by Ralph Peters
“If he even comes back. Once he hears about this.”
“He will come back.”
“Well, you sound pretty damned sure of yourself.”
“He will come back. Because he is clever, see. If he would run, he would give himself away. And there is no good evidence against him. We do not even know what he’s about. He will see as much.”
“I bet he runs.”
“We will see.” The truth was that I was not completely certain. I could not think of Kildare without thinking of Nellie. And that clouded things. Perhaps it was only that I wanted them to return. Because I was not finished with either of them.
“Well, we damned well will know what he’s up to,” Underwood said. “Once we find that damned Nolan.”
“You will find Nolan, that is sure.”
“Don’t I know it? And then we’ll find out just what’s going on. Rebellion and Kildare and the whole business.”
“You will find Nolan,” I said, but my voice was grim now. “But he will tell you nothing.”
Piqued, the sheriff turned his head and gave me a side look. As if I were too full of myself. But I was only full of troubled thoughts. For the clearer one thing became, the foggier ten others appeared.
“Once I get my hands on Nolan,” the sheriff said, “you can bet your bottom dollar he’s going to talk. And that’s a promise.”
“John,” I said, in a gentling voice, “you will not find him alive.”
NOW YOU WILL SAY, “Well, where is that Molloy? He was not on the train with Abel Jones. And is he to be trusted, after all?” But you must wait for answers, for these things happen slowly.
Molloy and I parted in Philadelphia—for people always see what they shouldn’t—and he went off to make his way alone. We had arranged the methods of our meetings. I tried to give him money from my funds, but he was wiser and saw that too much money always wants explanation. So off he went, with his Derby hat on his head.
I hoped that head would remain upon his shoulders. Without a pitch cap. For he would be on my conscience now. As for trusting him, look you. In some regards, he was more to be trusted than myself. For he had come to aid a friend in need, and there is goodness. While I was still not free of Nellie Kildare. And although I meant no baseness, Molloy was right. A woman will get you in trouble.
But let that bide.
Twas late when I left the jail, and whipping snow, but I went to see Father McCorkle. For I had thought on him, too, during my journey. And I had more cause to think on him now.
He made a fuss, all “Look what the wind blew in,” and “How are ye, man, how are ye?” Yet he did not seem surprised to see me. With that knotting together of his black brows and his workman’s shoulders.
His rooms smelled of a cabbage supper.
We sat by his fire again, but this time I declined his tea.
“Ah, Major Jones,” he said, with the fire dancing on his face, “I see ye come back with heavy matters on your mind.”
I inched closer to the hearth, for I had forgotten too quickly how cold it was in old New York.
“There is true,” I said. “Heavy matters. And not unlike those weighing upon your own mind, sir.”
He rocked back on his chair, a big man. “Is that so? And will we be welcoming ye into the Holy Mother Church? Or what do ye mean?”
“Nolan.”
Oh, yes. I caught the fleeting darkness in his eyes. “I hear the boy’s gone missing, Major Jones. And accused of a terrible thing, he is.”
“A thing he did not do.”
“And is that so? Sure, and I’m glad to hear it. For he was always regular to Mass, at least on Sundays. And cared for his mother, and kept his sisters decent. Won’t they be pleased to know the boy’s innocent?”
“They won’t be pleased to know he’s dead.”
“Is he now?” He shook his head and sighed. “I had not heard that. Oh, the times are hard we’re living in.”
The fire snapped and flared, then calmed again. The brief rush of warmth was a lovely thing. I watched the flames and changed my line of talk.
“And how are the Latin lessons going?” I asked him.
“Oh, they get on well enough. But boys have little interest in such matters.”
“I have heard, sir, that your Latin is excellent.”
He allowed himself a little smile. “It was not bad in years gone by.”
“I am told that boys who are not Catholics pay for lessons. To prepare them for their examinations, or even to go on to college.”
“Tis a poor parish, and the little fees lessen the burden on my flock. Sure, and you don’t begrudge me . . .”
