Bold Sons of Erin

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  I would learn in the years to come that Dolly Walker had an almost ferociously prim sense of how the world should be beyond her walls. Her views were not terribly unlike my own, in some regards. Although I do not mean to suggest a comparison. She once proposed to me that, if wives would carry themselves proper when they went about their business, her establishment would go bankrupt in a fortnight. Her profession taught her the virtues of fidelity, and she always valued kindness above all, although you would not trick her out of a penny. And, to be fair, she never asked for a penny that was not hers by right.

  But let that bide.

  “What else did Kathleen say about Mary Boland?”

  Again, she regarded me with a level of curiosity that approached suspicion. “You know of ’er, too, then? Mary Boland?”

  “I have heard some things said of her, though in another association.”

  “Well, witch or no witch, she sounds like the queen of all the sluts to me,” Mrs. Walker declared. “And she don’t go collecting for it, neither. At least not to ’ear Kathleen tell it. Kathleen was against that marriage from the start, for the woman ’ad a terrible reputation, even among her own kind. I can’t say what Kathleen believed down in her ’eart of ’earts, but she swore to me this Mary was a fairy woman. A ‘changeling,’ she called ’er. The sort what draws men on, whether they’re wishing to go or not. The Irish call it ‘putting the come-’ither’ on a body. But if you ask Dolly Walker, I just call it waving about what shouldn’t be waved in public. Not by a lady.”

  Mrs. Walker grimaced, rendering her fair face unappealing, if only briefly. “Oh, ‘come-’ithers’ and spells be buggered. It ain’t ’alf so fanciful as that. Look ’ere, Major Jones. Some girls ’ave it, some don’t, and there’s an end to it. And I’ve known many a foolish woman in a position like mine who took such a one as that Mary Boland into ’er establishment, thinking the men would come knocking down the doors to get at ’er. But that’s just the trouble. They do come knocking down the doors, and shooting pistols and throwing knives, or pitching acid at the face what troubles them. Killing themselves in the yard, and a dozen kinds of foolishness besides. No, a lady in my position needs to know ’er girls, and she’s a fool if she takes on the sort that don’t know when to stop. Or what can’t stop themselves or the gentlemen.” She shook her head. “It’s bad enough when a fellow can’t control ’imself. But a body expects more discipline from a woman.”

  “So . . . even after her marriage . . . Mrs. Boland was . . . liberal with her favors?”

  “She would’ve disgraced the very ’ore of Babylon,” Mrs. Walker said, “if the ’alf of what Kathleen told me was true. And ’er a married woman, disgracing ’er own good fortune.” She looked at me again. “Oh, Mrs. Jones is a lucky one, I can tell you that. For she kept ’er wits about ’er when she went to ’er picking. She knew it ain’t the shiny apples what tastes. I wish I’d ’ad ’er sense in the days of my youth and my innocence . . .”

  Twas curious, see. I felt compelled to console the woman by telling her not all marriages were perfect in their arrangements. That hearts stray, however much we Christians may regret it. But she seemed to have convinced herself that marriage was the highest form of good, despite the abundant evidence she must have seen to the contrary. But who among us does not have illusions? And I was not about to criticize the institution of marriage to a woman of her calling. Besides, my thoughts were teeming and tumbling, and straying far afield from the dells of happiness.

  Is it witchery, then, when a woman makes a man adore her? Is that all it takes to lead from the bed to the gallows? Or to the stake? I do not believe in spells. But I have had some acquaintance with desire. In my case, it was full of the madness of love. But I have seen love change to the madness of hatred. Was Mary Boland a “witch” because men wanted her? Or did men want her because such things as witches exist among us? Even if their magic is of the flesh?

  I cannot say if there are spells and curses, but I have known enchantment in my life.

  Oh, I had a muchness to ponder.

  “But was there a specific matter that led her homeward just then?” I asked. “A particular incident? If she was Irish, see, I cannot think it would have been a pleasant matter for her to return to Heckschersville. Not after taking up her . . . profession. For the Irish are great ones for the virtues of their women.”

