Captains and the Kings

by Taylor Caldwell

  Everything you have, know of accurately, and from your files, which Mr. Healey began and enlarged. No matter how small-I want it. I should like a brief sketch of his father, too." A hot and brilliant silence fell in the large offices, which smelled of warm leather and wax and lemon oil. Mr. Spaulding had folded his hands on his desk. He regarded Joseph intently. His smile had disappeared but his eyes were brighter and the heavy lids lower. Then Mr. Spaulding said-Joseph's eyes had suddenly frightened him

  -"Your father-in-law." His voice, usually so fruity and full of tremolos, was flat and expressionless. "My father-in-law." "The grandfather of your two children." "The grandfather of my two children." Timothy shifted on his neat feet and drank deeply of his whiskey. There was a sudden shrill singing of cicadas soaring through the open windows. The hills beyond, though still green, showed a tarnishing here and there where hot yellow dust had settled on them, and all at once the traffic on the street was very imminent in the room. "The governor is running again for office this autumn," said Mr. Spaulding, who was becoming unnerved. "Has what you desire anything to do with that?" "Yes," said Joseph. His quiet hands, clasped on his knee-long and thin and well-shaped-did not stir. "But," suggested Mr. Spaulding, and now he licked a corner of his lips with a wet and darting tongue, "more than that?" "More than that." Then the laconic Joseph said, "I want him absolutely ruined. Stripped. Dishonored. Prison, if possible, though I doubt we can arrange that. He's been too sly and has had too much help to cover up." Mr. Spaulding leaned back in his chair. He was never shocked at anything, and even this did not startle him. But he was curious. "It might rebound on you, Joe," he said. "Your father-in-law." "How can it?" said Joseph. "I control quite a number of newspapers, ^especially those in Pennsylvania. I have influence in New York, too. But » even if some muckraking sheet blares it out, how can it hurt me?" He gave ^a faint smile. "I am not running for public office. I am not a politician who can be hurt by public opinion, or votes. There is nothing anyone can do to me, t either the people or the government. I am entirely too rich. My affairs are

  -respectable. I am a director of the big Handell Oil Company, and direcjr of many other companies. I am invulnerable. A word or two to influenjrtial politicians-" He raised one hand briefly. "I think we could even keep it out of the newspapers entirely. We will give him a chance to submit or be publicly crucified. He has only to renounce any desire to be governor again and accede to the loss of his fortune, to the extent we can manage. I will be the one to give him that advice." "He will never know who did it," said Mr. Spaulding. "I intend to inform him, when it is done," said Joseph. Mr. Spaulding caught his breath. He had guessed long ago that Joseph hated his father-in-law, but he had thought it a conflict of temperament. Governor Hennessey had been overwhelmingly pleased by his daughter's choice of a husband. Her wedding had drawn dignitaries from all over the Commonwealth, and Washington, and two foreign ambassadors had been present. The wedding had taken place in Philadelphia in the governor's house-his own, not the Commonwealth's-and it was still mentioned frequently among society, and even in New York. It had been so lavish, so ostentatious, that one or two small newspapers had protested "this extravagance in the midst of a Panic-people starving-strikers being murdered by the railroaders-miners being shot down in their own little shacks before their wives and children. The display must invite the anger of Providence." Mr. Jay Regan, Mr. Fisk, and Mr. Gould had been there, with their resplendent wives and the ladies' jewels. The little daring newspapers had mentioned Mr. Gould in particular, and his cornering of the gold currency, but it had not known of Joseph's part in the defeat of the larger conspiracy to ruin the country. "You will inform him," said Mr. Spaulding in a thoughtful tone, remembering everything. "Of course, Joseph, it is not my affair, but we have been friends since you were a youth and I first taught you law at our dear Ed Healey's behest. May I ask why?" "No," said Joseph, and saw Katherine Hennessey's face. Mr. Spaulding sighed. He stirred some papers on his desk. His eyelids blinked rapidly. He said, in a subdued voice, "Mrs. Armagh-even if she never guesses the-the-diablo ex machina, as it were-will be very hurt, for she was always devoted to her father, and he to her." Joseph smiled with grimness. "Mr. Spaulding," he said, "you feel no commiseration for Mrs. Armagh, though you have known her from childhood. You are merely curious. I don't intend to satisfy your curiosity. As for Mrs. Armagh being distressed, I doubt it. She has never been pleased that her father saw fit to marry a girl not much older than herself, a few months after we were married. A girl, I might recall to you, who already had an ambiguous child less than a year old." "There was no Seandal, Joseph." "Of course not. I saw to that, and so did Hennessey. He adopted the boy. Very kind of him, was it not?" He thought of the day Katherine Hennessey had died, and the young woman who had come to her with her pleas. The young lady, it was later discovered-but not publicly-had been the daughter of a congressman, and a powerful one also. On her marriage to Tom Hennessey the newspapers had declared that she was "a young widow, relict of one of our heroic officers