Bold Sons of Erin

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  Mr. Lincoln hinted to Boss McClure and Governor Curtin that, if the law could not be satisfied, it might be enough should it appear that the law had been satisfied. And that had been sufficient for Mr. McClure, who called on the wisdom of Mr. Benjamin Bannon, Pottsville’s own newspaper editor and speculator, who had been made our commisioner of the draft in reward for his party services. Between Mr. Bannon and Mr. McClure, our county enlistment rolls were tallied in such a remarkable way that it proved our draft quota had been met and exceeded, collapsing the need to complete the registration in Cass Township, that bloody-minded, errant outpost of Ireland. Mr. Lincoln was determined to fight our war to the finish, but he never fought unnecessary battles.

  “What ever was he thinking?” Mr. Gowen grumbled on, “this rail-splitting hero of yours? Calling for a draft, then announcing that he intends to emancipate the nigger? What does he expect the Irish to think, for God’s sake? As it is, they can’t support their families, boom year or not. And, I might add, all because of the incompetence and mismanagement of colliery owners too blind to see the economies consolidation would bring them.” He shook his head in wonder at such foolishness. “Millions to be made. Millions, Jones. Yet, the skilled miner can’t be paid a living wage, and the colliery laborer lives a life of wretchedness. Then you tell him the nigger’s to be freed to come north and do his work for half a loaf.”

  “Mr. Lincoln did not tell that to anyone. I believe the telling was by the Democratic Party, in these last elections of ours.”

  “Let’s not make this a political discussion, Jones.”

  Now, I had gathered my temper back in and wanted no further fuss. “On that we are in accord, Mr. Gowen. Look you. Disagree we may about certain matters, but we both wish to have peace here in our homes. It is best that we appear united, at least where the law is concerned. And I have told you what I found last evening. There is a murdered girl set in that coffin. And not Daniel Patrick Boland, who likely is in Canada by now.”

  “There’s no record of the murder of a young woman—or of any other woman—these last several months. Nor even of a disappearance. I’ve told you that.” He steeled himself to look me in the eyes. His own were brown, but cold as the coldest blue. “I don’t see the point in stirring up any more trouble. And we don’t want to frighten people with tales of murdered young women, I don’t think. What would you prove? For God’s sake, man, even if there is a woman in the box, if no one’s reported her missing, she can hardly be of consequence. Perhaps she’s a beggar-girl, or a gypsy they found dead by the side of the road.”

  “Or perhaps she is not from our county,” I said. “Or it may be that her death was kept concealed. I cannot say. But this much I will tell you, Mr. Gowen: A girl is dead, and murdered as ugly as the sins of ancient Rome. Before her, a brigadier general of the United States Volunteers was assassinated. That is two murders. And you are the district attorney, I believe. Now, I would think that you might take an interest.”

  “Some things take time. I’ve hardly taken office.”

  “Time will not help us solve these murders, see.”

  “If murders they are.”

  “General Stone was stabbed in the heart, I am told. Where he had stopped along the high road to Minersville. And the girl was stabbed until her body was pulped like a rotten apple. I think we may conclude that such is murder.”

  “And you suggest they’re related? These murders? I don’t necessarily see it.”

  “The man reported to have killed the general was said by every soul in Heckschersville and Thomaston to have died of cholera. But this is not the cholera season, and no other case was reported. And in the fellow’s supposed grave I found a murdered girl. Now, Mr. Gowen, I cannot say how these matters are related, but a reasonable man might think them tied together.”

  “In the pursuit of justice, nothing may be assumed.”

  “In the pursuit of justice,” I responded, “much must be assumed. And I assume that I will have the cooperation of the authorities of this county.” I had my letter back in my hand and I gave it the slightest of waves.

  He stared at me hard for a moment. Hard as coal deep in the earth. “You realize, Jones, that I’m the man who passed your name on last year, when a good fellow was wanted. I saw to it that your name went all the way to George McClellan. I got you started in this business. Now you’re a major. We’re members of the same social class now, you know. We have shared interests.”

