by Parry, Owen
Do not misunderstand me: I love those dreams that bring me to my mother or, sometimes, to the aching shadow that was my father. I am a middle-aged man of thirty-four, and both my father and mother died at a younger age than I have gained. I was little above the age of four the year I lost them both. I suppose that is why I am soft toward orphans, although we must be guarded in our charity, for too free a hand corrupts. And given this cruel war, I often think of my young son, imagining his future were he fatherless. But I did not dream of our John. Twas my mother returned to me, only bitterly, for I saw her lying upon the floor again, with the vomit over her face and her eyes set wide, just as she lay for days in our poor parlor, behind the door whose lock I could not turn.
I dread the cholera, see. For it took more than my parents. There was a certain loss in India, too. But that is another tale, so let that bide.
I woke early, and broken, and all a-sweat. In that moody place between sleep and knowing true, a panic come upon me. Uncomposed, I battled with the linens, pawing about me in dread that another child’s hand had been deposited during my slumber.
I had shifted a chest of drawers to block the door and balanced a water glass by the window frame, so that even the most skilled intruder would send it crashing to the floor. I wished I had my Colt revolver, but that had been left behind in Washington. The urgency of my journey was only communicated to me in the course of a visit to Newport, far from the smoke of battle and need of firearms, and I had left directly from Rhode Island. I was unarmed. In more ways than I knew.
As my eyes relearned the world, I saw naught was disturbed. Upon the writing table, the letter I had completed lay white and chaste. Twas to my Mary Myfanwy, my beloved, with a note for our young John, containing fatherly love and admonitions.
I gasped as deep as if I had fought a battle and tried to drive the last of my mother from my eyes. For the Good Lord knows I would remember her. But I would not remember her so.
She looked so frightful that it breaks my heart. Even now.
I got me up and sat by the window and read in my new pocket Testament, for comfort lies therein. I read the sorrowful bit set in the garden, where Our Savior doubts Himself and almost seems to share our mortal fears. Oh, there is strange. A garden is a lovely thing it seems to me. Yet terrible things transpire in such places, from Eden to Gethsemane. We always come up short when faced with paradise. Sometimes, when I feel put upon by Mankind, I wonder will we make a muck of Heaven?
I washed my face. It helped. And then I tidied myself to go to chapel, for this was a Sunday.
The hotel’s dining room, all fragrant, bid guests in to breakfast. But I was wise enough to check the prices, which astonished. I went out into the cool of the morning, stepping over puddles from a night rain, and found a coffee stall along the street. I fortified myself with a bun. Then I set to the vital task of the day, finding a Methodist chapel. For I do not like churches grand and gaudy. I do not wish to worship golden altars or painted windows. I like a simple place for meditation, though I will gladly join a rousing hymn. I do not know if God first made the Welsh, then sent them hymns to sing, or if He made the hymns, then created the Welsh so He might hear the hymns sung true and proper. Music is a prayer deep in our blood.
I had to walk a bit until the buildings grew smaller and the streets narrower. Not far from Tottenham Court Road, with its competition of drapers stilled for the day, I found a little Wesleyan room. Twas humble, as befits our Christian prayers. But luck I was to have little in London town. We began with a hymn I favor, Mr. Bunyan’s lyric of “Who Would True Valour See,” sung to the martial strains of old “Monk’s Gate,” but the preacher had been called to the hard persuasion. The benches were at most a quarter filled, and twas no crying wonder. For that man of God had a fondness for Damnation, and thought we should be warned from first to last.
Now, I would be a good, God-fearing man. Nor do I favor any dissipation. But Jesus Christ come down to lift us up, not to give us a kick and start us fretting. Perhaps I am not proper in my Methodism. But I do not think John Wesley wanted cruelties shouted at the weak and wounded. And such they were in that unvarnished chapel. Old women crushed by life into a smallness and young girls plain and husbandless, old men bitter as the preaching fellow himself and little children brought to heel like dogs—such were my fellow worshippers, all black-clad, dry and joyless. The preacher made it sound as though we had no hope of Heaven. And I will not believe that, though I err. I most admire Jesus for His kindness. And for His good temper. Anger caught Our Savior only once, when He found that prayer had given way to grasping. That was in a church, where he upset things.
