Shadows of Glory

by Ralph Peters

  We wound past shanties too poor for kerosene, lit by wicks afloat in bowls of fat, then trudged by hovels with no lights at all. Yet, you felt the life in them. Cradled babes cried out that life goes on. We were troubled by no more than a scattering of curses and surprises of filth beneath our feet.

  She brought me to an alley brighter than the others, lit with enough torches for a small parade. Roistering, it was. On a Monday night. She pulled her hood lower and clutched the bag of food against her like a shield.

  There was music now, in competition. A piano jangled against the weep of a fiddle across the way. Women painted and got up like a mockery of society ladies laughed at little Annie in her cloak, calling to me, “Ye’ll have no fun with that one, bucko. She’ll go weeping all the while.”

  A saddled mule stood tethered to a post.

  “Here,” Annie said, pulling me into a doorway.

  A heathen hole it was. Although unexpected in its cleanliness, I will admit. I speak in local comparison, of course. And twas all lit proper inside, with no dark corners for skullduggery in the little room. There was a bar cobbled up, and tables made of planks and sawhorses. A trio in their cups sang to a squeezebox. Other patrons looked well past the singing. But there was a certain order to the wickedness, reminiscent of a garrison canteen. The sawdust on the floor was fresh.

  The greatest surprise, though, was the busier of the two barkeeps. Molloy himself it was. With a clean shirt and garters on his sleeves, a new and sleek mustache all Irish red, and . . . an aspect of sobriety. But the fellow was born a dissembler, a master of falsehood and disguise.

  “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” he cried when he saw me. Fair shouting, he was. “By all the saints in Ireland and the sinners in London town! By the skirts of the blessed Magdalene! Tis little Sergeant Jones come up to see us!”

  I would not have chosen to be the center of attention.

  Molloy did all but leap upon the bar. “Hold your fire, boys,” he called to the clientele, “for the man what lifts a finger at the good sergeant, and him a great major now, will have to fight his way through Jimmy Molloy.”

  He looked at the figure beside me and ran his hand over his hair. Hastening out from behind that counter of Satan, he grinned and said, “Sure, Annie, and we’ll not tell Father Patrick that we’ve seen ye here tonight.”

  “Go on with you,” the girl said. She still kept under the shelter of her hood. But her voice had a fresh warmth. Almost as if she were pleased at the attention from the low devil. “Here is a gift you don’t deserve, and from a good lady.”

  Molloy seized the parcel and peered inside with the shamelessness of a savage. Then he remembered himself and set down the victuals.

  “Will ye not go back into the lady’s saloon?” Molloy asked my escort, with a glance around the room. “For tis safe and clean, ye know, and I’ll keep out the ruinations till ye go again. But ye can’t stay out here, Annie, for I cannot have such beauty distracting the boys.”

  Artfully, almost gracefully, he guided her into a back room. The Irish can charm, when they have a mind to. For a moment, I feared for the girl’s welfare. But such thoughts were unfair. The Irish have their rules among themselves. And for all his wickedness, I never knew Molloy to harm woman or child. On the contrary, the fellow was afflicted with that profligate generosity you find only among the poor. The thief’s hand is open when the banker’s is closed. I offer this but as an observation, not in approval. Although I will admit thinking of Father McCorkle in that moment, suspecting that the fellow would have said that Jesus Himself got more respect from a thief than from a king. But look you. At times, the wisdom of the Gospels lies beyond us. Read without the filter of morality, we might mistake them for texts of revolution to make pale the doctrines of Mrs. Schutzengel or Dr. Tyrone. For it is a fact that society folk only made time for our Savior when they needed their water turned into wine in a hurry. Of course, the world has changed since then, and order is virtue, and too much thought breeds indolence and error. So let that bide.

  Molloy come back out with respectable promptness, shutting the door behind him.

  “She’ll be in there telling her beads all the while, that one,” he said. “Born for marriage, not sporting.” Then he fair sang out. “Oh, Sergeant Jones, ye great major, ye. Just look at ye. Ye’ll be a high general next. Like Wellington himself. ‘Up Guards and at ’em!’ I’d buy ye a drink and a dozen more, and kiss ye like me own mother or worse, but for I know ye’d call out an army o’ constables after me.”