  “Bogtrotters, with patches on their arses and their elbows,” Mrs. Walker said dismissively. “Kathleen wasn’t afraid of that bunch. She ’ad ’er mind made up to go and talk ’er brother back into ’is senses.”

  “About a specific event, though? And how did she plan to go about it?”

  “Oh, she didn’t say so much as that, she didn’t. Only that she’d ’ave a great talk with their priest and remind ’im of ’is duties. Forever mumbling about witches and spells, she was. She felt it was ’is place to keep such things in order. They’re ’opeless in their superstitions, Major Jones, and they think a priest’s as good as Jesus Christ. I told ’er not to go, I did. I told ’er she was well quit of ’im, and lucky at the cost she ’ad to pay.”

  “Quit of . . . of her brother, do you mean?”

  She let out a great and unladylike “Ha!” Then she wrinkled her face as if detecting an odor. “It’s that fancy-boy priest I was talking about. I told ’er she was better off for leaving the patch and getting shut of ’im.” She looked at me as directly as a man might. “Just who do you think made a ruin of ’er in the first place, if not their blessed priest? That one ruined Kathleen worse than the baggage you pick off the streets, with the things ’e made ’er do. But she said she’d ’ave it out with ’im, once and for all. And if ’e wouldn’t ’elp, she’d tell all the world what ’e done.”

  I DASHED FROM THE room, absolving Mrs. Walker of the need to escort me out. After nearly colliding with a pair of alarmingly immodest young women—they chuckled at me, for reasons of their own—I regained the back door and launched myself out through it.

  I knocked down the fellow who was just about to enter. Twas the parson of our chapel, the Reverend Mr. Grimes.

  He went down on all his points, and I was stumbling dizzily. My cane had skated away when our skulls collided, and for a moment or two my balance was as disordered as my senses. But soon enough I digested my victim’s identity and exploded with explanations and apologies. But the parson did not listen. He was more enlivened by the need to excuse his presence at that back door to me. I believe he said something about moral redemption and poor, misguided souls, but his face was as red as the silks of a Sindhi dancing girl.

  I do not believe he heard one word I said. He blathered. Then, with a nasty smile that assured me “I-won’t-tell-if-you-don’t,” the fellow turned his back on the house and scooted down the alley as if dogs were giving him chase.

  Now, I will tell you: Such behavior does not become a Methodist. And certainly not the pastor of a chapel. Beyond that, I will leave you to your judgements.

  Nor did the encounter seem as important as it might have appeared on any other day. My mind was reeling and rushing about, intoxicated by all I had learned from Mrs. Walker. I had at least half of the puzzle, see. I still could not say who murdered General Stone or why, but clear it was that the priest had murdered Kathleen Boland, the child he had seduced and then corrupted. When she returned and threatened him, he had killed her rather than risk her public censure.

  That was, by far, a sorrier matter than Methodists sneaking into disorderly houses.

  I decided to go to Heckschersville as soon as I could arrange it. Even if I arrived there after midnight. I meant to have it out with the priest. And he would not find me so easy to dispose of as a poor, ruined Irish girl.

  I had another fear, as well. I believed the priest had murdered Mary Boland, too. I had not seen her after that morning when I caught the priest scrubbing blood out of his linens. With fresh blood on his shoulder. And I bore much of the blame, if the priest had killed her. For I was the one who had
frightened him by telling him Mrs. Boland watched his house and that I had spoken with her. Twas clear she had known a great deal about the priest’s doings. Likely she knew of the murder of Kathleen Boland.

  I still could not explain why her husband had taken the blame upon himself for the general’s murder and why he had fled from the woman he loved so dearly, no matter her sins. Had Danny Boland been in despair over the murder of his sister? Did he even know of her death? Why had he run shouting his guilt through the streets? Had he come unhinged, or had there been a plot? I could not say, but that priest knew many an answer.

  Had the priest murdered the general, too? Because of something the general had learned? I was not being frivolous in my suspicions, for I will tell you a thing: With murderers, the murdering rarely stops. One crime draws on the next. But how could a man in holy office bring himself to do such evil works?