“Not at all, sir. It is not the fees that interest me, see, but the skill.”
“Tis not so fine. But have ye need of Latin, then?”
“Father McCorkle . . . do you know much about the Negro?”
“The sons of Ham,” he said. “Are ye sure ye’ll not take a drop o’ tea, major? Twill clear your head of Latin and Negroes and what not.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, sir. But it is the Negro I am interested in now.”
He cocked a bushy brow. “Here, and I thought it was me lovely Irish ye come about. Will ye make an abolitionist of me, then?”
“I am told,” I said, “that his sufferings have taught the Negro to dissemble. That, often, a Negro who can write a fine hand and read a sound book will nonetheless play the fool. For his safety, and to ease his way among those who prefer him unlettered and a fool.”
He understood me.
“It occurred to me,” I went on, for I would have things said aloud, “that a man who has better Latin than the schoolmasters at the Academy would not be limited to the speech of bog farmers and the vocabulary of the saloon.”
He smiled. But it was different this time. “Ye’d have me spout like an English lord, Major? Taking on airs? When I’m only speaking to be understood by me own, who have not been to your fine academies?”
“A man may speak as he pleases. For this is America. But I think you are an intelligent man, see. A very intelligent man. Who plays the potato digger. To keep off trouble. But now I think trouble has come. And you know more about it than you will say. You put us off with homely speeches. And trap us in our prejudices.”
“I’ve told ye, Jones, there is no rebellion.”
“I said naught of rebellion.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about O’Connor’s carryings-on. The ‘President Kildare’ business. But the man was a famous drunkard. Addled. Pickled by drink. And as little as I like Kildare and his damnable doings, I’d not jump to the conclusion that the man’s about to lead an insurrection.”
“I said naught of insurrection.”
“As for the Latin, every priest has the language. Some just remember it the better. It’s no more than a trick of the mind, man. A few scraps of Latin do not bespeak a great intelligence.” He smiled wistfully, as if remembering. “I’m only a poor fool, like most men, and a priest with a poor parish. ‘I am fortune’s fool . . .’”
“And that is Mr. Shakespeare, not the Bible.”
“What do you want, Jones?”
I took up the poker and teased the fire. To spare the man the rising. For he looked weary. I believe he went through every day a weary man. For much lay upon those shoulders. And muscles have no strength over matters of the soul.
“I believe I want the same thing as you, see. In the end. The welfare of your parish.” I stirred the fire and glanced at him. But I did not stare. For there are times when a man must be left to himself. “I believe you know who killed O’Connor and Nolan. Oh, maybe not the individuals. But you know the cause. And the crowd behind the matter.”
“I would never condone . . .” He near jumped from his chair.
I poked the stingy flames with the iron. “I did not say you liked the matters. Or had a hand in them. Only that you know. For I believe you are the one man who knows everything. Or nearly so. But you will not go to the law because you will n
ot betray your own kind.”
“A priest tainted with murder would be damned.”
I nodded. “I cannot speak for your theology. Only for common sense. And common sense tells me that you know these things. Not every man can hold his tongue on his pillow or in his cups. And if the men do not come to you, the women do. They tell you things they do not rightly understand. But you understand them.” I looked at him then. “What’s Kildare about, sir? You can stop this business now.”
He had put on a mask. A smiling mask. “Sure, and Major Jones, I’ve always heard tell that a Welshman’s too clever by half and will tie himself up in knots. And I see that there’s truth in the stories. For ye’ve gone off fantastical on me.”
I would not smile with him. “You’re making a mistake. Look you. You are not helping your people. You’re hurting them. For they will only suffer in the end.” I fear I waved the poker, as if it were the cane left by my chair. “Whatever the matter that’s underway, it will not succeed. Whatever they have built up will crash down upon them. And then you will see hatred. And prejudice. And death.”