who later died as a result of his wounds and left her with an afflicted little boy." (The affliction was the fact that he "had never seen his young father.") Joseph felt no hatred for Elizabeth Hennessey, the new young wife. She, too, had been a victim of the senator's lies, cruelties, seductions, and betrayal. Her father must have had considerable power in the White House, Joseph had thought when the marriage had taken place. He later discovered that the congressman had been a relative of the President, and one much favored by him. Bernadette had never forgiven her father. She had proclaimed that it was "a dishonor to my mother," for she had recognized the newspaper photograph of the young lady immediately when the engagement was announced. She remembered that her father had stigmatized the girl as a trollop, a strumpet of the streets, an adventuress, but Elizabeth was none of these things. She was the daughter of a notable congressman, and Bernadette, always conscious of class, had found that unpardonable. This, and the fact that her adored father had displaced her in his affections, was the real reason for her outrage. The "dishonor" to her mother meant nothing at all, for Mama had been a fool, though a sweet and tender one. But Bernadette, to her utmost surprise, discovered that she had loved her mother a little and she was desolate for months. (There was also the reality of the little boy, named Courtney, the name of Tom's father. Bernadette had hoped to have that name for her own son.) Her father, in short, had "betrayed" her, Bernadette, long before her mother had died of her grief and shock, and had loved someone else more than he had loved his daughter, and he had lied to her, vilifying the girl he later married. "One of these days!" Bernadette had sobbed to her husband, "I will tell Lizzie exactly what my father said about her, to me!" "She probably knows what your father is, my love," Joseph had replied. This remark had precipitated Bernadette's quick and flaming anger in defense of her father, who had had the ill luck to marry two stupid women. However, her defense did not decrease her wrath against Tom Hennessey. Joseph had not cared enough to wonder at this or talk to his wife concerning her inconsistencies. He did not care enough for Bernadette to console or soothe her, either. The emotions of women were of no interest v to him, and if they displayed them in his presence he was bored and vexed, as one is annoyed by an insistent and not exceedingly intelligent child, or a pampered pet. He found no intellectual satisfaction in conversing with women-he was almost convinced they had no intellects-except for Regina, his sister. A silence had again fallen in Mr. Spaulding's office. He was still avid with curiosity. He felt no commiseration for Governor Hennessey and what this would all mean to him. Joseph Armagh was stronger than the governor. Joseph Armagh would destroy the governor, for his own reasons, which were not known to Mr. Spaulding. The weaker, as usual, would go down. That was the law of nature and why should man quarrel with it? It was not even a matter of morality, or, coming down to it, legality. "It may take time, Joseph," said Mr. Spaulding. "Time is money," said Joseph. "The more time the less money. Paradox, isn't it?"

  Mr. Spaulding understood
. "Say, about six weeks before the elections?" "No. He must withdraw his candidacy as soon as possible. That is the first step." He made a motion as if to rise, and Mr. Spaulding said with haste, "I will attend to it as soon as possible. The information goes, as usual, to your house in Green Hills, and not your office?" "Yes," said Joseph, and stood up and Timothy put down his empty glass. Mr. Spaulding rose and the two men looked at each other over the desk. "Jim," said Joseph, "you have been loyal and most helpful to me through these years since Mr. Healey died. In appreciation-your birthday is next week, isn't it?-you will receive a small token from me. This will not be part of the payment upon receipt of the evidence I have requested." His voice was a rich parody of Mr. Spaulding's but the latter did not notice. "Joseph," said Mr. Spaulding, with real emotion, "you are too kind." The astute and intellectual Timothy Dineen-who was also a pragmatic and courageous man-never deceived himself that he had Joseph Armagh's full and unrestrained confidence. In the matter of business, it was true, Joseph trusted him and never questioned him. But he never spoke of his own feelings or his own reasons for doing anything, nor approached Timothy beyond the ordinary hedges of friendship and mutual respect. Timothy often guessed a number of things, intuitive as all the Irish, but he was never really positive. Joseph came as close as possible to regarding any other human being as a confidant when with Harry Zeff, but even here there was some reservation of self, some refusal of commitment, some detachment, some restraint. Never was there true bonhomie, total relaxation, positive warmth, towards even Harry, yet Timothy understood that both men would have risked their lives for each other and that Harry would not only have risked his life but would have given it without a thought, and that he loved Joseph more than he did even his Liza and his children. "The trouble with poor old Joe," Harry once said to Timothy, "is that he believes no one honestly and completely cares about him, except his sister Regina, and I think he has his doubts there, too. He was so broken about Mr. Healey's death because it came to him that Mr. Healey had greatly cared for him. I think he felt a little appalled