  “I am not certain that I owe you thanks, Mr. Gowen. For happier I was working at my sums in the War Department. And I believe you would be happier if I were still there, too. That is what I think, begging your pardon. But we have both come some distance over the months. And now we have a task we must face together. To keep the peace while our country is at war.”

  Yes, he had passed along my name. As a fellow who knew his place and would do as ordered. Young Mr. Gowen had known a part of me, see, from our slight Pottsville acquaintance. But he was a man who drew conclusions quickly. In the end twas that would tumble him from his throne.

  “And . . . you want me to provide you with political backing while you dig up that grave?”

  “No, Mr. Gowen. I want you simply to enforce the law. You know as well as I do myself that, if soldiers are sent to dig her up now, there will be riot and bloodshed. It must be done by the hands of the local authorities. By men the miners may trust to some degree. By the power of civil law and hands they know. With mine the only uniform in evidence.”

  He snorted. “They might decide to hang you, anyway. As the district attorney, I could not guarantee your safety.” He smiled at a small, private amusement. “And I don’t think our noble sheriff would be much help.”

  “Then I will take my chances. But the grave must be opened proper. Perhaps you could approach the Catholics to have the local priest see that order is kept. The Irish will listen to such.”

  “I’m not sure they even listened to Bishop Wood when he was here.”

  “Well, I leave that much to you, the matter of writs and priests. But we must open the grave and take her out.”

  “And when do you expect to do this, pray tell?”

  “This afternoon would be best. If that cannot be managed, then tomorrow. In the morning.”

  “Can’t be done today. Or tomorrow.”

  “It will be done tomorrow, if not today. For the people by the graveyard must not be given time to think too much of matters. Certain I am that they are already unhappy.”

  “Doubtless. Once they found one of their graves disturbed.”

  Now, there is a thing I did not tell our district attorney. I did not tell him about the woman I caught in the wood, who I judged to be Mrs. Boland. She had astonished me, and repelled me. But the wretched creature would not leave my thoughts. I had thought of her as I washed myself clean at the pump in our backyard. I thought of her as I walked, as a man remembers a serpent found in his cellar. And I thought of her now. I planned to seek her out, to find a way to press her for answers. I was not yet convinced that she was mad. I had met things in India the wantonness of which refuses words. Suffice to say that demons lurk in some men. And in certain women, though you disbelieve me. I feared that woman, and smelled her in my nostrils.

  “Well, then . . .” Mr. Gowen rustled about his desk, as if we had agreed our talk was ended, “. . . I suppose we’ll have to see what can be done by tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Of course, the federal government will pay all costs.”

  “All costs within reason, Mr. Gowen.”

  He nodded. Then he threw a lever inside himself, the way a switchman throws one along the railway. He primped himself back to a confidence and straightened up his shoulders.

  “You know, Jones . . . you and I do have a great deal in common, if only we let ourselves see it. Politically, we may not see eye to eye, of course. But politics are hardly permanent. Quicksilver, rather. Let me be frank: I’m well aware of those railroad investments of yours. You’ve been b
uying up shares with every penny in your pocket.” He smacked his lips, as if approving of a tasty stew. “Well done, that’s what I say! Good for you! There’s money to be made, and if anything will win this war, it’s going to be capital. Making money is the most patriotic thing a man can do.”

  I looked at him reproachfully, giving the floor a slight tap with my cane.

  “One of the most patriotic things a man can do,” he corrected himself. “But I also know you’ve been relying on Matt Cawber, following his money with your own. Well, Cawber’s yesterday’s man. Over the hill. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. Ever since his wife died, he’s become the laughing stock of Philadelphia. Tearing down a mansion he’d only just built.” Mr. Gowen tutted. “They say he doesn’t even wash himself anymore.”

  “Mr. Cawber grieves for his late wife, I believe. She was a great, high beauty, and he loved her.”

  “Oh, grief. Yes. Well and good. But that sort of thing can be carried too far, don’t you think? Anyway, take my advice. Pull your money out of those western railroads and put it right here, in the Reading. I tell you, Jones, the good years have only begun here in the anthracite fields. This war’s a blessing, whatever little problems it may create. And the Reading’s going to be the queen of all the railways in this land. She’s going to become an empire, an empire of capital. Harrisburg is bound to amend the laws, to clear the way for the big investor, for the combination of resources. One power has to own the land, the mines, the collieries, the railroads, the waterways . . . even the docks in Philadelphia and New York. The ships that carry the coal. All in one great empire.”

