Captains and the Kings by Taylor Caldwell
Joseph read the slip of paper: "Plans changed. Tonight at midnight, not tomorrow." Mr. Montrose deftly retrieved the paper and carefully burned it with the tip of his cheroot and deposited the ashes into the tray and then stirred them thoroughly. At Joseph's inquiring look he said, "We never question how messages are delivered. It may seem melodramatic to you but melodrama is a natural side of life, however pragmatists may deplore it." He sighed. "Now I must leave my own message to our banker friends tonight, regretting the delay for a few days. It is a nuisance. You may think I am a little too cautious, Mr. Francis, but delays can be dangerous. We must go to the concert, for the tickets are in my name, and I have the customary seats, and absence would be noted and commented upon. I suggest that we do not converse at the concert, and that I leave a few moments before you, and I will wait and then you will join me." He poured the wine just brought to the table and savored his own glass. "Excellent," he said. "A splendid rose." Joseph knew that he must not ask questions. He considered the wild duck placed before him, and its exotic sauce, and took up his knife and fork. The meat was too pungent for his ascetic tastes and the sauce unpleasant. But he had long ago* schooled himself to accept food of any kind, remembering his years of starvation. He forced himself to eat, and forced himself to sip at the wine. The hysterically happy babble and laughter all about him was unbearably intrusive, and his deep Irish melancholy, without a reason he could fathom, fell on him again. The music of the distant ballroom enhanced his gloom. He said, in an effort to disperse it and because something constantly worried him: "The colonel, Mr. Montrose. You mentioned to him that Mr. Healey had chosen me, and therefore implied that he should treat me with consideration. Yet, on our immediate meeting he insulted me, and so insulted Mr. Healey. Would that not show a disregard for Mr. Healey, such as he had never shown before?" Mr. Montrose drank musingly and gazed at Joseph over his glass. Then he put it down. "That is very astute of you. What conclusions would you draw?" "That he intends to betray us, as I said before." Joseph was surprised to see Mr. Montrose's eyes brighten at the thought of danger and he said to himself that though he would never retreat from it if an advantage was involved he would never like it or be pleased at the prospect. But Mr. Montrose, he suspected, loved danger for itself and Would even court it, as a wild mistress wooed at extraordinary times, in spite of his concern for caution. Mr. Montrose said, "You believe he has had a rush of conscience to the head or the heart?" "No, I don't think he has either. It is something else, and has nothing to do with us personally." "Urn," said Mr. Montrose, and thoughtfully puffed at his cheroot. "That is interesting. You may be wrong, you know, and you may be right. I have considerable respect for your intuitions. I think I will go doubly armed and make some changes by messenger to the docks." He lifted his glass again. "Is this duck not delightful? Let us enjoy ourselves." He smiled at Joseph and there was a little subtle excitement in his smile and a tensing, catlike, in his body. Then Joseph, with his powerful Irish intuition, understood that in many men there is a suicidal urge, not without delight, and this explained a considerable number of those who worked for Mr. Healey. He, himself, was not among them though he had no love for life as they, themselves, obviously did.
Chapter 19
They left the hotel after dinner, now clad in discreetly dark clothing, and carrying with them leather cases. Joseph, as did Mr. Montrose, wore a pistol holster under his long black coat and in a pocket in the coat he carried the extra pistol. The coachman was waiting for them, as mute as before, and they entered the carriage in silence. Joseph knew that Mr. Healey owned the clipper, Isabel, and that it was his crew aboard, augmented by those Colonel Braithwaite had sent for the night's work. Beyond this his interest did not extend. He sat back on the cushions of the carriage and looked indifferently through the polished windows at the street scenes, the gay seething on Fifth Avenue, under the yellow gas lamplight which lit up the frail green arbors of the new trees and splashed the flagged and brick walks and the cobblestones with flickering amber light and caught a woman's face under a spring bonnet or the flash of a smile or the gleam of a tall silk hat. The streets milled with vehicles of all sorts, filled with ladies and gentlemen on the way to various festivities, and laughter rippled everywhere, and Joseph could hear the crack of whips, the neighing of impatient horses and the rattle of carriages striving to find a passage through the throngs. Every intersection seemed choked with carriages and horses, striving to enter the main stream of Fifth Avenue, and harness glistened under the street lamps and the lacquered carriages, black, dark red, bright blue, green, bore vividly painted scenes on their sides, and every window showed a smiling bobbing head, a waving gloved hand, the movement of a fan, the color of a mantle or a pretty dress. The side streets were less brightly lit, only an occasional uncertain light fluttering down on the heavy and barely moving traffic. Over it all was the pungent smell of drains and dust and heated stone and manure.
