"More and more fine oil wells are being drilled at Titusville monthly and are richly yielding, some of them thousands of barrels a week at least. The little town is booming as the Klondike in '45, and workers are receiving unbelievable wages. Men are flocking from all over Pennsylvania and other States to work in the fields, and regrettable Vice is accompanying them as it always does Riches. Incredible wages of up to twelve and even fifteen dollars a week are being paid for mean labor such as hauling the oil barrels to the flatboats and loading them. Those engaged in drilling, it is rumored, receive far more. So close to the surface is the Rich Oil Deposit that it gushes out of the ground on mere drilling. But a few of the wells are much deeper, and these have the best of oil, more refined. So some are being 'blown' by nitroglycerin, though not many, and it is quite a novelty. Intrepid young men, with apparently no regard for their Lives, are willing to haul nitroglycerin, a very dangerous Element, for the wells, and it is said that they can receive up to twenty dollars a week, unheard-of Recompense. No wonder Corruption is an inevitable Companion, and there are now more saloons in Titusville than there are churches, impossible though this may be in the opinion of Our Readers. It is fortunate that Titusville still has only one train a week, on Sunday night, but it is expected that in a few months it will have daily runs and our Fears mount accordingly. It is hoped that young Men of Decorum in other sections of the State will not rush to Titusville to make their fortunes but to imperil their Souls. "It is rumored that Pithole, a few miles from Titusville, has even more astounding Oil deposits, but it is in rough country and is arduous to reach over some formidable hills and rude territory. Men from Titusville and other parts of the State, it is said, are buying up land near Pithole and hope to do what, in their parlance, is called 'wild-catting.' It is said that 'oil lies on the very ground and in holes and pits, ready for the taking, without drilling, in Pithole.' Alas, if it is so, for a quiet and God-fearing community of a few souls. If enough oil is discovered there a shuttle may be run to Pithole, but that, we hope, will never transpire. There are enough ruthless Entrepreneurs and Gamblers already in Titusville, with eyes on Pithole, and are selling stock certificates hand over fist for Enormous Sums. Yet the Standard Oil Company, we have heard, is evincing interest. So far the owners of the oil fields in Titusville have resisted the blandishments of the Standard Oil Company, so the battle continues for control of the new wealth which will soon entirely eliminate, it is believed, the market for whale and other oils. We are not that sanguine, for we have heard that the odor of crude natural oil is beyond bearing and creates Hazards of smoke and fire.
"While we all rejoice at the abounding wealth of our Great Commonwealth, we must also mourn that its Cohorts abound also, women of unspeakable morals and card-sharps and the vendors of liquors and beer, and dance-halls and opera houses and other dens of Vice. We pray with the deepest piety and apprehension, for the Souls of-" But Joseph had torn off the rest and had kept the clipping. He tucked the paper in his pocket again. Months ago he had decided to become a "ruthless Entrepreneur" as soon as possible. Men do not get rich by honest labor, he had often thought. They study and then gamble cautiously, but not too cautiously. He knew the danger of failure, but he did not intend to fail. He thought of Pithole as well as Titusville, and the oil which lay there for the taking. He had no grandiloquent dreams of sudden fortune, but he had the intuition of the Irish for the place of eventual fortunes, if a man used his intelligence and overlooked no opportunity. For a beginning, he was willing to do any work and had discovered that willing and able and industrious workers were not as plentiful as employers always desired, and if a man had intelligence, too, then employers were inclined to regard him favorably. Joseph had seen lanquid, impertinent workers at the sawmills who would work only when under constant supervision, and not even poverty could drive them to greater efforts, nor could the threat of discharge. They were of feeble character, even the most burly, and grumbled and short-shrifted their work, so Joseph had slowly come to the conclusion that they were not worth more than they were paid and were not exploited. By their very shiftless being they were hindrances to such workers as Joseph Armagh, and his kind had to redouble their efforts to attract the benign-more or less-eye of ambitious employers. It was dark beyond the train window. Joseph opened his parcel of food and devoured three hard-boiled eggs, all the ham sandwiches and pickles and herring and the sausage and its bun, and then finished the meal with the cake. He discarded the potato salad. This done he looked furtively about him at the stinking coach with its poor and nodding passengers, its rattan and broken seats, its floor covered with straw and the ends of cheroots and tobacco-stained spittle. The conductor had lighted the three lanterns that hung from the round wooden ceiling, and the smell was intense in the sooty heat. The whistle howled as the train pounded through the hidden countryside and past little villages where it did not stop, and tiny lighted depots, and the rocking of the coach almost threw Joseph from his seat. The steam and soot spewing past the window were lighted with red sparks, and some of the filth found its way even into the shut coach and the murk and smoke set all to coughing. Joseph saw that his hands were already blackened and he suspected that his face was, also. He had no watch. He did not know the time and dared not ask the trainman for fear of revealing that he understood English. But he knew that the train stopped at a small town in about two hours, and had a shuttle to Titusville, and that it met this train before it turned east towards Pittsburgh. He thought of Corland, twenty miles from Titusville, and he said to himself, I have found a way to be rich, and nothing will stop me! It needed only what Americans called "a stake," and that he would have in a very short time. It needed concentration on the only thing which mattered in this world. Joseph, watching the backs and heads of the other passengers, felt for the twenty-dollar goldpiece in a pinned pocket. It was secure. He felt for his money belt, heavy now, and that was secure too. He was on his way, and he smiled and waited.