  His eyes looked into the future he described, and I sat largely forgotten. “That’s what this is: the Age of Empire. An Empire of Capital. And it’s going to belong to men of vision, modern men. Even old man Heckscher doesn’t understand. He thinks small. And that goes for Johns, too. And for Evans, your wife’s uncle. It’s all about consolidation, about concentrations now. The age of the small operator, of the family shop, is over. They’ve got the right idea up in Luzerne County, but we’re going to overtake them. Wait and see. Give me ten years, and you’ll see a changed landscape for business. Economies of scale, the efficiency of the monopoly.” His expression grew rich as a cream sauce. “We have great years ahead of us. Great decades. If anything’s holding this county back, it’s nothing but damned obstinacy.” He fingered his watch a final time—and now he paused to mark the fleeing time. “This war’s destroying the old ways of doing business, that’s the one good thing I’ll say of it. Whatever else may happen, American industry can never turn back now . . .”

  He looked at me again, as if he had just remembered my existence. “As an upstanding citizen of this county, you should want to be part of it. All that money your wife’s minting with her dressmaking business—I hear she’s taken on a third seamstress—at least put that much in the Reading. We can all grow rich together.” He stared at me intently. “If we’re not afraid to do what must be done.”

  I nodded, but only to pass the time and not in true agreement. “I did not know you were associated with the Reading Railroad,” I told Mr. Gowen.

  He smiled. “I will be.”

  THREE

  AS I LEFT MR. GOWEN’S OFFICE AND CROSSED CHURCH Alley, I spotted Mr. Heckscher once again, entering the Pennsylvania Hall Hotel with his foreign companion. Doubtless, they had their midday meal in mind, for bells across the town pealed twelve o’clock, and mine own thoughts had turned from death to sustenance.

  I would have liked to take my meal at home, but there is sorry. The stove would be cold, with nothing in the pot. For my Mary Myfanwy was at her dressmaking establishment, hard at work as if she were a man.

  Now, I believe a woman must have her freedoms—we are not the Musselman captors of our brides—and proud I was of my darling’s commercial success. It kept her busy while I served our Cause. But a wife belongs at home when her husband needs her.

  I will not deceive you. The first tensions of our married life had arisen between us. Sometimes I think the world has gone topsy-turvy. Our modern age runs like a wild horse, and war whips the beast to a fury. The days grow disordered, men mock the good, and liberties are taken without asking. At times, I fear the deepest bonds will break.

  A brazier-boy sold chestnuts on the corner where I would have turned my steps, had my wife been at home. I bought a portion of the fruits, wrapped in a paper cone. They warmed my hand against the bite of the day. With age, I have grown to like the meat of the chestnut, pungent and bittersweet. It confounds the tongue pleasantly, and the texture reminds me of certain foods of India, where I left my youth behind and more besides.

  I had a muchness to ponder as I walked amid the horse smells and the rush of delivery boys. And my thoughts were not only of the insubordination of our modern ladies. I wondered at Mr. Gowen’s ill-matched concerns. He sought to shield the Irish from outsiders, yet argued that all virtues lay with capital. Twas clear enough he wanted no part of digging up the grave with the murdered girl. But he would play his part, indeed, or I would go directly to Judge Parry, who was a man impatient of all nonsense.

  I peeled a chestnut, laid it warm on my tongue, and wondered if young Mr. Gowen knew his own mind.

  Nor could I forget that murdered girl, whose fate seemed to concern no one but me. The sudden recollection of her rottenness was near enough to put me off my chestnuts. She had not seemed a gypsy or a beggar, as Mr. Gowen suggested she might have been. Of course, I cannot claim a thorough inspection. But something was rotten in Heckschersville, if not in the state of Denmark.