  I recalled that old Donnelly, the leader of the Irish, had insisted that no man among them had killed the general. Did a priest count as a man to them, with his pledge to live his days out as a celibate? How did their minds work? And what had witches to do with the whole affair? Was superstition their tool, or just a nonsense?

  The priest held the key, and I would have it from him. He would stand trial for the murder of Kathleen Boland. And likely for killing Mary Boland, too. I wondered what he had done with that one’s body? Had he hidden her in his holy ground, as well? And what had become of the waste of Kathleen Boland, after they dug her up again?

  The Irish were devoted to their priests. Yet, they showed a plain dislike of this one. Would they shield him from a charge of murder? The murder of one of their own? Did they hate and fear the rest of us so deeply?

  I hurried me down the steep of the hill from Minersville Street, vaulting along on my cane. Twas a fine thing, that cane, a gift from a wicked man, and yet I kept it. I told myself it was because of the practical blade concealed in it. But the man himself kept a curious hold on me, and we were destined to meet again, in an unexpected place. But let that bide. I hurried across Market Street and up the little slope to Norwegian, where my family would be waiting. There would be no time for pondering the legacies we had received, nor even for the sober calm of mourning. I would have to change into my second-best uniform, to spare my better dress, and hurry along to find myself transportation to Heckschersville. I did not even think to pause for dinner, which is unlike me.

  I had a piece of the solution, and I did not mean to let go until I had the rest.

  I climbed the stoop and went into our house, not without a curious sense of loss. For we had been happy there, although we had only rented it. It had been our first true home. And now a mansion loomed on Mahantango Street, up among the grand folk.

  I felt a shudder within me, as if I could not let my old life go.

  But go I would. I knew that. As surely as I would take me off to that priest’s house.

  That was a day of surprises, I will tell you. Sitting in my parlor was Mr. Matthew Cawber, the great industrial fellow of Philadelphia. And Mr. Cawber was sitting in my chair. I had met him and come to respect him, but had not suspected his business ties to Mr. Evans until I heard the will read out that day. And now he was in my home, which was a humble place, compared to the mansions he dwelt in.

  Mr. Cawber was not a particularly large man, yet he always seemed to crowd the room he occupied.

  My darling was passing him coffee. She looked a handsome woman in her mourning rig. A lady who can wear black is said to be the very truest of all beauties. Queer to say, young John sat at Cawber’s feet, staring up at the man in fascination, although he had yet to master his fear of me. Fanny watched him, too, from her chair by the coal stove.

  And Mr. Cawber was a sight to see. He was the blackest white man that ever I have known. His whiskers, given a touch of gray by the tragic loss of his wife, climbed almost to the sockets of his eyes, and his hairs were menacing wires. He looked like that Vulcan fellow in the myths, which suited, I suppose, since he had made his fortune casting iron. His hair was black, his eyes were black, his dress was black, and the look upon his face was black as coal. He was the sort who glowered even at those persons well-disposed toward him.

  He grunted when he saw me and did not rise. He never was a fellow for formality.

  “Abel Jones,” he said, as if reading a label set upon me. “This whip-smart wife of yours has more sense than twenty bankers and a nigger bootblack put together.” He took his coffee from her and muttered his thanks. “That’s a rotten scar you picked up on your cheek. You look like the devil.”

  I do not look like the devil.

  “Good it is to see you, Mr. Cawber. Although I am surprised—”

  “Right. I know what they say. ‘Matt Cawber’s gone mad, lost all his senses.’ Let ’em talk. They’ll find out. Here I am.” He took a smacking sip of Mary’s coffee.

  “Yes, Mr. Cawber. But I don’t—”

  “Sit down,” Mr. Cawber said, as if the house were his own. “And listen.”

  I sat me down. It is not that he wished to be rude. But he had a broken-knuckles way about his every gesture. As if he had been slugging all his life. And for much of that life, he had been.

