Captains and the Kings by Taylor Caldwell
head humming. His wife! Timothy's thoughts rang with wild surmises of bigamy, of madness, of polygamy, of threatened scandal, of a brood of unknown brats, of blackmail. The Press! He put his hands to his head and groaned. Rory was giving the number of his suite. Now his voice was the voice of a boy, speaking with his first love, exuberant, joyous, excited. His face was the face of a lover. His weariness was forgotten. He was bending over the telephone as if he would kiss it, devour it. His eyes shone and glittered, became deeply blue. lie glowed. He radiated delight. His voice was deep, shaken, stammering. Then he said, "Until tonight, my darling, my Maggie." He hung up the receiver, slowly, lingeringly, reluctantly, listening to the last when only silence was there. He turned to Timothy. He tried to speak, then sat down on the bed, clasping his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. His throat worked. He said, "It was Maggie. My wife." Then his face changed, became savage and terrible. "That son of a bitch. My father." Then he told the aghast Timothy. He spoke without emotion, but Timothy could sense the charge of rage and hatred that impelled his voice which was slow and without emphasis. "All these years," he said, and he seemed heavily indifferent. "All these wasted years. I haven't been alive. Only partly alive. He did that to me, and I thought he-I thought he had some feeling for me. He did that to me. He must have known what that would mean, but he didn't care. I could kill him. Perhaps I will." Now his look changed again, and his face was eloquent with sorrow and despair and incredulous acceptance. "He did that to me, his son." "Now, wait a minute, Rory," said Timothy, who was sweating with his own emotions. "I've known your father a long time, since you were only a child. If he did that, then he did it for you. A nice Boston girl, who couldn't meet his ambitions for you. You had to have someone who was -important-and spectacular, though I hate that word. Someone who was known, who could do you proud, as your father would say. Someone perfect for your position. Claudia is that. Perfect for the wife of a politician. Come on, Rory. You are a man, not a boy in his first, puberty. You must realize your father did it for you." "For me, for what?" Timothy tried to smile, and it was sickly. "You know what Kipling said about women. A woman's only a woman. But you are a man, with a future. Your father knew that. Give him his due, Rory. I know it must have hurt- when it happened. But you aren't a kid any longer. You have to be realistic. If the young lady is-willing-well, romp awhile with her tonight, though God knows how I'll manage it, to keep down scandal. She isn't a kid herself, any longer. How old? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? She should have had better sense than to call you, you a married man with four children. Women! A middle-aged woman, older than Claudia." "My wife," said Rory. "I never had any other wife, all these years. I comimitted the worst kind of bigamy when I married Claudia." "Who happens to be devoted to you," said Timothy, with pity. "Claudia loves only her image in the looking glass," said Rory, and so dismissed his wife. "Maggie. Let her in tonight, Tim. She's the only thing I have, and I mean it." He threw himself down on the bed and moved restlessly, as if hisi thoughts were too tumultuous to let him be still. "I'll take it all up with dear Papa, when I get home," he said. "I'll divorce Claudia. I'll marry Maggie again, and the hell with everything. 'Marry her again?' Why, I was always married to her, my Maggie, my darlin'." "Jaysus," said Timothy, and threw up his hands. "All these years of planning, and it comes to this! Rory, think of your future for a minute, just a minute." Was it really possible for a man to give up his whole life for a woman-a woman! Incredible, nightmarish. "I'm thinking," said Rory, and smiled, and turned on his side and slept like a contented child, satisfied at last after a long and weary day. Timothy watched the sleeping man for some time and felt broken with hopelessness. Not only had Rory talked devastatingly to the Press this afternoon, and would probably talk so tonight, though the general, himself, had hinted at discretion. But he had just entangled himself in an impossible and scandalous situation. No doubt that woman would slyly talk to reporters, too, simperingly, calling Rory her "husband," for God's sake. She would want to be important in the eyes of the public, and the hell with Rory's prospects. Timothy could just see her, pretending to be< meek and plaint, ogling her eyes, wetting her lips, affecting modesty, and burning with ambition. She would swing her little bottom seductively and look from under her lashes, and she would cling to Rory's arm publicly, and everything would fall into the trash barrel. The Press, already newly hostile to Rory, would go wild. "Jaysus," groaned Timothy. It was all over now, as they said, except for the shouting. He could see big black headlines all over the country. He could hear the bellows of indignation and incredulity. The Committee for Foreign Studies would be coldly satisfied. Timothy had a thought. It was very possible that that ambitious nobody< had been induced to do this to Rory Daniel Armagh-for a great deal of ^ money. Timothy tried to reach Joseph by telephone. He was not in Green Hills. He was not in Philadelphia. Where the hell is he? thought the desperate and sweltering Timothy. Where is he? No one knew. Like father, like son, said Timothy bitterly to himself: Probably in some discreet hotel I with a trollop, tonight of all nights. Timothy, to his shame, was taken with a childish desire to cry. He had served the Armaghs the greater part of his life, and he was full of grief for them, not for himself. He could hear the distant band playing "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls." All at once it sounded like a mournful dirge, of centuries of sadness. Why the hell did we pick that damned song? Timothy asked himself, and he wiped his eyes and cursed. All I need now, he thought, is to hear the banshees wailing the end of the Armagh ambitions-and a man's whole life. He was thinking of Joseph Armagh. Now he sniffled, and cried the bitter tears of a man, sparse and scalding.