Chapter 9
The train for Titusville had not yet arrived when Joseph's train reached the little town of Wheatfield. So, with others, he left his train, pulled his cap down lower on his forehead and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible as he entered the hot little depot, which was well lighted and crowded to its walls. Joseph had never seen such a bewildering gathering of men as he saw now, to his astonishment. There were men in silk and tall beaver hats, rich greatcoats and florid waistcoats and splendidly pinned cravats and fawn pantaloons, men fat and red and sweating of face and with flowing hair and sideburns and exquisitely trimmed beards and mustaches, and carrying Malacca canes with gold or carved silver heads and with fat fingers loaded with sparkling rings and with watch chains embellished with jeweled charms, and conversing with each other with jovial laughter and hoarse joking voices, their avid eyes glittering over strangers. They all smoked thick cigars or cheroots and they smelled of bay rum or racier perfumes, and their boots shone daintily. A considerable number of their faces were pock-marked, but they exuded excitement and confidence and money. Among them milled workmen in cloth caps and patched coats and blue shirts stained with sweat and oil and dirt, and ebullient men in shirtsleeves and with loud hectoring voices demanding and commanding, their fat legs moving constantly. There were also the quiet and deadly men in subdued but rich clothing along the walls, watching all newcomers closely, their rings shining, their shirts ruffled and fluted, their cravats and pantaloons and waistcoats elegant. These were the hunters and gamblers. Posters imploring enlistments covered the dirty stained walls of the little depot and in one corner stood a young lieutenant in blue with his forage cap smartly over his forehead, a little table before him and two soldiers soliciting the younger men to join "the patriotic service of your choice." Several youths jested with them lewdly; the young lieutenant sweated in the hot rank air but he remained composed and serious though his aides grinned and spat. His eyes glowed with the fervor of the dedicated soldier, and it was obvious that he was a graduate of West Point and not
a mere enlisted man. His shoulder patch read, the army of the united states. He was proud of it. All the narrow benches were occupied, though men, as if overcome with impatience, would rise and join the milling crowd, their seats immediately confiscated. The uproar was appalling with the constant crescendos of masculine voices arguing, wheedling, boasting, promising, and raucous. Spittoons were ignored. The floor was almost covered with blackish-brown slime. The stench and the heat overpowered Joseph and he kept near the door in spite of the jostling he received. Men raced out onto the wooden platform with papers in their hands, or carpetbags, cursing the tardy train to Titusville, then raced back inside, their eyes goggling as they sought out friends they had just abandoned. Another smell rose above the smell of bay rum and chewing tobacco and smoke and sweat, the smell of money-lust and greed, and it was insistent. The lamps overhead stank and flamed brightly; a wind blew in cinders and hot dust and chaff. Somewhere a telegraph chattered like an insane woman. Men shouldered others aside, were cursed or clapped on the back. There was an odor of raw whiskey as men tilted bottles to their mouths. The depot was like an enormous monkey house, seething with heat and movement and restivcness and vehement roars and impassioned shouts and great belly-laughter and good-humored imprecations. The old stationmaster crouched like an animal trainer behind his counter, his mouth working silently, his spectacles glimmering, as he tried to placate constant besiegers who demanded an explanation for the delay. He shrugged, he shook his head, he threw up his hands, and looked about him helplessly. Men fell over luggage on the dirty floor, cursed, laughed or kicked aside the portmanteaus and bags. The young Army lieutenant, momentarily discouraged, surveyed the dazing movement in genteel bafflement, for it was apparent that he was a gentleman among men who were certainly not gentlemen. He had been taught good-will by his mother and his mentors, and he struggled to maintain it, keeping a reserved but friendly half- smile fixed on his boyish mustached face. But his expression was becoming haunted. The flag at his right hung limply in the suffocating and noxious air. The two windows of the depot were open but no cool breeze entered. After a little Joseph could endure it no longer and he went out on the platform and looked down the tracks which were silvered by the moonlight. Here, at least, there was the cleaner smell of steel and cinders and dust and warmed wood and rock. The lights of Wheatfield glimmered dimly in the distance. The moon rode in a black sky seemingly without stars. Occasionally the platform