He kept up that smile. But twas hollow. And brutal. “Are ye a prophet now, Jones? Or are ye only seeing things? Perhaps ye see Kildare’s banshees and devils and haunts? Are they dancing around ye now? Have ye looked too long in the fire?”
“I’ve looked into hotter fires than this,” I told him. For we are all vain and foolish. Then I edged toward him. “For God’s sake, man! Protect your own people. Put a stop to all this killing, this . . . this madness. Don’t let it go any further. For the love of God.”
There was no living face before me.
“And what,” he said, “would ye know about the love of God?”
THEY FOUND NOLAN IN THE MORNING, hanging from a tree where the road turned into the sheriff’s farm. The pitch cap had been set upon him.
Underwood wanted to call up the militia. He raved about rebellion and elections and lack of respect. I think he was ready to hang the Irish by the dozen. And that would be just what the dark men wanted.
I talked sense into him at last. By warning of the impression of panic. Still, he raged back and forth in the parlor of his splendid home—twas no common farmhouse he lived in, and John Underwood was not a man who needed the job of sheriff to earn his daily bread.
“This is war,” he insisted. “Nothing but a goddamned war.”
I did not let him know. But he was right.
ELEVEN
WELL, THERE IS WAR AND WAR. AT THE END OF THE week, I had a letter from Mick Tyrone. Some of the pages were smudged a dark brown. Twas the look of blood. My friend had seen the kind of war I knew.
Headquarters, along the Tennessee
February 7, 1862
My Dear Friend,
I have seen the elephant. I had imagined that I knew something of war from street mêlées in Vienna and the skirmishes I attended in Hungary. Brutal as those affairs were, this was a different matter. I believe you understand me.
You have heard by now of our conquest of Fort Henry, but you will know to distrust the newspaper accounts. Certainly, it was a victory, welcome and worthy. But the ease of accomplishment reported by the journalists—few of whom were on the field—slighted the facts.
Perhaps you would excuse our initial confusion as attendant to the mounting of any grand campaign, but I must say that we boarded the steamboats with only the vaguest intuition of a plan. No doubt Grant, Foote and Rawlins knew our intent full well. We medicos, however, simply followed, like the rest of the army. I recall sudden orders, long waits, eternal lines, and blank faces.
I must say the spectacle was grand, though, when a fellow stood back. Dozens of steamboats and barges banked to the levee in the odd river light, as an endless flow of blue-clad regiments trudged up the planks to board. Odd, to see horses upon a deck. Toward the far shore, our gunboats gnashed at the water, snapping turtles of wood and iron, bristling with cannon and trailing smoke as they patrolled against enemy encroachments. I was startled at the number of women who attempted to board the transports, only to be turned back by the officers. Children and dogs ran about the embankments, while men with queasy stomachs broke from the ranks to perform the basest of duties squatting in full sight of a thousand of their fellows. As a medical man, I am accustomed to the body’s mechanical functions, yet it was a sorry sight. The artist does not depict the full range of the hero’s activities.
We made a grand procession sailing up the river. From each bend, a long succession of transports chugged along in the high, brown waters. It seemed to me an invincible display of might. May I say, at the risk of your mockery, that all felt a great exhilaration to be underway at last.
I did not see Grant until we disembarked. And that scene was but a greater chaos to me. It is the impedimenta of an army that the novice least expects. A mule becomes contrary in the mud, braking the progress of a hundred others. Soldiers made stevedores unload supplies without end, yet who can find that for which he seeks? Cooking fires appear, only to be scotched by officers wary of their smoke, and nervous boys finger muskets. Regiments form and sergeants bray, while quartermasters lay out bivouacs in conflict one with the other and disappointing to all. Grant stood watching from the deck of his vessel, unconcerned, a cigar in his mouth where his old pipe was wont to be. I thought that, should the Rebels strike our unloading, we would be beaten shamefully. But nothing transpired.