I let the parson rant and simply prayed. As I had prayed the night before, for those I love and then for all the others, living and dead, good or bad or middling. For a Christian must be particular in his habits, but not in his pleas to the Lord. All men need mercy. Last, I said a prayer for Mr. Lincoln, who is admirable.
I like to pray. It makes me feel an inch closer to Heaven.
I come out the doors in a faintness of rain, that slight wet you feel on your face but cannot find on the wool of your clothing unless you scrub a hand across your chest. Twas gone in minutes, the hint of rain, but great, gray-bellied clouds sailed over the city, leaving us cool and vigorous. The air was damp as a cellar. I felt that this, at last, was truly England.
I tapped my way to Oxford Street and along its drowsing prosperity. I meant to give a coin to that artilleryman, but he was gone from his begging place and so I saved it up. Twas reaching noon, for the parson’s lungs had been possessed of stamina, and I hoped to visit the much-advertised picture by Mr. Hunt, “The Finding of the Savior in the Temple,” which was on view at the German Gallery, in New Bond Street, some ways along. The admission was a shilling, which seemed high, but I would rather pay for my edification than for gratification. Thus, I had resolved to avoid the enticements of the International Exhibition until the conclusion of my purposes here in Her Majesty’s domain. That visit would be my reward for work well done. Meanwhile, a nice religious picture seemed a proper entertainment for a Sunday.
Now, you will think me contrary, but, though I had to stand in a line and my entry cost a shilling, just as promised, I did not tarry before the painted scene. The mighty picture was a disappointment. It was as if the artist painted in sugar-icing, or covered over Our Savior’s life with gauze. It was not real to me. Yet, Mr. Hunt is much acclaimed, and I am not, so I must be in the wrong. It is only this, see: I picture Jesus covered in sweat and striving, hungry at times, and hurt at last. Like us. And the Orient is hot and it is dirty. Nor are children anywhere given to neatness. Perhaps I blaspheme, though I do not wish to. But think you. By the end of a hard day walking the hills of Galilee, Our Savior must have been coated with dust and dirty. I know what it is to walk, see. And to thirst. Even as a child, at the young age when He took Himself to that Temple, Jesus must have had a jolly time or two and got Himself slopped up. In Heaven, He will wear His shining white. But, here among us, He must have looked a bit dodgy.
Let that bide.
I bought a paper cone of Spanish oranges and retreated toward Hyde Park. Oh, I had things to do and visits to make, Sunday though it was. But first I wished to have a little peace. To sit upon the grass and read The Times, which I had bought the day before and found no time to open. I did not want to think about the murders and such like, not for a little while yet. For I have learned a man can think too hard. Sometimes, when I have failed to look through things, I find it does me good to have a wander. Then, bursting out of nowhere, the missing bit I need will take its place. Thoughts are like young girls, see, and like to surprise us and come unbidden, though flummox us they do when we pursue them. I do not mean that improperly, you understand.
Then I was wounded, most unexpectedly, though not in the flesh.
The air was fresh and not as sooty, for the manufactories down the Thames did not pour smoke on Sunday, and the breeze kept off the river’s
sewer smell. Open carriages streamed along Piccadilly, filled with bouquets of girls and the thorny mothers from whom they stemmed. The street seemed a rolling garden of roses, with parasols for petals and blooms of every hue of dyer’s cloth. I noted that magenta was still fashionable and thought I should inform my Mary Myfanwy, who had undertaken a dressmaking enterprise back in Pottsville. The latest pattern books I would buy her, too, for the ladies of Pottsville like to go in style and think our town the center of the world.
A crisp young man trotted by on a horse as sleek as his master’s boots. Oh, wasn’t there a great tipping of hats and nodding of heads, as gentlemen greeted each other or a nosegay of ladies passed them by in a fine caleche or an elegant britzka with the canvas down? Handkerchiefs fluttered like butterflies strayed to town. And all these society folk were but the few who had not gone to the country for the week’s end.