  He thrust out his hand and I took it.

  “A round for all on the house,” he cried.

  That took care of the Irish.

  WE SAT OVER A TRESTLE of planks by the rear wall. Pipe smoke mixed with the whiff of kerosene and the stink of sweat and liquors. I had expected to find Molloy as I had found him before, a beggar in rags. But here he was, shaven, employed and sober. Even if his employment was that of the devil, this was progress.

  “I would not interrupt you at your work,” I said, “but have only this night to speak to you. And speak to you I must. I hope it will not trouble the proprietor?”

  He lowered a great slice of pie from his mouth and swallowed. Twas like watching a snake gulp down a rodent. Then he gave me the old Molloy smile that had got past many a sentry hours after the barracks was shut.

  “Oh, the proprietor will give me the liberty, I’m sure of it.” He waved a hand at the interior, as if surveying the lobby of a fine hotel. “For who do ye think his ownership is, if not James Molloy, Esquire, himself? Oh, Amerikee’s a grand place for a fellow with ambitions.”

  “But . . . Molloy . . . when last we met, you were destitute.”

  He looked at me with that childish affection the Irish develop. “And who do I have to thank for me entry into the ranks o’ the capitalists? If not himself, the good major? Though he was only got up to a captaincy then. And an’t he looking grandiose under them shoulderboards? Ye’ll recall the money ye give me that first night for old time’s sake and for me services in the fray thereafter. Well, didn’t I invest it? Oh, a terrible rooster he was, the gamecock of all Amerikee, with spurs like a sirdar’s saber. And didn’t I win me a pile? And didn’t old Dorsey go under, drinking both profits and debts? And then wasn’t this fine place to be let? Why, the widow didn’t wait til they’d waked him proper before she went hawking his substance. A sin and a shame, it was. But Jimmy Molloy was ever a friend to opportunity. Oh, tis a lovely thing to become a man o’ substance, Sergeant Jones.”

  “Please, Molloy. It’s ‘Major’ Jones. Sergeant Jones is dead and gone.”

  “And sorry I am for it. For wasn’t he a lovely, tyrannical fellow? Why, I recall that day above Attock Fort, with the plague behind us and a thousand raging Pushtoons in front of us, and the poor captain dead as a rat got by a terrier, and the leftenant collapsed with the sun. And wasn’t ye grand, the way ye took over the shreds o’ the comp’ny, bayonet all bubbling with gore? I remember ye all a-thrusting, just sticking and clubbing away. Screaming the while, ye were. ‘Who’ll stand by me, boys? Who’ll stand by me, men?’ And the heathen buggers all around us, with their knives hungry for white meat. Who stood by ye then and brung ye back bloody when ye toppled down? Oh, didn’t we have lovely murdering that day, Sergeant Jones? Weren’t that a beautiful slaughter?”

  “Twas long ago,” I said. “And you were valiant, Molloy. I will credit that. Although you were undisciplined and a thief.”

  “‘Let bygones be bygones,’ says I. For I forgive ye the thousand cruelties I suffered under ye. I know ye meant ’em all for me own good. And sorry I am to this day about the regimental silver.”

  “Your own regiment, too,” I said. “When the highlanders were but a low wall away.”

  “The shame o’ the doings haunts me still,” he said, smiling. “Oh, tis grand to remmynis, tis a loveliness worth the treasuring.”

  “Yes, Molloy. Under the proper circumstances, of course. And when events are recalle
d with proper decorum. But let us return to the present.”

  I regarded the man life had sculpted. He should have looked a ruin, but remained youthful in aspect. And handsome, in a low, unsavory way. Having devoured the pie, and the cake before that, he addressed himself to a shingle of beef. He did not seal his lips while chewing, but shared his pleasure with the wide world.

  “I . . . offer my congratulations on your success,” I continued. “Although I wish it were in another field of endeavor.”

  “Oh, Major Jones,” he lisped through a great chew of carcass, “tis Amerikee, and a man o’ business must give the public what it wants. Tis the way o’ democracy and the path to profit.”

  I did not want to argue with the fellow. How can you convince the devil that hellfire is undesirable? Twas no time for lectures, in any case.

  “Molloy, I . . . need your help.”