Joseph saw something else besides all this gaiety and rapid movement. fT He savv tnc ''ttle boys, many of them not over five, standing ragged and j; silent in doorways, dumbly offering wilted bouquets of flowers or baskets i of sweetmeats and sundry other cheap articles, or timidly holding out f shoeshine boxes, or even begging cups. Many of them were pitted by f smallpox, and Joseph saw their haggard childish faces, starved and hopeless and bony, and their feverish and pleading eyes. Among them sat or moved old women in torn shawls, humbly competing with the children for the occasional carelessly thrown penny. The police were everywhere. If a beggar became too desperately importunate he or she was touched smartly by a club and ordered on. Against the dark sky rose the high spires of the churches, the tallest edifices in the city. Then traffic temporarily came to a halt as a number of decently dressed young and old men, poor but clean, moved from a side street carrying placards. Joseph could read them: LINCOLN, THE DICTATOR LINCOLN, THE MAN ON HORSEBACK/ DOWN WITH WAR! DOWN WITH THE DRAFT! FREE SPEECH/ END THE MURDER/ BRING HOME OUR BOYS/ FREEDOM AND THE RIGHTS OF MAN/ The police sauntered to the. curbs and darkly watched the silent parade of the protesters, ready for incipient riot. But the men moved in a quiet phalanx, looking straight ahead, their bearded faces stern and impassive. They wound their way through masses of horses and carriages and pedestrians. Now their solemn march was broken by jeering whistles, by calls of "Cowards! Traitors!" Some coachmen lifted whips and struck at them. Some spat into their faces. Some reared their horses beside and in front of them. But steadily and peacefully they moved on, across Fifth Avenue and onto another side street. "Quakers, probably," said Mr. Montrose. "Or perhaps just fathers and sons or husbands.
How dare they try to interfere with such a lovely war! Very insolent of them." Flags and bunting hung from every window and near every doorway. Somewhere a roving group of dashingly dressed young men began to sing: "When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah!" "Yes, indeed," said Mr. Montrose. The young men, half drunk, laughing loudly, pranced in the rear of the ;«flent marchers, taunted them, jeered at them, poked them with canes, ; made grotesque faces at them, and mimicked them. Those in carriages .S laughed in appreciation and nodded and waved hands. But the marching Hien looked straight ahead as if only they were on the streets. "Futile," said Mr. Montrose, in amusement. The carriage moved on, ing for space in the traffic.
Horsecars mingled with the carriages and other vehicles, clomping steadily away, lanterns swaying within, and faces peering through the dusty windows at the more affluent parade. Mr. Montrose rolled up a window to shut out the noise which increased as the night increased. He looked sideways at Joseph, wondering at the young man's thoughts, but Joseph's face was hidden in the shadow of his tall respectable silk hat. He sat absolutely still. Occasionally lamplight fell on his gloved hands; they did not move. They were clasped as dead as stone on the head of his Malacca cane. His thin legs were rigid in their black pantaloons. Joseph was thinking: It is nothing to me. It has nothing to do with me. Joseph had read of halls of music but he had never seen such baroque
The young lady he had seen through the window of a train sat there, wan and strained in a lilac silk dress with a deep yoke of creamy lace just hardly concealing her breast. Her tawny hair, undressed and without jewels, feathers or flowers, hung down her back. Her beautiful face was set in a pleasant and amiable expression, for she was surrounded by men and women obviously her friends, but her eyes were sunken in dark hollows and her lovely mouth was pale and a little tremulous. She kept touching her lips and brows with a lace kerchief, and her expression, when un- watched, was remote and tragic, and her eyes kept roving in a kind of mute despair. She wore no gems but the dazzle of diamonds and emeralds he had seen on her hand before. A heavy shock ran through Joseph. He stared up at her. Feeling, perhaps, the focus of his eyes, she looked down at him but her own eyes were blinded with misery and she evidently did not really see him. Someone in the box spoke to her. Joseph could see the soft whiteness of her tilted chin, the pearly perfection of her colorless face, the starlike shadow of the lashes on her cheek, the tender cleft between her young breasts. She was speaking softly and politely, but