vibrated as clots of men exploded from the depot to look down the tracks also, to speak to each other in loud excited voices, to joke, to brag, and then to rush back inside as if something of stupendous import was going on in there. At last Joseph became aware that someone had been standing silently beside him for several minutes and would not move away. He ignored the presence, continuing to stare glumly down the tracks. He was very tired after his long day, and he knew he would have a miserable ride to Titusville, and he was becoming afraid that if he were not vigilant there would be no room on the train for him. He was thirsty. He had seen a pail of water on a bench and a chained tin cup attached to it but he shuddered at the thought of drinking from it. Light spilled through the window nearby onto the platform. Joseph kept just to the rim. "Got a lucifer, mister?" the presence asked at last in a very young voice. Joseph did not turn. "No," he said in his usual short fashion when approached by strangers. A small fear came to him. Had he been followed after all? It was this fear and not mere curiosity which made him cautiously move his head a little and glance sideways through the corner of his eyes. But what he saw reassured him. The presence was smaller than he, and infinitely more shabby, even ragged, and it was only a boy about fifteen years old, a boy without a cap or hat or coat, and very thin. He had a starveling appearance but not one of degradation nor had he spoken with the sniveling importunity such as the very poor affected. His whole appearance and manner were astonishingly lively, even gay and lighthearted, as if he were perpetually happy and interested and cheerful. Joseph, accustomed to the bland anonymity of the Anglo-Saxon appearance in Winfield, was surprised at the elfish face which hardly rose to his shoulder, a dark face, almost brown, the great black eyes gleaming through thickets of girlishly long lashes silken and glimmering, and the electric mop of vital black curls and the prominent "hooked" nose. The undisciplined and obviously uncombed hair spilled over the low brown forehead, over the cars and rioted over the scrawny nape and straggled in vibrant tendrils against the thin flat cheeks. A pointed chin with a dimple, and a smiling red mouth, added reckless gaiety to the impudent face, and white teeth shone eagerly between moist lips. "I don't even have a cheroot or a stub," said the boy, with actual glee. "I just wanted to talk." His voice was light, almost as light as a girl's, and faintly and exotically accented. He laughed at himself. But when he saw Joseph's truculent expression and his cold, half-averted ironic eyes, he stopped laughing though he continued to smile hopefully.
"I just wanted to talk," he repeated. "I just don't want to talk," said Joseph, and turned aside and studied the rails again. There was a little silence. Then the boy said, "My name's Haroun. You goin' to Titusville, too?" Joseph's mouth tightened. He debated a lie. But this strange boy might be on the same train and he would appear foolish or a suspicious runaway or a criminal in flight. So he nodded his head. "Me, too," said Haroun. Joseph permitted himself to glance swiftly at that remarkable young face again. The boy was encouraged. He gave Joseph a very large smile. "You can make lots of money in Titusville," he said. "If you've got a mind to, and I don't have nothin' else to put my mind to so I am goin' to make money!" He laughed joyously and Joseph, to his own amazement, felt his face move into a smile. "I can say that, too," he said, and was again amazed at himself. "All I got in this world is six bits," said Haroun. "All I make is two dollars a week in the blacksmith shop, and a bed in the hayloft and some bread and bacon in the mornin'. It wasn't bad, though. Learnt how to shoe horses and that's a good trade, yes sir, and you can always make a livin' at it. I'd'a saved money from that two dollars but I had my old granny to take care of, and she was sick and there was medicine, and then she died. God rest her soul," added Haroun with no melancholy in his voice but only affection. "Took care of me after my people died, here in Wheatfield, when I was a little shaver, washin' clothes for the quality folk when she could get work. Anyway, she died, and she's buried in potter's field, but I think like this: Where does it matter where you're buried? You're dead, ain't you? And your soul's gone off someplace but I don't believe up in any heaven as my granny told it to me. Anyway, after I bought my ticket today I've got six bits until I can find work in Titusville, or maybe Corland." The recital was so artless yet so explicit and so full of confidence and inner surety that Joseph was reluctantly intrigued. Here was one who totally loved life and believed in it and found it blithe, and even Joseph in his youth could recognize the soul which was not only indomitable but lighthearted. Haroun permitted himself, without