He cleared his throat and announced, “Naturally, Mr. Adams, you must be curious regarding the means at my disposal to allay your concerns.”

  “Not in the least,” Mr. Adams said. “I have complete trust in you, sir.”

  But Mr. Disraeli was not to be dissuaded. It come out later that he was a novel writer, and those sorts always tell more than they should.

  “I seem to recall,” Mr. Disraeli said, “the slightest breath of scandal regarding young Pomeroy’s sister. An event that occurred just at the beginning of the season, if my . . . acquaintance . . . may be trusted.” Our host leaned forward from the basket of his chair and his collar swelled around his neck like a hood. “I do despise gossip, Mr. Adams. Doubtless, young Pomeroy shares my distaste. I’m certain he’ll value my acquaintance’s assurance that no one will overhear the slightest whisper regarding his dear sister’s misfortune. After all, we must demonstrate compassion for
the fallen.” More the cobra than ever the fellow seemed. “As the beneficiary of compassion and forebearance himself, Pomeroy will hardly be intent upon embarrassing others.”

  “The letter may already be in the hands of The Times,” Mr. Adams said, in a voice suddenly gone cold as a north-woods winter. Twas as if a layer of snow had been whisked away to show the ice beneath.

  Myself, I was dismayed at such untoward dealings. But I am only an old bayonet, and never made a study of diplomacy. Unless you count that bully Agamemnon, and the rest of Mr. Homer’s sneaking Greeks, all of whom were nasty and wanted correction.

  “I assure you,” Mr. Disraeli said, in a voice like naked bone, “that young Pomeroy will redeem any such folly. More successfully, no doubt, than he has retrieved his error with a young seamstress in Lambeth, who has been the recipient of his sustained generosity. I believe he has since contributed a great deal to the prosperity of the medical profession, as well. Old Pomeroy would be mortified to learn of his son’s charitable endeavors. Especially, given that gentleman’s hopes for a peerage before he sheds his mortal coil.” He sighed. “I do find that, these days, the sins of the son are more likely to be visited upon the father. There are certain gambling debts, as well.”

  “You astonish me, sir,” Mr. Adams said in a toneless voice that did not sound astonished in the least. He would never be one for a Welsh choir, I will tell you, for the fellow showed less emotion than a board.

  Mr. Disraeli twittered and gave his beard a generous, satisfied stroke. “I astonish myself, Mr. Adams. But may I offer you a glass of brandy? I find it a great facilitator of a parliamentary demeanor. And I do anticipate a long session tonight.”

  Mr. Adams declined, and our host turned in my direction.

  “I have taken the Pledge, sir,” I told him, “and partaking of alcohol is against my convictions, thank you.”

  Mr. Disraeli smiled. “It has long seemed to me, Major Jones, that the purpose of maintaining convictions is to extract the highest possible price for their alteration. But, then, I have never understood the Welsh.”

  I WISHED MY WIFE MIGHT HAVE SEEN ME. That is what I thought above all else. So proud she would have been, my Mary Myfanwy, though noting that pride comes before a fall.

  Mr. Adams took me round the great lobby, introducing me first to a dozen members of Parliament, and then to a dozen more. Some had taken alcohol in quantity, and I do not speak solely of the members out of Ireland, but most were the pleasantest gentlemen. One Mr. Taylor seemed especially well-disposed toward our Union’s efforts to reunite North and South, although a Mr. Lindsay brought Mr. Adams up short. As we moved on to other introductions, a fellow standing next to Lindsay commented, “If he’s typical of the run of Union officers, I shouldn’t think the Confederacy in much danger.” It made me wonder why Mr. Adams introduced me to this Lindsay and his coterie, but I could not dwell long on the matter, for soon we found ourselves standing before Mr. Disraeli. I was introduced to him as though we had not met an hour before in his own study, which only made me wonder all the more.

  Next, our Minister marched me up to Mr. Gladstone. He was a red and sputtering fellow, with busy, bulging eyes. Now, Mr. Gladstone was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the chief clerk of the national counting house, which I think must be a fine job. Myself, I longed to return to my own clerking position, for numbers are lovely clear when men are not.

  I knew a bit about Mr. Gladstone from my newspaper readings. He was reputed to be a great reformer and friend of the downtrodden, yet he showed himself cool enough to Mr. Adams and our Cause, for the English pity best where they are interested least. I wondered, again, why I should be paraded before such a fellow, though pleased enough I was by the attention. What value could I have to such high men? What profit lay in knowing Abel Jones?

  I did not meet Lord Palmerston, the Prime Minister, for he and Mr. Adams had fallen out over General Butler’s proclamation to the female residents of New Orleans, which explained to them that they must act like ladies if they wished to be treated as ladies, an eminently sensible position. But the English press sent howls of outrage Heavenward, and spoke of imminent ravishings by Yankee mercenaries, and Lord Palmerston liked to please the public temper. So he had assailed our struggling nation’s dignity, just enough to make a nasty row, but not enough to compromise his government, as Mr. Adams put it. Lord knows, we handled the local women badly enough in India when I wore a scarlet coat, but the English like to look down on Americans whenever they may, and rare is the critic who glances into a mirror. I do not speak of the French, of course, to whom the mirror is a cherished companion.