her weariness was evident. Her round white arms and gloved hands were listless, and her ringers held a large fan of multicolored featjiers but did not move it. Suddenly and helplessly, her eyes closed. She leaned back in the chair and apparently sank into a doze, her lips parted like the lips of a child, the lilac silk crumpling and glowing over her collapsed figure. Then Joseph knew her. He had seen that pallid sadness before, and he remembered. This was Mrs. Tom Hennessey, the wife of the florid senator. A young gentleman in the box emerged from the dimness behind and carefully laid a silvery mantle over the girl. Some of the ladies leaned forward, and one or two winked and tittered behind their fans. The other gentlemen leaned forward and spoke in concerned voices. The girl slept in her exhaustion, her head thrown back against the purple velvet of her deep chair, her chin raised pathetically. Mr. Montrose sat next to Joseph but not by the smallest gesture or glance did he convey knowledge of him. However, so acute was he that he felt some disturbance and glanced through the corner of his eye at the younger man. Joseph appeared to be in a state of frozen shock. Mr. Montrose wondered, but did not speak to him. Then he saw that Joseph was staring up at the sleeping girl in the box above, and he was intrigued. A pretty enough piece, there, and a lady, but she was evidently sleeping off too much wine and too much rich food, and had probably danced too late into this morning. Mr. Montrose had no objection to silly frivolous women, but he was surprised that Joseph should be looking up at her so fixedly. He J had thought better of the young man. She seems to be dying, thought Joseph, and the women around her titter and look knowing. Where is her abominable husband? Why is it not possible for me to go to her, to carry her from this place and let her sleep in peace? In some quiet spot where I could sit beside her and watch over her- Away from blood and death and wounds- He loolxs* entranced, thought Mr. Montrose. She must be at least three years older than he. Does he know her? Impossible. She seemed familiar to Mr. Montrose. He had seen her before, at a distance. Then it came to him: Tom Hennessey's wife, and Mr. Montrose could have laughed aloud. The chandeliers began to dim slowly but steadily, and in laughing protest the roar of voices rose higher. The stage brightened. There were various perfumed flurries in the aisles and smothered mirth as coveys of late arrivals tripped to their seats, exuding fresh warmth, stirring the air with flutters and gestures and ribbons and laces and quick whispers and soft little sounds and coy apologies as they subsided. Joseph watched the stage; his hands gripped the arms of his chair. He said to himself that he was a fool, a puling imbecile, for he had lost control of himself in one devastating moment, and he realized with considerable inward terror that he was not as invulnerable as he had believed and that he, too, could be weak. Two young men in elaborate clothing and ruffled shirts stepped silently from the wings. They might have been twins, with their thin white faces, large dark eyes, tensed mouths and long dark hair swept over their brows and down over their ears, and they were impeccable, their boots slim and shining. They halted at mid-stage and bowed to the audience, which was just barely quieting and there was a condescending spatter of applause and the ladies patted their gloved hands together graciously. Now the hall was in almost complete darkness and the stage was full of light. The two young pianists seated themselves on their respective benches and glanced over the pianos at each other then lifted their hands and brought their long fingers down on the keys. Polonaise (Militaire) the program had said. Joseph had not known what to expect for he had never heard great music before, and intense as his imagination was he was still not prepared for the tremendous emotion that took him when the poignant and masculine notes sprang from the instruments. There was a whisper of other instruments under the pianos, but they dominated it, as the sun dominates the light about it, which it has created, itself. From the brief note on the program Joseph understood that the music was the spiritual expression of an oppressed nation which could never be conquered, that it sang of the heart and the indomitable power of the human soul, courageous, unvanquished even in death. It was a sublime victory over the world, and all its meanness and squalid pain and its little passions, and its prison houses and its despair.