resentment or uneasiness, to be inspected thoroughly by Joseph's small eyes which were like bright blue stone between the auburn lashes. He even seemed amused. Joseph said, "How far do you think you can go on six bits?" Haroun listened acutely to his voice. "Hey, you're a foreigner, too, like me, ain't you?" He stuck out his small brown hand frankly and Joseph found himself taking it. It was like hard warm wood in his fingers. "Where you from?" Joseph hesitated. His associates at work in Winfield had known him as a Scotsman. Now he said, "Ireland. A long time ago. And you?" The boy answered, shrugging eloquently. "Don't know where it is, but I heard it was Lebanon. A funny place, near Egypt or maybe it was China. One of them places. What does it matter where you're born?" Joseph, the proud, looked at him coldly then decided that one so ignorant deserved no rebuke but only indifference. He was about to turn finally away and into the depot to escape the boy when Haroun said, "Hey, I'll share my six bits with you if you want to." Joseph was freshly amazed. He looked over his shoulder and halted and said, "Why should you do that? You don't even know me." Haroun grinned whitely and the great black eyes laughed. "It'd
be Christian, wouldn't it?" and his voice rippled with mischief. "I'm not a Christian," said Joseph. "Are you?" "Greek Orthodox. That's what my folks were, from Lebanon. That's where I was baptised. Haroun Zieff. I was only a year old when they come here, to Wheatfield. My Pa was a weaver, but he and my Ma got sick here and died, and so there was just me and granny." Joseph considered him again, half-turning. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asked. "Do you tell every stranger your whole history? It's dangerous, that it is." Haroun stopped smiling, and though a deep dimple appeared in each cheek his antic face became grave. He, now, studied Joseph. His full red lips pursed a little and his long eyelashes flickered. Then he said, "Why? Why's it dangerous? Who'd hurt me?" "Best to keep your own counsel," said Joseph. "The less people know about you the less harm they can do you." "You talk like an old man," said Haroun, kindly and with no rancor. "You can't sit around all the time and wait for someone to knife you, can you?" "No. Just be prepared, that's all." Joseph could not help smiling a little. Haroun shook his head violently and all his curls fluttered over his head. "I'd hate to live like that," he said. Then he laughed. "Maybe nobody ever hurt me bad because I didn't have anything they wanted." One of the young soldiers sauntered out on the platform, taking off his forage cap to wipe his wet forehead. He saw Joseph and Haroun and brightened. He said, "You men want to join up? Looks like we're going to have a war." "No, sir," said Haroun with much politeness, but Joseph showed only contempt. "Pay's good," said the soldier mendaciously. "No, sir," repeated Haroun. The soldier peered at him with suspicion, at the dark face and the mass of black curls. "If you're a foreigner, you can get to be a 'Merican citizen quick," he suggested after he had decided that Haroun, though obviously dark, was not a Negro. "I'm already American," said Haroun. "My granny made me one, couple of years ago, and I went to American schools, too, in this here town, Wheatfield." The soldier was doubtful. Haroun's appearance made him namelessly uneasy. He turned to Joseph who had listened to this exchange with harsh amusement. Joseph's face and manner appeased the soldier. "How about you, sir?" "I'm not interested in wars," said Joseph. The young soldier flushed deeply. "This country's not good enough for you to fight for, is that so?" Joseph had not fought since he had been a young lad in Ireland, but the memory of combat made his fists clench in his pockets and the hair at the back of his head bristle. "See here," he said, keeping his voice quiet, "I'm not looking for a quarrel. Please let us alone." "Another foreigner!" said the soldier with disgust. "Whole country's getting overrun with 'em! The hell with you," and he went back into the depot. Haroun looked after him, shaking his head merrily. "Only doin' his duty," he said. "No call to make him mad. D'you think there'll be a war?" "Who knows?" said Joseph. "Why should it matter to us?" Haroun stopped smiling again, and his young face was suddenly enigmatic. "Don't anything matter to you?" he asked. Joseph was startled at the pcrceptiveness of one so young and he retreated in himself. "Why do you ask that?" he said. "That's impertinent, I'm thinking." "Now, I didn't mean anything," said Haroun, spreading out his hands in a gesture Joseph had never seen before. "You just don't seem to care, that's all." "You are quite right. I don't care," said Joseph. A group of bellowing men erupted onto the platform and they glared up the tracks and cursed futilely. They were very drunk. "Won't get in 'til noon, now!" one bawled. "And got a derrick to deliver 'fore that! Ought