  Have you ever noticed Mr. Shakespeare’s affinity for graves? He ponders death, as all good Christians should. I sucked the sweetness from another chestnut. And I thought of the living woman, Mrs. Boland, who was so queer, then of Macbeth’s witches and Cleopatra. I do think Mr. Shakespeare had Welsh blood. He had an eye for the oddities in mankind that would elude the sharpest eye in England.

  It had come as a great surprise to me when Mr. Lincoln told me I was to go home to Pottsville to look into the murder of a general. Of course, I was the obvious choice, since I knew the place and the people. But our president had been cryptic, which was unlike him. Even Mr. Nicolay, his private secretary and, I thought, an honest friend to me, had been a very miser with his facts. I was told only that Brigadier General Carl Stone had been jaunting about the coal fields in an attempt to raise a regiment of volunteers. He had nothing to do with the draft or its enforcement. Yet, they found him dead south of Heckschersville, atop a hill along the Thomaston Turnpike. Stabbed in the chest, but otherwise unmarked. He last had been seen alive in Ryan’s Hotel, a ramshackle house in Heckschersville itself.

  Deep I was in my ruminations and chestnuts, when a tableau of the streets asked my attention.

  A woman in a ragged shawl dragged a boy through the mud, crying, “Get-tup, or Oi’ll take the belt to ye, oncet we’re ta home. Oh, ye’ll be gettin’ the belt but good, Oi’m tellin’ ye truly.”

  The child was willful, strong and unafraid.

  “Oh, sir,” the woman called to me, a perfect stranger, “did ye ever see the likes o’ this one here?”

  Now, children are fond of me, for I do not worry them, and I paused to see if I might lend assistance.

  “Obey your mother, and you will have a chestnut,” I bid the lad.

  He wiped a blot of mud from his brow and said, “Shove your dirty chestnut up your ass, Shorty.” But change his behavior he did. Of a sudden, he clutched his mother and begged, “You won’t go off with that one, will you, Ma?”

  I thought it best to make my way along.

  MR. LINCOLN AND MR. NICOLAY HAD made it clear they wanted no reports sent over the telegraph. Nor was I to discuss the least thing I found with anyone else, but only with one of those two. It seemed a fuss to me. Generals had been promoted in plenty—Washington fair stank with them, from the saloon bars to the lowest harlot’s alley—but there was a special matter to do with this fel
low. They told me less than I would have told a bootblack.

  I admit I was affronted by their secrecy, though self-regard is always out of place. I do believe that was the sin of vanity in me, about which Mr. Wesley warned us, as surely as do the Testaments, Old and New. Yet, I had served my masters well and loyally. And now I was not trusted with full knowledge of a matter I was expected to explain.

  I had set aside another business I was pursuing for Mr. Lincoln, an affair of folly, if not of treachery, at Harper’s Ferry earlier in the autumn. I took me up to Pottsville on the railways, only to find my old friend Hughes the Trains overseeing the loading of the general’s coffin—sealed with leads—onto a freight wagon in the yards. The box was to go to Washington, without the least delay, and a trio of armed soldiers would travel with it. Next, I had learned from the provost that the murderer had been found out, a miner named Daniel Boland, only to die of cholera the very same day. The authorities seemed relieved and disinclined to question the coincidence. But that was all too neat for Abel Jones. And so it was I went to digging up corpses. And found a girl who should have been a man.

  Troubling none, I was on my way to Market Street, where my darling keeps her shop. If I could not eat her cooking at home, I might at least feast my eyes upon my beloved. For she is fair as Heaven on a Sunday. Strolling and tipping my hat I went, amid the noontide hubbub, wishing I had bought a double portion of chestnuts.

  Footsteps rushed up behind me.

  A hand dropped onto my shoulder.

  A voice roared into my ear.

  “Jones, Jones! Major Jones! I saw you going in and coming out! I saw you! Had to catch you, had to come out after you! Gowen can’t be trusted in the least! Don’t trust that man!”

  A very storm of spittle and breath swept over me, nor was the breath as sweet as one might wish. Twas Mr. Bannon, the editor of our newspaper and commissioner of the draft, a man in the prime of life and well respected. The Republican Party looked to him for sagacity and the anthracite industry looked to his paper for figures, and he and his brothers owned at least half the town.