  He set down the beef. “Again? And didn’t we just have wickedness enough with those Philadelphy fellows?”

  “Yes. Again. For though you were a disgrace to your regiment, and your morals are weak, you have talents needed by your country.”

  “‘Me country,’ says he? Oh, mother, hide the jewels and hold your purse! For when they come down the lane crying about ‘your country,’ ye know they mean to pluck your feathers good.”

  “Look here, Molloy. You said yourself America’s been good to you.”

  “And an’t I good to Amerikee, then? Working like a beaten dog to set up me own business, struggling day and night, and giving out jobs right and left? An’t I building the country up with me own two hands?”

  “Please, Molloy. I need to talk to you. Seriously.”

  “An’t me ears wide open to me old friend? An’t I listening this very minute?”

  “I need you to come to New York State with me.”

  “Are they fighting there, then?”

  “Not yet. And I hope not ever. Look you. Ever a sly one, you were. With your mimicry and disguises and such like. This time you’d hardly need to pretend. For I’d only want you to be an Irishman, see.”

  “Sure, and you’ll be explaining that, Major Jones?”

  “In good time. You see, Molloy, our Union is threatened on many fronts. And there are rumors. Of risings and insurrections on the part of the Irish.”

  “Oh, and an’t we great ones for the risings? There’s none can rebel like the Irish. Though beat us down in the end the buggers do.”

  “I do not think it is a rising, see. There is something else. Trouble. And I cannot find the thread of it. So I need you to go among the Irish and find out what they are up to.”

  He looked at me darkly then. Serious at last. The mouth that was ever so quick turned still. When he spoke, twas in a voice reduced:

  “An informer? You want me to go an informer?”

  “I want you to serve as an agent of the government. You would not be betraying anyone you know or to whom you are bound in any way.”

  “Still, an informer . . .”

  “An enrolled agent of the United States government.”

  “Oh, Major Jones,” he shook his head, “and wouldn’t I love to help ye? For hard, wicked devil that ever ye were, ye were square to me and sweet as me own mother with the honey o’ understanding. If not for ye, the black English buggers would of give me twenty years in Delhi jail and not ten—although I was obliged to leave those premises early anyway, for the quality o’ the accommodations was lowly and not to be endured, and thanks be to the black cholera for me blessed deliverance. Oh, don’t I love ye for the justice that is in ye and the charity all reluctant? But I’m a great businessman now. Sure, and ye can see that for yourself. I can’t go traipsing off to the wilderness and carrying on like a lad o’ twenty. I’m a gentleman o’ substance, with high responsibilities . . .”

  He bent back to his eating.

  “You won’t do it then?”

  “Oh, ye know I would if I could. But I can’t, so I won’t. And there it is. An informer . . .” He puffed his cheek and blew the idea to nothing, spitting shreds of beef upon the boards.

  He had been my last hope. For the Irish were as shut to me as the thoughts of the Grand Chinee.

  Molloy must have marked the disappointment on my face. As soon as he was finished with his meal, he wiped his snout and paws on the cloth that had wrapped it and said, “Oh, Major Jones, me lovely, darling man. Sure, and ye don’t need the likes o’ me, anyways. Nor are ye wanting such likes. For trouble I am, and always was. Me own mother, who was a great, pop’lar beauty back in Dublin, and every one o’ me fathers in turn said I was trouble. And right they were. No, ye’ll not be wanting the likes o’ me for your delicate doings . . .”

  I put my head down in my hand, searching my brain for ideas. “I wish Dr. Tyrone were here. Perhaps he could help.”

  Molloy perked up. “Help ye? With the Irish? That Orangeman? That black Protestant? Now, I’d not offend ye, Major Jones, and I’ve naught against the person o’ the man, but ye’d be a fool to trust a low souper Protestant like that one.”

  “I’m Protestant myself, Molloy.”

  He waved that away. “Ye are but a Welshman, and not counted by the Holy Mother Church. For the Virgin knows that such are born benighted, and she’ll intercede for ye and lessen your sufferings. But an Orangeman’s damned to the blackest pit o’ Hell.”

  “Dr. Tyrone is actually quite fond of you, you know.”