Chapter 56
"Tim," said Rory, with a kind and admonishing look, as he dressed. "Don't take it so hard. Everything isn't lost, you know. What will be will be." "Don't be so fatalistic," said Timothy. "I come of a fatalistic race. Come on, Tim. Cheer up. Where's the Irish in you? Maybe what I say tonight to that big audience will-what is the phrase-ring round the world. Have a drink, Tim. This may even get me the nomination. I want a drink." "You've had enough. All right, it is half-past seven. Let's go downstairs." Never had he seen Rory so confident, so alert, so colorful, so potent. He also appeared larger and taller than usual, as if some power in him was expanding. His eyes glittered with excitement. He even hummed a little as he gave a last pat to his tie and shrugged his coat into position on his broad shoulders. He had brushed his hair until it shone like a red-gold helmet. Timothy, in the face of all that youth and romanticism, let himself hope a little. It was unfortunate that women could not vote. They would go mad for Rory Armagh, mindlessly mad. The rougher suffragettes vowed that men thought through their bellies. But women thought with their organs of generation, and Rory was the erotic dream of women. "For the first time," said Rory, as they went to the elevators accompanied by six bodyguards, "I feel, I really feel, that I will capture the nomination. There's an old saying: 'Let the people know.' I have confidence in the American people and their common sense." That's more than I have, thought Timothy. Still, he let himself hope. He blinked in the glare of the photographers' ignited powder as they took photographs of Rory near the elevators. Rory smiled and waved, and even those cynical members of the Press were surlily charmed. The enormous lobby below was crowded from wall to wall with heads, really nothing but heads, Timothy thought, for the crush, shoulder to shoulder, above and below, obliterated body and feet. The heads moved constantly, wordlessly bellowing, back and forth, pouring into eddies, into torrents, into swirls and backwaters and whirlpools, into roaring brooks and rivers and tributaries, into seething clots that dissolved to become bigger clots, larger whirlpools, broader rivers. There were hundreds of gray heads, red heads, brown heads, black heads, and auburn and yellow heads, mingling, blasting apart, milling, disappearing, reappearing. The noise was stupendous, a howling and clamor to be found nowhere else but in a frantic zoo out of control. Over them all floated one solid and writhing cloud of smoke. The lobby had gold damask walls and half-columns of waln
Placards appeared, with Rory's overcolored portrait on them, and a thunderous shout went up: "Rory! Rory! Rory! Harp for a Harp! Long live the Irish!" They had been recognized at last. A tidal wave of wet men swarmed upon them, literally carrying them off their feet, bearing them with bellows and shouts and hoarse chanting into the center of the lobby. The bodyguard struggled and punched to keep up with the two men. Rory's red-gold head bobbed, sank, rose, turned about around and around, and his flushed and handsome face was laughing automatically. Timothy was close by, but having trouble even touching the floor.