to sue the railroad!" They returned in a sweaty rout to the depot. Joseph followed them with his eyes. He said, as if to himself, "Who are all these people?" "Why, they're prospectors-oil," said Haroun. "They're going to Titusville to stake out a claim or buy land around there and start to drill. That's what you're going there to work for, ain't you?" "Yes." Joseph looked at Haroun fully for the first time. "Do you know anything about it?" "Well, I heard a lot. There's not much work in Wheatfield, with the Panic, and people don't even keep their horses shod right, and I'd like to make more than two dollars a week," said Haroun, cheerful again. "I aim to be a millionaire, like even-body else who goes to Titusville. I'm going to drive one of them wagons with nitroglycerin, and when I get a stake I'm going to buy a drill myself or go into partnership with somebody, and take options on the land. You can do that, if you can't buy the land, and be sure nobody around Titusville or even Corland is selling out his land right now! You take options, and if you strike oil then you give the owner of the land royalties. I heard all about it in Wheatfield. Lots of men going there now, to work in the oil fields. Some of the men in the depot already struck it rich, real rich, and they're here to buy more machinery cheap, and hire help. I'm already hired," he added, with pride. "Seven dollars a week and board to work in the fields, but I'm going to drive the hot wagons. That's what they call 'em." "They let a young lad like you drive those wagons?" Haroun stood up as tall as he could, which was not very tall. The top of his head reached only to Joseph's nostrils. "I am almost fifteen," he said, very impressively. He is not even as tall as Scan, thought Joseph. "I been workin' since I was nine, but I've had five years of schoolin' and can do my letters and figures right well. I'm no greenhorn." Now, to Joseph's surprise, the black eyes were wise and shrewd as well as straight in their regard, but they were not hard or malicious. There was a deep maturity in them, and an awareness without wariness, a pride without mistrust. All at once, to his own confusion, Joseph felt a thick warmth in his throat and the sort of tenderness he experienced when he saw Scan. Then he was frightened at this humiliating assault on his emotions by a mere unimportant stranger, and alarm made him want to retreat. Suddenly there was a howling and clanging and ringing and grinding on the rails, a clamoring like an outbreak of furious metallic madness. A huge and blinding white eye roared out of the darkness around the bend and the rails trembled and so did the platform. Joseph could hear the rattling of coaches, the hiss of escaping steam as brakes were applied, and there was the train to Titusville screaming towards the depot, the squat black engine dwarfed by the gigantic smokestack which was retching smoke and fire into the night. The engineer, in his striped cap, vigorously pulled the whistle, and the unbearable sound pierced Joseph's ears and he put up his hands to protect them. Now the platform was boiling with masses of men, all shouting and blaspheming and struggling and carrying bags. Haroun pulled Joseph by the arm. "Get over here," he shrieked over the noise. "Second coach stops right there, and you'd better move smart." He left Joseph for a moment for the side of the door where he had deposited a small cloth bundle and rejoined the older boy immediately with the air of a protector and a guide and a man of the world. He had darted like a cricket, and for a moment or two Joseph thought that he had resembled one, and Joseph saw the small thinness of bare wrists, and bare frail ankles above broken boots. Again he felt that weak degrading twinge which he could not understand. The strong adult men exploded in masses towards the coaches and the two thin youths were no matches for their strength. The men thrust them aside and boiled into the coaches, kicking and pushing Joseph and Haroun in the process and banging them with their heavy luggage, and cursing them as they struggled to board the train. Joseph found Haroun clinging desperately to his arm and he restrained the angry impulse to shake him off. Once Haroun fell to his knees, punched in the back by a swearing brute of a man, and Joseph felt instinctively for his truncheon. Then he knew that neither he nor Haroun would be able to board except by extreme and punitive measures, so he pulled out his truncheon and literally beat his way through the masses, his young arm flailing. Some of the men fell back, howling, and Joseph pulled his companion through the narrow passage between heavy bodies and helped Haroun to climb the narrow steep steps. The train was already snorting for departure. The coaches were loaded now with seated and bawling and laughing men, and the aisles were crowded and smotheringly hot. There was no place in the coaches for Joseph and Haroun, though men continued to push by them to try to enter the coaches and then clot about the open doors, which could not be shut. Joseph was panting. He muttered, "God damn them." The sleeves of his greatcoat were torn. He had lost his cap and his russet hair spilled all o