So gay it seemed! A far cry it was from the pleasures of Eastcheap Street, yet all these things sum up to make a city. And London was the city of them all.
Nor were these hours only for the wealthy. The working poor, got up in their Sunday propers, headed for the parks in family platoons, and strolling pairs of chums tugged their coatsleeves down over worn cuffs. Only, look you. There was ever a timidness to those of lesser fortune, as though the rich might notice them and call a policeman to send them on their way. They always gave way on the sidewalks, the poor folk did, and seemed prepared to flee at any moment. It is a thing of wonder how America changes a fellow’s view of the world. Although our parks are not so fine, they are for every man. And each man knows it, and ready he is to tell you.
With the park spread green before me and half of London sauntering its paths, I spied young Mr. Adams coming toward me. He was bantering with a handsome group of acquaintances, all of them laughing in the quiet way gentlemen do. Then Henry Adams saw me plumb ahead. And didn’t he turn the pack of them onto a side path?
Not once did he look back or hint a greeting. I might have been the serpent in the Garden, the way I worried him.
It saddened me. Now, I am not a grand fellow in appearance, but I keep myself clean and tidy. And Henry Adams was no English lord, but an American. Given his lineage, he should have been a good one. I did not wish to join his swank companions—only to be polite, see. But he would not pass a simple hello with a fellow such as me. Not if his English friends were by to witness it.
Now, you will say: “You should not be so proud. Better to be humble and turn the other cheek, like an honest Christian.” But I will tell you: Each of us has something he is proud of, and I was proud to have become an American. Ours is a splendid country, see, as near to Heaven as this earth allows. And I wish to believe all of its promises, not least that we are equal in our dignities. Yes, I am proud of that. And I have done what I could for our good country, in war, when I would have liked to stay at home. And that young pup avoided me like a beggar.
Scorned. That is the word for how he made me feel. I burned inside to give that boy a lesson.
Well, let that bide. His father seemed a good man, and he it was who served as my commander, so to speak. And how the time was running away with every step I walked! Soon enough my Sunday would be gone. I had a call to make, on a business matter, but yearned for a bit of quiet Sunday leisure before resuming my endeavors. I told myself that I might take two hours.
I could not sit upon a bench, for fear of robbing a lady of her repose, should she wish to take it, so I spanked the last rain and dew from a stretch of grass and sat me down. Twas a great relief, for London is large and I had walked enough to bother my leg, which had been annoyed by the scrap in Clobber Alley. My bad leg had not failed in the fight, but now it wanted thanks.
I had an orange, and then another, savoring each burst of juice and the scent left on my fingertips. Finally, I opened up my newspaper.
Temptations aplenty there were. Not only did the International Exhibition spread out before my eyes, just across the Serpentine in the Kensington Gardens, but The Times told of a miraculous display at the Royal Colosseum where, for a shilling—which seemed to be the price of everything this side of Eastcheap—a spectator might admire dioramas of London by day and Paris by night, although a Methodist would skip the latter. Much of the news was commercial, rife with cotton worries. Indian prices had been driven up sharply. Of ships departing for India and similar parts, there was a plentitude. I counted eight vessels listed for Bombay, with fourteen for Calcutta—which made my heart come up—and two destined for Madras. Other ports of call included Rangoon and Kurrachee, Colombo, Singapore and Hong Kong, which is in China. Even the shipping lists were evidence of Britain’s might and majesty.
I noted in the business news from America that railway shares were active and gaining value. That buoyed me, for I had holdings in a pair of railroads. Not as speculation, of course, but as honorable investments in the future.
News of our war there was, so much that the volume surprised me. Our English brethren certainly took an interest. I fear we read of war as women gossip, to enjoy the bitter misery of others.
But to the war.