  “And don’t I love the fellow meself? For he’s sweet and full o’ learning, and I’ll not hear a word said against him. But he’s damned for all that, and not to be trusted. Like every Orangeman ever born. Why, he’d not last an hour as an informer, that one. Sure, and the Whiteboys would set the pitch cap on him and hang him so high—”

  I caught him by the wrist. “What did you say, Molloy? ‘Whiteboys?’ What are ‘Whiteboys’?”

  He did not lose his jocularity, but rolled on. “Sure, and nothing but thieves, the most o’ them. For times are hard, and men are brought low. But long ago, in the days o’ Black Oliver and down to the ’98, they was the hardest o’ patriot secret societies. ‘All for Ireland!’ ‘Liberty or Death.’ ‘Erin go brach.’ Oh, they weren’t all high and fine like Tone and Tandy. But they made the Uniteds look like dolly-girls when deeds were to be done. Cutting the tendons on the landlord’s cattle, they were. And sometimes on the landlord himself. Quick hands with a torch, that lot, though not so quick with their heads. It took the likes o’ Father Murphy to manage ’em. And whenever they found an Irishman who grew too close to the English and betrayed his own, they’d set the pitch cap on him. Although I heard the cap was first thought up by a sergeant o’ German George.”

  “The pitch cap,” I said. “That would be pitch poured over the head? And gunpowder rubbed in it? Then set alight? And the poor man left to hang thereafter?”

  He grinned in delighted agreement. “There ye have it! Just so. Ye’ve seen it yourself! Oh, sometimes they let the devil’s hands free and he’ll go tearing the flaming hair from his own skull and—”

  Molloy stopped.

  His face changed utterly. He looked at me with a greater sobriety than ever I had seen upon his features.

  “Ye’ve seen it yourself,” he repeated, in a flattened voice.

  “I have.”

  “In these New York doings?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached across the table to grasp hold of me, but thought better of it and only leaned in close. I saw the clots of wax on his mustache.

  “I’m begging ye,” he whispered. “If that’s what ye found in New York, go elsewhere. For the likes o’ them will kill ye horrible. They’re worse than dacoits. Crueler than the Pushtoon.”

  “I will do my duty,” I told the dark-eyed urgency the man had become. “At least I understand your reluctance to aid your new country now.”

  “Oh, bugger me country.” His voice went up. “And every other country, too. For the truth is, they’ve done naught for the likes o’ us. Your landlady�
��s right about that, though smitten she is with Amerikee. And lucky we are, the two o’ us, that we’ve still got our heads on our shoulders, and the use o’ our arms and legs . . .”

  He glanced down then. As if he could see through the planks of the table. To where my bad leg rested.

  “Sure, and ye’ve done your share for two countries,” he told me. “One after the other.” Something like fondness colored his voice. “Leave Whiteboys and such be. For the sweet love o’ Mary.”

  For the love of two Marys. The one he meant, and my Mary Myfanwy. How little such a fellow understood of duty and obligation. Molloy had been a brave soldier in his day, but courage is no more constant than the temperature, and physical valor is not tied to virtue. Perhaps he thought I relished the sordid business. Imagining that I had lost my senses since they made me an officer. The truth is that I only wanted to be home again, clerking in Mr. Evans’s coal company office and lying in my nightshirt by my love, with my son in the next room. But we are not put upon this earth for our selfish pleasures alone.

  “Thank you, Molloy,” I said, rising. “Your information has been of value to me. Now I know what I am facing, see. I wish you luck in your endeavors.” I looked down at that long-familiar face. “Abide by the law and avoid depravity.”

  The Irish are great ones for making every room into a theater. Such a despairing expression the fellow put on then!

  “Oh, me darling man,” he said, shaking his head as gently as a willow and smacking his greased lips, “your wife won’t even see ye in your coffin. For they’ll have to nail it shut to hide your ruin.”

  “AND WON’T HE BE HELPING YOU THEN, sir?” Annie Fitzgerald asked me, when we were almost free of the valley of the shadow that was Swampoodle.

  “Helping me?”

  The hood that covered her face turned toward me. “Sure, sir, and you weren’t come all this way only to visit the likes of that one for your pleasures? But did he refuse you, sir?”

  “Mr. Molloy . . . is engaged in other occupations.”