Another group was struggling towards them, flailing arms and kicking, and the hysterical band began to play, "Kathleen Mavourneen!" and hundreds began to sing the song of Old Syrup, former Mayor of Boston, former congressman, former looter who had been discovered with both hands and both feet in the public trough. He had been consigned to "private life," and had never remained there, execrated and adored, incredibly fat and gross and huge of red wet face, and genial and honey-tempered as always, and perpetually engaged in politics, always regrettable and enjoyed by his public. Though he was in his seventies, married and with ten burly sons-now surrounding him and kicking and pushing too worshipful citizens-he had his "lady friend," as she was coyly called, with him, a tall slender woman with bright red hair and big protuberant green eyes and roped with pearls and pinned with diamonds and clad in her favorite virginal color-white silk-and showered with lace and wearing a huge plumed and flowered hat. Unkind rumor said she had been the esteemed madam of one of Joseph Armagh's most expensive houses of joy, but in fact she was really a burlesque queen from New York, though she had been born in Boston. At any rate, Old Syrup had been devoted to her for nearly two decades-she was now in her lush ripe forties-and her name was Kathleen, and he had adopted the old Irish song "as her own," in her honor. What Mrs. Old Syrup had to say about this was not recorded. Nor was the source of his wealth ever questioned. It was expected that politicians looted. It only became reprehensible when they were caught at it. Old Syrup was once reported to say, anent investigations: "Reform movements? I love them, now. They make money for me. Couldn't buy that advertising." He and his sons, and his lady, fell upon Rory. Rory was wrapped in huge fat arms, encased in bursting broadcloth, and smacked on both cheeks. "Jaysus!" shouted Old Syrup. "And it's a gladsome sight for me, boyo, to see the son of that old rascal, Armagh, campaigning in me own town, then! Old Joe! God bless him! Never a better Irishman in this whole damned country, God bless him! How's old Joe?" Rory had met Old Syrup many times before, and was always amused by him, and fond, for there was something charming about the old scoundrel, something both innocent and wicked, honestly goodhearted and kind, and ruthless, pious and blasphemous, ready to weep-and sincerely-at a story of want and suffering-and ready to exploit and rob the very same day, even those who were already exploited and robbed. "An Irishman," Rory once said to his father, "never makes a good Machiavelli. He can't master either his heart, his emotions, or his lusts. Nothing devious about us, sad to say. Whatever we are, we are with full soul and bad temper and our very, very uncontrollable tongues. Saint or sinner-we go all out on it, hammer and tongs, in spite of a lot of us trying to act like High Church bishops with gaiters, drinking tea and eating crumpets in genteel society. It galls us, finally." Rory knew what Old Syrup was, and it amused him, and he let himself be heartily thumped and embraced and knew that for this moment, at least, Old Syrup was passionately honest in his greetings. (What he would think the next day, and before the primaries, and in close consultation with his cronies, was something else indeed.) Tonight he loved Rory like his favorite son. Tonight he was bursting with affection for "Old Joe." Tonight he desired nothing more than to establish Rory as the idol of the Boston Irish, and make him President. It was evident. His vast face, like the face of a happy child with naughty blue eyes, looked up at Rory with delight and affection. "Mr. Flanagan," Timothy said, and had to repeat it several times before Old Syrup heard him. "Is there any way of getting Rory into the ballroom before he is stamped to death?" "Eh?" said Old Syrup, and looked up at his mighty belligerent sons. "Sure and we can. Bhoys, out with the feet and the fists."
But the crowd had become fully aware of the presence of Rory, and the boiling whirlpool surged towards him with the banners and the placards and the heat and the smoke. His clothing was seized, his shoulders. Arms tangled with his; he would have fallen if there had been anywhere to fall, an unoccupied spot. But every inch had legs and feet in it, struggling for advantage. Screams, howls, yells, expletives concerning trampled toes, rudely affectionate greetings shrieked in the highest and most penetrating tones, ruder questions, demands to shake his hand, demands to be heard, hoots and general bedlam, surrounded him almost visibly. The band went mad, pounding out "'Hie Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" in the most antic ragtime, which Timothy admitted was an improvement. He was fighting, together with the Klanagan brothers, to prevent Rory from being enthusiastically mashed to death, smothered or crushed. Above all that welter
Previous PageNext Page