General Halleck’s authority had been greatly expanded in the west, and I hoped that might prove good news for General Grant, who had grit. Beauregard was at Tupelo and disorganized, although another report placed him at Grenada. The Rebels had retreated from Corinth, anyway, burning all that was useful as they left. Shiloh, as I knew, had left them bereft. I hoped that we would strike while we had an advantage, for Beauregard was no more than a peacock, but I read in the following lines that Halleck believed the Confederates superior in numbers to his own force. That was tosh, for I had seen them myself, and a sorry lot they were, if brave in a ruckus. But we had cautious generals by the dozen. The sort who will not lose, but cannot win.
The news out of Virginia was discouraging. McClellan was stymied before Richmond, after taking a great army south by sea. The Times said the general “declares that he is not in sufficient force to resume the offensive.” Now, I will tell you what such statements mean: They mean a preening general is uncertain, and that the lives lost up to then are wasted.
I never have understood this business of calculating numbers in a battle. But then I was shaped by India, where you just pitched in and gave the devil to anyone in your way. We had to win, and we knew it. So we did.
In a little country town called Warrenton, a guerrilla party had raided the Union garrison, to great discomfiture. And there was high praise for the Confederate fellow Jackson, who had been marching all over Virginia. Finally, the newspaper gave grudging applause to Admiral Farragut, who had captured New Orleans for our Union in a masterstroke some weeks before. Twas clear enough The Times did not like Yankees, but they would not belittle things done proper.
I was just about to fold up the paper and rest my eyes on the clouds, when a bold-faced advertisement caught my eye. Twas for the Great Northern Railway, reminding travellers of the express train that had been running on the East Coast Route. Leaving King’s Cross Station at ten in the morning, it daily reached Edinburgh at eight-thirty in the evening and Glasgow at ten-thirty. Now, that was a speed near miraculous, and Glasgow had been on my mind, of course. But it was not even the remarkable velocity of modern transport to Scotland that straightened my back and opened my eyes and pierced me.
There was, the advertisement said, “an interval of twenty minutes allowed at York for dinners.”
York. Where the second agent’s body had been found. I had almost forgotten those murders that had passed before my coming. But now I recalled the bafflement of Mr. Adams, who could not understand how our agent might have found himself in York.
The poor fellow had not meant to go to York. His body had been taken there by train! There it was before me, plain as could be: Three agents killed, including Mr. Campbell. One found in Glasgow, at the northern terminus, one at York, where the express paused for dinner, and one in London at the southern terminus.
There you have
the good and bad of progress: Men may leave London after breakfast and sleep in a bed in distant Glasgow. And murderers can place bodies wherever they want them, with incredible speed. Face to face I was with modern crime.
I wanted to run to Mr. Adams, but he was still in the country, according to his manservant. And yes, his son’s unpleasantness crossed my mind again, for I could not think of one without the other. But twas the father to whom I needed to speak. For here, at last, I had one bit of information that had not been dangled before me by conspirators. Finally, I had scratched up a hint on my own. I had no other fact that could be trusted entirely, but I knew at last how the corpses had been shunted about. As if they were on holiday, it was.
They, whoever they might be, had placed a body at York because it was an easy way to confuse us, given the speed and convenience of the railway. Kill a fellow in Scotland, and his carcass is still warm when you deposit him in the Yorkshire Dales. That is progress, I suppose. I suspected they had played the same sort of trick with the Reverend Mr. Campbell, dropping him in London to lead us astray. No, the first man had been found in Glasgow, and that was where I wished to take me next. For all three men might have perished in that city.
If any of the dead agents had been left on the spot of their demise, it seemed to me it would have been the first victim, before the conspirators had elaborated their plans and identified engines for their realization. Of the twin teasings I had been given in London—one tempting me to stay, one pushing me to go to Scotland, and one of them surely false—I now believed I had the means to choose between them properly.
I had to go to Glasgow. But I could not go without our minister’s permission. And I feared I might not get it in time to catch that morning train, which would mean another day gone lost. Perhaps, more men, women and children would die for my amusement.
I wanted to go. I needed to go. I had to go.