ver his head and nape and cheeks, and he was wet with sweat. Haroun was sallow with pain. But he tried to smile. His breath was heavy and painful and he was holding his thin back in the region of his kidneys, where he had been punched. "Lucky we got this far," he said, "thanks to you. What's your name?" "Joe," said Joseph. The train started with a lurch. The two boys fell against the rear wall of the coach ahead. They were marooned on the sliding platform between the coach ahead and the one behind. An attempt had been made to overcome the danger to those standing on the platform, a new invention over the coupling and its pin: two moving plates of metal which met occasionally then slid back with the movement of the train. The plates were slippery, and Joseph had to cling to the handhold of the coach ahead. Haroun leaned against the rear of the coach behind, his face running with cold sweat, his breath loud and wheezing and irregular, his feet holding to the moving plate under them. But he still smiled with admiration at Joseph. "You got us aboard," he said. "Never thought we'd make it." "We may be sorry we did," Joseph grunted. "We'll have to stand out here all the way to Titusville, I am thinking." Then Haroun uttered a desolate cry. "My bag! I dropped my bag. Now I got no clothes!" Joseph said nothing. He clung to the iron handhold of the open coach ahead. He must shake off this importunate boy who had apparently decided to adopt him. He would only hamper and make demands and intrude his friendship and so weaken him, Joseph. He looked into the coach, but there was no longer even standing room. Heat and stench poured from it, and the effluvia from the one latrine at the end. The men were all smoking. The lantern light was misty and swaying, and the noise was intolerable. Joseph saw clouded heads wreathed in smoke; smoke billowed along the greasy ceiling. lie saw broad shoulders bending and moving and swaying in unison and always he heard the roar and tumult of voices. The coach following was no better. But despite the discomfort the men were hilarious and rowdy and Joseph knew now that there was no greater excitement and joy and cheer than that surrounding the hope of money and the possession of money. "My bag," wailed Haroun. Wild with impatience Joseph looked down at the dangerously sliding plates, and the narrow opening between them as they slid. "You shouldn't have dropped it," he said. The passage was open to the night and wind and soot and cinders and smoke poured onto it and Joseph coughed spasmodically as he clung precariously to his handhold. "You should never let go of what belongs to you," he added, in a strangled voice. If he could just find a corner into which he could flee from Haroun! But not even a garter snake could have entered either of the stuffed coaches. Then Haroun screamed, a scream of mortal pain and terror and Joseph turned back to him. One of Ilaroun's thin feet, in its broken boot, had been seized at the ankle between the jostling and sliding steel plates on the platform, and he had fallen on his knees. Light spilled from the coaches and Joseph saw the boy's anguished and terrified face and then the blood oozing from his captured foot. The plates still slid backwards and forwards but now they did not entirely close because of the frail flesh and bone caught between them. "My God! You fool! Why didn't you hang on?" Joseph shouted with mingled rage and fear. He dropped his box and fell to his knees beside the screaming boy. When a plate receded slightly he tugged at the caught foot, but it was wedged. The opening was not wide enough, and each lurch of the pounding train and each sway around a curve and each of Joseph's tugs only enhanced Haroun's agony, and he screamed without let. Now the blood splashed Joseph's pulling hands and he suddenly thought of his mother's blood which he had seen, and he became sick. He tugged harder. He clenched his teeth and despite Haroun's pleas of agony to desist he turned the small foot, telling himself that what had entered could be released. "Shut up," he commanded Haroun, but the boy was beyond hearing anything but his own pain and his own terror. Joseph soon saw that he'd need help. He shouted over his shoulder at the coach ahead. Three heads emerged and saw what was to be seen, but no man offered to help, though one jeered hoarsely, "Cut off his foot, damn you!" The others laughed, drunkenly, and watched with interest. Then Joseph thought of his truncheon. He pulled it from his pocket; he waited until the plates slid apart at their widest aperture and thrust the truncheon between them. Then he wedged the steel-shod heel of his sturdy boot into the opening also, and pulled it from his foot. He looked down into the gray darkness