at that," and Harry had smiled wryly. "It disarranged his conclusions about people for a time, and Joe doesn't like his neat conclusions getting untidy, or disordered. It takes too much time to resettle them. I think he finally decided, in the interests of neatness and reason, that Mr. Healey had some affection for him, and he had no other heirs, and so-" Harry had spread out his dusky hands expressively. "I often wonder why he married Mrs. Armagh," Timothy had said. "He certainly has no sound attachment to her. That's obvious to anybody." "I've wondered, too," said Harry. "It was a big surprise to me. Joe isn't the marrying kind. I don't think he ever cared about a woman in his life, except as a frequent necessity. Yes, there is his sister, of course, but she's hardly a woman to him." Harry had given Timothy a quick and covert glance, but Timothy had only nodded. "Sometimes I'm sorry for Mrs. Armagh," said Timothy, "though she's a lady hard to be sorry for, with that temper and that cynicism of hers, and her skeptical outlook and her-well, her real malice for people. Yet, she loves him to distraction. In comparison, her children are nothing to her." "Well," said Harry, "he's rich and strong, and women love that, and he's handsome in a hard sort of way. Must appeal to women. I'm sorry for Mrs. Joe, too." Timothy, this hot August afternoon, after leaving Mr. Spaulding, was riding back to Winfield in Joseph's private railroad coach, which had once belonged to Mr. Healey. He sat at a table going over his papers. Joseph sat in a chair near the large windows and looked out through them, but Timothy knew he was not seeing anything of the hot landscape, all gold and green and russet and purple and blue, which was moving rapidly beyond them. What did men like Joseph Armagh think, when they were alone, or when they forgot their companions? Timothy was not so stupid as to believe that Joseph thought exclusively of money and power, as other people averred with malignance and envy. Mr. Armagh was a man, and in spite of himself he had a man's emotions and a man's blood and a man's thoughts. He was not a machine, not an abstraction. The life force of humanity could burst through rock. Even when held down it seethed underneath in the darkness, waiting the day of explosion. Did Joseph think of his brother, Sean? Timothy remembered the day when Joseph had received a letter from Sean, the last letter he was to receive from the laughing and heedless and finally rebellious young man. Sean had left Harvard without even a farewell to his teachers or fellow students. Sean had not cared in the least for them, or for dull disciplined learning, or the law Joseph had insisted he study. Sean wanted to sing, to laugh with joyous companions, to drink until he fell unconscious but still singing-to play happy music, and beautiful music, and, as he had told Joseph, to live. Timothy had once heard them raging at each other. "You are a gray stone!" Sean had shouted. "You aren't a man, a human being at all! What do you know of life and loving, of pain-lovely deep pain down in your heart-of turmoil in your soul, if you have one? What do you know of deprivation and grief and hunger and anguish? You know nothing, nothing, but your damned money, and making more of it, no matter how, and the hell with everything and everybody else!" Sean, in his wild passion and his sense of personal injury, had not noticed the sudden terribleness of Joseph's face, and the clenching of his lips. He had cried on: "What do you know of loneliness, and loss of hope? You rarely if ever came to see me in the orphanage! Yes, I was told you were 'working,' for God's sake, and had no money to visit me! That's a lie! You could have spared some of your money to come, and tell me that you thought about me and cared about me. But, you didn't. There I was, stuck in the mud of that damned orphanage, among sniveling nuns and dirty brats, with no beauty and no pleasure and no anticipations-and there you were off, forgetting me, and Regina, and not giving us a thought-just making your damned money! And what has it done for you, pray? Nothing. You can't even enjoy it!" Joseph had not answered. His face became even more terrible, and Sean became even more frantic about his "wrongs." "You must have hated us! Yes, you've provided for us, and it must have killed you, almost. You deserted us when we needed you most, as little children. And for what? Just for money. Once, when I was nine I had the pneumonia. You never came. It was nothing to you. You probably hoped I'd die." Joseph had stood up then, and Timothy had seen a long and awful trembling along his body. Joseph had lifted his hand and had struck Sean wordlessly but savagely across the face, and then had left the room. Sean had whimpered. Then, holding his flaming cheek, he had collapsed into a chair and had wailed aloud in self-pity, and then noticing the quiet Timothy had pleaded with him for compassion. Timothy listened, and then he had said almost gently, "You are a dog, a selfish swine, and you don't deserve one more thought from your brother. Go on and play. That is about all you are worth, and at your age, too, for Christ's sake!" That was the last time Timothy saw Sean Armagh. Sean returned to Harvard the next day, after the Christmas holidays. It was the final year at Harvard, and Sean had left the university in the spring, and had disappeared. Only Timothy, sent there to investigate, noticed that Sean had been careful to take with him everything of value in his handsome room, which Joseph had bought for him, and his best clothing and his fine luggage.