  Discreetly, Mr. Adams pointed out the Prime Minister across a vestibule, near where an elderly lady sold apples and oranges. And I marked at once the resemblance that had made him laugh that afternoon. Even by gaslight, you saw “Old Pam” wore rouge upon his cheeks. Nor was I certain his hair was entirely his own. He was great of beak and bent at the shoulders, with the profile of an underfed bird of prey.

  Look you. I would not disparage the Prime Minister’s lack of physical stature, for well I know a man small in physique may bear great virtues within him, but Lord Palmerston seemed a portrait of each and every decay as he stood there half in shadow, chatting with toadies. A man of the past he looked, a human relic. Yet, when he moved he showed a certain grace, even vivacity, although he was nearing his eightieth year of life. He carried himself like those men of the town who live below their years and beyond their means. And I will tell you, though it shock, that Old Pam was said to appear at unexpected hours, departing the abodes of women to whom he was not united by the bands of holy matrimony.

  It is a curious world.

  Oh, complain of the English we may, and even dislike them, but they will have respect from all the world. What power is mightier than the British lion? I was bedazzled, I will tell you, to have come so far in life that our Minister to Britain found it worth his time to guide me through the very halls of Parliament, from whence the greater part of the earth is governed. There was some damp, despite the summer’s warmth, and a sewer odor haunted the outer rooms, but likely that was due to the neighboring river. I was puffed up with myself, I will admit to you, for Mr. Adams was as gracious to me that night as if I had been the Grand Chinee come calling. Oh, we were blessed to have him in that hour, for he knew his business better than men could tell.

  The hall in which the Commons sat was not so grand as a fellow might expect, but about the size of a prosperous city church. All risen up like a phoenix the building was, since the great fire of my boyhood, and that room of opposing benches smelled of power and varnish. When the members all got going, the place grew as raucous as race day at the Lahore cantonment. We looked in on the floor, but Mr. Adams decided we were best-placed in the stranger’s gallery.

  I could not see it yet, although my brain was laboring, but Mr. Adams had accomplished all that he had set out to do that evening.

  We stayed a goodly while, although our war and the blockade did not come up. The night’s concern had to do with the ill-treatment of Jews in Russia. A pair of levied Hebrews had run afoul of the army’s regulations, where such error was like to prove fatal. After a good bit of back and forth, denouncing the czar as a benighted autocrat and praising him as flawlessly progressive, an irate fellow got to his feet and insisted that Britain was obliged to stand against the persecution of mankind, wherever that persecution might occur. He did not mention slavery, of course, as practiced by the Rebels in our Southland.

  I watched Old Pam, whose manner seemed shamelessly inattentive. Slumped down upon the Treasury Bench, with his hat pulled low on his forehead, he appeared to spend the evening rehearsing his eternal slumber. Only when the gaslamps provided the last light in the world did the Prime Minister doff his topper and rise to his feet.

  All competing voices calmed, and the chamber settled down.

  Twas then I got another lesson. Old he may have been, but Palmerston was canny. He made a litt
le speech that seemed to give something to everyone concerned. Wonderfully artful it was. He agreed that the plight of the Jews abroad was a matter of concern, though I noted that he did not mention Russia specifically, and he thanked Providence that the honorable members were sitting in enlightened Britain. The latter remark met with cries of “Hear, hear!” from both sides of the House. But, the prime minister warned, no matter how dearly Britain, with its great traditions of impartial justice, might sympathize, no matter how the conscience of the splendid English yeoman might be troubled by such distant events, the Jew affair remained a matter internal to Russia, a sovereign foreign power. Her Majesty’s Government might protest, but could not interfere without upsetting the established practice of nations. Lord Palmerston assured all present that the cabinet would address the situation in an appropriate manner, but did not elaborate as to how or when or with what.

  The moment Old Pam resumed his seat, the passion drained out of the place. The opposition wore a collective expression resembling that of a young man who knew well enough that he had been cheated out of a small fortune at cards, but knew not how it had happened. Of course, we should not play at cards under any circumstances, for they are the Devil’s device, and I record the image only for its exemplary value.

  We left before the Commons dispersed, as the time had got near midnight. Mr. Adams found us a cab easily enough, for they lurked by Parliament in plenty, and he told me he would drop me at a hotel where a room had been engaged for me and my luggage deposited. He observed, politely, that my day had been a long one. Then we rode through a city not yet free of the day’s thick warmth.

  Shy of Piccadilly, music halls blazed. A street-singer, confident of the generosity of the Friday night crowds, bellowed, “Dolly Didn’t See Him in the Corner (Even Though Her Mother Tried to Warn Her),” a ribald tune unfit for Christian ears. On lesser streets, where folk lived above the shops, men rested in the doorways in their shirtsleeves, sometimes companioned by drowsing women and children, come out to escape the heat of windowless rooms. In front of a noisy public house, a fellow sold tripe soup from off his barrow, offering tin bowls to wandering drunkards.