The plan, I now know, anticipated a coordination of forces, with our regiments of infantry advancing overland to take Fort Henry in the rear, while the gunboats steamed ahead and engaged in a duel with the fortification’s cannon. I expected a grand panorama of battle and took the opportunity, while the orderlies established our field surgery, of joining a party of cavalry upon the west and unoccupied bank of the river. I went at the invitation of their adjutant, whom I had treated for a fistula. He should not have been astride a horse. But all wanted to partake of events.
We blundered through scrub trees and wallows for a time, until a scout led us to a promontory across the river from the fort. Dismounting, we took up positions amid abandoned gun emplacements. From our vantage point, no telescope was required to see the enemy’s battle flag and the scurrying of cannoneers upon the ramparts. We also saw columns of men in gray, brown, blue—seemingly every color—departing the fort overland. We thought, then, that they would challenge our regiments in the field. In fact, they were fleeing. Only a brave rear guard remained to hold the fort.
Our gunboats closed toward the works and both sides opened with long-range guns. I will tell you that the Confederates, despite the wickedness of their cause, showed valor. They stood to their guns, despite the falling shot and spectacular losses. The gunboats paddled forward, engines groaning to drive those irresistible machines of war. The adjutant pointed out to me that the Rebel engineers had planned and built badly, and that the high water put our war machines level with the enemy’s gunports. It seemed, indeed, as though our vessels might float right up to the walls and fire point-blank into la fortressa.
But where was the army? No sound of field engagements reached our ears, nor did we see the expected lines of blue break from the trees. The gunboats fired remorselessly. We watched their dark shells hurtle through the air, each impact followed by a great splash of debris from the earthworks. The slaughter was indescribable. Now that I have seen the human body disintegrated by shell, I better understand your loathing of war.
The defenders appeared as small as monkeys from our perch, yet we knew they were men. We held a firm allegiance to our own side, of course, yet one could not help admiring the bold rushing to and fro of men under fire, and the hasty serving of the guns by dwindling crews. Then a shell from one of our guns struck a magazine. The blast seemed to stun the very earth, and the smoke increased severalfold. When we could begin to see again, the interior of the fort had been cratered, the walls smashed, and guns lay bored into the earth, their carriages shattered. We knew then that we had won the day. Still, t
he Confederates would not yet yield. Toward the end, an officer discarded his sword and served one of the remaining guns himself. I know I shall never possess such valor.
For our part, the enemy’s shot seemed to bounce from the armored sides of our vessels. The worst damage appeared to be to smoke stacks. I thought it a perfect example of the supremacy of the machine age.
Under a last, furious bombardment, the Rebel fire failed. Although I had imagined a relentless progress for our vessels, Captain Foote had kept them at a careful range, where few of the Rebel cannon could reach them. The Confederates could only suffer, with slight chance of retaliation. Loaned a spyglass, I viewed ruptured bodies everywhere along the Southron ramparts, and gutted mules behind the batteries, and blood so thick it discolored the mud.
The enemy raised the white banner, and the field fell silent. We still could not see our army.
I made my excuses to my mounted colleagues, for I felt I must return to the landing. Although it appeared that little harm had been done to our naval arm, a surgeon, too, has his duties. Incidental injuries could not be ruled out. Further, I expected we would extend treatment to the vanquished defenders who must face not only the pain of their wounds but the ignominy of capture.
After blundering about on my willful horse, I returned to the point of disembarkation and was ferried to the east bank. The first gunboats were just putting in. Grant, by the way, was in a lather, although those who have not observed him regularly failed to notice. The infantry, it seems, had become mired in the low country, all mud and creeks risen over their banks. The mass of the enemy, far from intending to engage, had fled toward Fort Donelson, twenty miles to the east and the principal Confederate fortification in the region. Overlooking the Cumberland River where it parallels the Tennessee, the citadel of Donelson intends to hold the forces of Justice at bay. But now that the Rebel designs have failed in part, I am confident they soon will fail entirely. As I write, Grant is preparing to move across the isthmus to lay siege to their works.