  “Jones, I knew what was in that will. Came up here before you could do anything foolish. Evans Coal and Iron. You can’t manage it. Even if you take that idiotic soldier suit off, you’re not an engineer. And mining’s engineering, first and foremost. Unless you just mean to dig a pit and die in it.” He grunted. “Too many fools around here already. All talking on and on about their ‘Mammoth Vein.’ Well, it’s only mammoth if you can get to it. State engineers told them years ago. The seam drops off and goes a mile deep. Deeper. They wouldn’t listen. Dug blind. Now three-quarters of them are wondering what to do and crawling down Broad Street begging for loans. Except for old Johns. Smart man, Johns. Evans was nearly as smart as Johns, but he always shied away from the bigger risks, whether they made sense or not. Still, Evans Coal and Iron is one of the few outfits that holds leases on lands that are worth going at with a pick and shovel. Those leases, and the land Evans bought outright, amount to pure gold, my friend.” Mr. Cawber made a fist to warn the world. “The money men are either going to try to buy you out, or they’ll run you out. So I’m going to take care of things for you. I’m going to take your worst worries off your hands.”

  “Mr. Cawber,” I began, as my darling passed me my own cup of coffee, “Evans Coal and Iron is not for sale. Not even to you. Look you, we—”

  “I didn’t say a damn thing—pardon me, ladies—I didn’t say a thing about buying anything. Now, did I?”

  “No, but—”

  “Why don’t you just sit down on your hat and listen to me?” His black brows had gathered until his impatience appeared volcanic. “I don’t plan to buy anything. You’re going to give me a one-third share in Evans Coal. You and Mrs. Walker, between you. By the way, I hear that woman has a good business head on her shoulders.” He snorted. With him, it was a form of punctuation. “You’re going to give me a one-third share, and I’m going to do three things for you. First, I’m going to back you with the capital you need to dig deep, and to do it the right way. You couldn’t afford it, even if you were to touch your wife’s inheritance. Which you’d be a fool to do. Second, I’m going to protect you from the Reading. The railroad crowd are the ones who want to buy you out. They’re setting out to construct an empire for themselves. If you won’t sell, they’ll blacklist you and refuse to carry your coal unless you pay fees so high you’ll be bankrupt in three months. When you’re really up against it, they’ll tell you they don’t have any cars available to carry your coal and they’ll laugh while you count the empties rolling down the valley. But I can turn the tables on them. They’ll be begging to haul our coal, at discounted rates. Third, I’m going to bring in the finest mining engineer on two continents and put him in charge of the practical side of things. And I’m going to pay Tom Caxton so well he’ll just laugh if any
body tries to bribe him or hire him away. His salary’s going to be my affair, and I’ll take that charge myself. But we’re going to pay fair wages, top to bottom, even if we have to take a loss now and then. I’ll put in capital to start, but our long-term aim is going to be to build up capital. We’re not going to put a penny into our own pockets for five years. We’re just going to stack it up. To get us through the bad years, when they come. And they always come. That’s when we’re going to want to have the ready funds to buy up property ourselves. You can decide who keeps the books. I trust you when it comes to watching the cash box. But I’ll approve or disapprove of any capital investment above one thousand—no, above five hundred dollars. Caxton will come directly to me about that kind of thing. At least until you come to your senses and get rid of that peacock soldier suit of yours.”

  He held out his hand. It bristled with hair, all the way down to the knuckles. Still more hair escaped his cuff.

  “Deal?”

  I looked at the fellow. I did not like to appear a weakling in front of my own family, you understand, nor do I like to be bullied. Not that I believed Mr. Cawber meant me ill. Much to the contrary. But he was the sort of fellow who would knock down any door he encountered before he bothered to try if it was unlocked. He recalled to my mind that Hindoo god who is a destroyer and creator all at once. I had to hesitate for the sake of my manhood, see.

  Cawber glowered at my evident mulling. “Yes or no? Do we have a deal or not? I don’t have time to waste.”

  “Mr. Cawber, I cannot speak for Mrs. Walker, and—”

  “I’m not asking you to speak for Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Walker can speak for herself. Do you and I have a deal? Yes or no?”

  He looked as if he would leap from his chair and begin to tear down the house if I failed to answer.

  “Yes,” I said, with a sidelong glance at Mary. She did not look as if she disapproved.