between the plates, closing his ears to Haroun's shrieks. He bit his lip. He would have to reach down into the forced opening and push off Haroun's shoe, which was hopelessly caught in the metal. In doing so he risked having his own hand caught and perhaps losing it between the jaws of the plates. He hesitated and a lightning thought rushed through his mind, Why should I risk this for a stranger who is nothing to me? He looked at Haroun's face, lying now near his thigh, and he saw the tortured innocence of it, the brutalized innocence, and he looked over his shoulder at the laughing and jeering men who were enjoying the spectacle of childish suffering. The edges of the stout leather and steel truncheon were already being chewed by the plates, and so was the heel of Joseph's boot. He would have to act at once. He closed his eyes and pushed his hand between the plates, caught the back of Haroun's shoe and waited for an instant until the orifice widened slightly again. Then in one rapid motion he pushed off the shoe and tore Haroun's foot from the aperture and released his own boot. The truncheon broke and fell down upon the track. A moment later and it would have been too late. Haroun lay on his face on the sliding plates, shocked into mere whimpering, his tears running over the metal. His ankle was turned and heavily bleeding, his bare little foot piteous in the lantern light which swayed onto the platform. Gasping, Joseph put on his boot and sat beside Haroun. He stretched out his hand and held the other boy's shoulder. "It's all right now," he said, and his voice was low and gentle. He frowned at the flowing blood and at the dirt mingling with it. My God, how had he become entangled in this dangerous situation? He should never have spoken to the boy in the beginning. This is what came of becoming involved with others, and it weakened and destroyed a man. One thing led to another. He would have to do something, now, for the wounded and suffering boy, and he despised himself. He dimly heard the raucous comments and jeering of the men who had watched the struggle. Haroun was no longer whimpering. Shock had overcome him. He lay flaccid and prone, his meager body moving rhythmically on the sliding plates. The train shrieked into the night. Clouds of smoke gushed onto the platform. The feeble light of a small depot fled by the train. Wheels pounded. Joseph's breathing began to slow. Then a rough coarse voice sounded over Joseph's shoulder. "What's all this, eh? What's wrong here?" A stout short man had appeared in the doorway of the coach ahead, a man of about forty, a man richly dressed but with a bald head like a huge pear rising from broad thick shoulders. His wide face was florid and jowled above a folded silken cravat held with a diamond pin. He had tiny eyes like wet raisins, and restless, and enormous pink ears and a fat pursed mouth. A watch chain loaded with gemmed trinkets spread across a bulging waistcoat dazzling in its brocaded colors. His plump hands, which clung to each side of the doorway, glittered with jeweled rings. He was a man of authority and importance, for the men he had pushed aside stood behind him, still grinning, but respectful. Joseph looked up at the glistening and well-fed face. "He caught his foot. He hurt his ankle. He's bleeding. I got him out just in time," said Joseph with hard and contemptuous curtness. "His foot's hurt. He needs attention." The man's face quickened at the sound of Joseph's voice. A big cigar was held between stained teeth. He removed the cigar with his sparkling --fingers. He grunted then. He looked down at the prostrate Haroun. He said, "Got him out, did you?" Joseph made no reply. He suddenly felt spent. He hated this bloated man who could do nothing but smoke and stare while Haroun bled and lay in a half-faint on the plates, and was choking and coughing between muffled sobs. The stranger suddenly shouted in a voice louder than the uproar in the coaches and the howling of the train. "Come on, here!" he bellowed, looking over his shoulder. "Clear another seat, damn you all! Lift this boy and take him inside, or I'll have your lights and livers, damn you!" No one contested or argued. Men rose i
n the billows of cigar smoke and a seat was miraculously vacated. The stranger gestured. Two of the men who had watched, jeering and laughing, picked up Haroun and bore him inside the coach and sat him on the seat. The boy's eyes, flooding with tears, remained closed. Blood dripped from his torn ankle. "And in with you, too, boyeen," said the stranger. Disbelieving, Joseph struggled to his feet and entered the coach, and there was a little silence among the crowd and a wider staring, surly and curious. Joseph fell into the space beside Haroun. The back of the seat ahead was reversed and the stranger sat down ponderously upon it and surveyed the two boys. Crowded faces peered. The stench of sweat and smoke and pomade and whiskey choked Joseph's breath. Voices called inquisitively from