  It took several months to find Sean, and Timothy led the search. He was finally discovered, gloriously disheveled, golden-haired, drunk and soiled, laughing and drinking and joking and singing in the saloons of Boston. Sometimes he was accompanied by a fiddler. Sometimes there was an ancient piano which he could make thunder and ring and clamor and dance at will. He played and he sang for a handful of pennies, for beer and whiskey, for free lunch, for applause, for camaraderie, the spurious friendship of the saloons, the spurious warmth and companionship and admiration. In a few months he was penniless and ragged. "We can't let him starve," said Joseph, with that terrible look on his face when his brother was mentioned. "We can't give him any money in any amount, either. He would just throw it away on his fellow ruffians, and drunkards and ne'erdo-wells." "Let him starve," Timothy had said with unusual feeling and Joseph had glanced up at him sharply, had studied him, and then had slightly smiled. "No," he sai
d. "We can't let him starve. I don't know why, but we can't. Perhaps it is because his sister wouldn't like it. Does he have a rooming house? Well, see that he gets ten dollars a week. Tell one of my boys in Boston to give it to him, Tim." But two years ago Sean had disappeared. He had not been found since. No one knew, or professed not to know. He might have been murdered, been injured or died and buried in potter's field. The hospitals were canvassed, the poor houses, the refuges for such as Sean. He was not there. At each disappointment, at each ending of hope, Regina said nothing though her face became more and more translucent and lovely and ethereal, and she was more attentive to Joseph. "He is like my father," said Joseph. Regina bent and pressed her cheek to her brother's, and Joseph had taken her hand like a child and Timothy had marveled again. He had known then, without any doubt, that Regina Armagh had her brother's complete love and confidence and absolute trust, and that she knew the import of his thoughts if not the thoughts themselves, and that for him she had the tenderest love and an almost saint like compassion, and knew all about him and sorrowed over him. Joseph never spoke now of his brother. He never searched for him. Had Sean come to him, begging for forgiveness, Joseph would have helped him. But he would never forgive Sean. Sean was as dead to him as if he had seen him in his grave. He would never forget. Regina must have guessed this for she did not speak of Sean to Joseph, but only to Timothy, and sometimes she would put her hands over her face and cry. Was Joseph, today, as the train roared in its passage, thinking of any of this? Timothy asked himself. He did not know. Joseph's harsh profile was illuminated by the falling sun. He neither smoked nor drank. He rarely attended social events in Green Hills or Philadelphia or New York or Boston, or in other cities, unless they were connected with business. He had a wife he did not love but who occasionally amused or beguiled him a little, and sometimes even made him laugh when she teased him or cajoled him. Perhaps he had some fondness for her. She was not pretty, but she was charming in a lively and hoydenish way, and she had a sharp and diverting tongue. She filled the house with her loud Irish voice, her laughter and her gusto, and her admonitions to servants and to children. Rory and Ann Marie, the twins, were nearly five years old. Did Joseph love his children? He was sedulous about them and often spoke to his wife about her carelessness concerning them. They were denied nothing, and Timothy thought this unfortunate. The young should be deprived frequently, as a matter of discipline. Perhaps Joseph was fond of them, but would give them nothing more than fondness. He was, perhaps, as Harry Zeff had said, afraid to love, suspicious of love, and cynical above all things. And, thought Timothy, who can blame him, remembering Sean? Love betrayed, if it did not descend into hatred, became wariness and indifference and doubt, fearful of fresh hurt. Except for his sister, Joseph Armagh was joyless. Timothy suspected that there had been little joy in his life at any time, and he found himself intensely pitying this deserted and silent man, this man who had nothing, with the exception of his sister, to live for. Perhaps he had once had something for which to live but it was now gone. Yet, he was driven. That was obvious. It is inertia, thought Timothy. But Timothy did not know that it was a vengeance on a world which had denied to Joseph Armagh the ornaments that make life, and had brutalized and had rejected him, and had taken from him the only valuable things in existence: faith, hope, and love.