the front of the coach, and were answered. The lanterns' light was the light of lamps in a twirling fog. "Well, now," said the stranger, planting his fat hands on his fatter and gleaming knees. "We gotta do something for this spalpeen, don't we? Don't want him bleeding to death. Where you lads from?" "Wheatfield. Going to Titusville," said Joseph. "To work." The man bellowed again, without looking away from Joseph and Haroun. "Whiskey, damn your hides, lots of it, and clean kerchiefs! Fast!" There was a flurry behind and about him. He smiled at Joseph. "And what's your moniker, eh? And his?" His teeth were small and stained and crooked, but there was a certain rude geniality in his smile. Joseph said, "Joe Francis." He nodded at Haroun. "He says his name is Haroun Zieff." But the stranger was staring at Joseph intently. "Joseph Francis Xavier- what?" Joseph's internal muscles contracted. He looked more closely at the broad and glistening face opposite him and at the little dark eyes, so shrewd and cynical. "Just Joe Francis," he said. The stranger grinned knowingly. "Now, then," he said, "I'm an Irisher, nieself, though born in this country. Dada came from County Cork. Name's Ed Healey. Never been on the ould sod, but heard enough from Dada. So I know an Irisher when I meet one. Afraid to say you are, is that it? Don't blame you, in this country. But an Irisher is match enough for anybody, ain't he? But don't never be ashamed of your name, boyeen." "I'm not," said Joseph. "But you're running from something, is that it?" "Perhaps," said Joseph, and thought of Ireland and not of Mr. Squibbs. He also thought of his father. "Not a long tongue in you, is there?" said Mr. Healey, in a tone of approval. "That's what I like: A man of few words. So, Joseph Francis Xavier something-or-other, you're going to Titusville with this lad with the heathen name?" "He is no heathen. He's a Christian," said Joseph. He was still wary. And his profound exhaustion was growing. He looked up at the crowding and avid faces clustered around their seats and they were like faces in a nightmare, and as alien as the countenances of hell. Mr. Healey's crimson and enormous face swelled and retreated before his eyes. From a sudden vast dark silence Mr. Healey's voice roared in on him. Eh, you drink this, boyo! Can't have you dying on me!" Joseph became aware that some hiatus had come to him, a dim unconsciousness, a mindless blank. He felt the edge of a tin cup against his lips, and he turned his face aside. But a gigantic pink hand was pressing the edge again to his mouth and he had to drink to escape it. A scalding and smarting and burning liquid ran into his mouth and then into his throat, and he gasped. Then there was a widening warmth in his empty stomach, and he could see clearly again. "Need your help," said Mr. Healey. "Irishers don't faint like the ladies. Now, look here. I'm going to give this lad of yours a jolt, too, but a bigger one, so he won't feel nothing. You've got to hold him for me. Can't trust these drunken sods of mine." Even Joseph, resentful of and resisting always the force of authority, instinctively obeyed. He said to Haroun, "We are helping you, with your foot." He put his arms about the whimpering and weeping boy, tightly. Haroun opened his wet eyes and Joseph saw the trustfulness in them, and he frowned. "Yes, Joe," said Haroun. Large and clean and scented kerchiefs had been produced in profusion. Mr. Healey kept them folded on his knee. He gave Joseph the tin cup again, with swirling pale liquid in it, a considerable amount. "Bourbon, best white mule," said Mr. Ilealey. "Make him drink ever)' drop." He held a large jug in his hand and nodded and smiled encouragingly. "It'll kill him," said Joseph, whose senses had become exceedingly acute after his own drink, and were painful. "Life's no bargain," said Mr. Healey in a voice of reason. "But never ^reard of a man dying of good ole Kentucky brew. Not even anybody with a heathen name." Joseph said to Haroun, "You must drink this. Quick, now." "Yes, Joe," said Haroun in such a meek and trusting voice that Mr. Healey blinked. Haroun held his breath and drank quickly. After the cup was empty his face bulged and his great black eyes started from his head, and he strangled and held his throat. Mr. Healey chuckled. "In a minute he won't have no pain," he commented. Mr. Healey, smiling widely, soaked two or three kerchiefs in whiskey from the jug he held. Joseph was still holding Haroun who was slowly subsiding though still coughing. "Why do you do this for us?" asked Joseph. "We're nothing to you." Mr. Ilealey studied Haroun keenly, but he said to Joseph, "It's like that, eh? If you don't know, boyo, don't you ask." Joseph was silent. Mr. Healey still studied Haroun, lying in the circle of Joseph's arms. He said, "This heathen ain't anything to you, either, is he? But you got his foot out and saved it. Why? Don't you tell me, now. You think on it."
Captains and the Kings Page 11
