Faded Coat of Blue

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking my hand away. “But one last question, if you please. Do you know anything of a Major Trenchard?”

  When I said the name she shivered.

  Mrs. Schutzengel expected me for dinner, but we cannot let our bellies govern all. With my leg pestering me, I did weaken and take the omnibus from Willard’s to the foot of Capitol Hill. Along the way, I seemed to have lost the gentleman following me. And I did consider that the whole matter might have been a fault of my imagination. Getting down well clear of the horses, I hauled myself toward Swampoodle, up past the railyard and into a dank world. No omnibuses ran there, I may tell you, and I understood that no cab would risk its alleys after dark. Up there, Tiber Creek oozed yet uncovered, reeking of all that was offensive in man, and the newspapers often told of a nameless fellow floating dead among the corpses of dogs and rats.

  At the insistence of the night constables, the gas works had put a few lamps in Swampoodle, but there were far fewer of the posts than you found in respectable parts. The lights claimed little islands from the darkness, separate and sparse as watchfires on the Black Mountains, only adding to an intruder’s sense of isolation. Nor did I see one provost guard or policeman in my journey through those alleys.

  Now I have seen slums, from London to Delhi, but Swampoodle might have won the hoopla prize at the fair. There is funny, see. For slums come to us in two kinds. Both are ugly, and I would not paint them pretty, but there is a sort in which hope resides, where the people look beyond the disappointments of the day and believe, no matter the odds, that tomorrow will be better. Swampoodle began with a feeling of hopelessness and grew worse with every step I took.

  Twas the only place I ever knew where the Irish did not sing, though I did hear the scrape of a cheap fiddle. The reel broke off in midphrase, as though the player’s heart had failed him.

  Harlots there were, but more listless than brazen. Wrapped in rags, they stood quiet against this wall or that, as though the energy was not in them to champion their wares. Only the beggars spoke in their cracking brogue. I did not belong there, had never been before, and hoped not to go again. For I will believe in America, see. And Swampoodle was a place to trouble your religion, let alone your faith in mortal things.

  The children played by the whores. There were no saloons as such, only shacks with smoky lamps and planks on barrels, but the stink of whisky and beer clung to your skin. Ahead of me, a man flew backward out of one of the drinking shanties, followed by three big fellows who got him down in the muck of the street and kicked him wherever their boots could find a space.

  “Kill the Derry bastard,” a woman shrieked, “oh, put it to him good.”

  Then the loose women thinned away with the cleverest of the beggars, and soon not a child was to be seen. A long pitch there was between the streetlamps now. I had seen no sign of an establishment named after a Mother Flaherty. And, I will admit, I was reluctant to ask for directions. If there was any remaining trace of Welshness in my voice—though I heard none myself—Irish fellows of this sort would not like it. For the Irish would rather fight than sing, and rather sing than talk, and rather talk than think. If the good Lord lets them into Heaven, they will raise a rebellion in a fortnight, only to divide and fight amongst themselves, crooning tearful ballads all the while. In the meantime, they will practice with their fists whenever they can.

  “The charity o‘ Christ for a cripple o’ the war,” a clump of old clothes called to me.

  And wasn’t there a shock in the sound. Familiar it was.

  “Private Molloy,” I barked, for some things are ingrained in a man.

  A human figure, and not a bad one, erupted from a mountain of tatters. If I had taken a shock, that devil Molloy fair shimmered with amazement.

  “Sergeant Jones,” he cried, saluting like a fool. “Sure, and I didn’t know ye. An’t I sorry for it, and no disrespect intended.”

  I took a great gander at him, with just light enough to peg him sure: that same red bundle of hair the natives begged to touch, and those eyes ever moving in search of wicked opportunity. He had his soldier’s posture still, with the leanness of the man who never wears down on the march. A splendid soldier he would have been, but for drink, dishonesty, and his birth.

  “It is Captain Jones now. And ‘sir’ to the likes of you. And what is this ‘cripple o’ the war‘ business? I see no crippling here, Molloy.”

  He hung his head. The Irish are like children. “Sir, and don’t a man need an occupation? For the food and drink don’t fall from Heaven, no more than they will from a priest’s black lap. It was only my occupation I was pursuing, when ye strutted up on me all unsuspecting.” He come closer, and looking hard he was.

  “You should still be in Delhi jail,” I told him. “A silver thief. And from your own regiment, when there were Highlanders in the next cantonment.”

  “Oh, and would ye have me back there then? In that black jail? Instead of here in Amerikee, all free and prospering like? Ever a hard man ye was, Sergeant Jones. But the black cholera come back, thank the Blessed Savior, and they wanted for volunteers out of the prison for to help with the burning and burying, and I must’ve died o‘ it meself, for wasn’t I reborn on a dirty dhow to Maddygascar, and from there I as much as swum to Baltymore, when I heard of the good livings to be had.”

  “You’re a bad sort, Molloy. Always were, always will be. Though you had the makings of an excellent soldier.”

  Closer and closer he come. I had no fear of him, for I was ever better with the bayonet, and my cane would put him down in a trice. But I did not like my sense of him now.

  Suddenly, he laughed.

  “A captain now, is he? Sure and isn’t that grand as a monkey on a throne?” He could not stop laughing and, in a moment, tears come sparkling out of his eyes, stealing the bit of light between us. “Oh, and here’s poor Jimmy Molloy fooling off with a bit o‘ silver, and heavy on my conscience it was, and not a thing to be doing but for the awful craving after the drink in me and the heat driving a fellow mad. Then it’s off to the hoosegow with me, off to the black Englishman’s dungeon.” He laughed to beat the band. “But who is the connie man here, I ask ye? Tis not Jimmy Molloy. No, sir. The master stands before me, and off with me hat to him. And him a fine captain now. Him what said he was all give up on fighting, and wouldn’t raise his hand against a mouse, and all with a straight face he says it. And even the good colonel coming to believe it. So out o’ the army he goes, free as a priest with his promises o‘ salvation. Oh, the beauty o’ it. A man could weep at the sly, deviling beauty o‘ it. And a captain no less, and an’t that a bargain well made?”

  It was clear that he did not understand me.

  “None of your nonsense, Molloy. I need not explain myself to the likes of you. Though an explanation there is for honest men.”

  “Oh, Captain, sir. Will ye not spare two bits for old comradeship? So a starving man can put a bitty crust of bread in his gob?”

  “Molloy, you don’t understand. I was sincere in the matter. I never believed I would take up arms again, never intended to. But I saw a duty here, a different sort of duty, see…”

  He gave me a wink. “Sure, and Jimmy Molloy don’t need the explaining over a thing like that. For they’ll hear no tales from me, not a one. For Jimmy Molloy knows how to value an old comrade. Jimmy Molloy can keep a trust.” His head lolled in a mockery of sorrow. “And I’m just thinking o‘ the day the Pushtoon caught us shy o’ Attock Fort, and both o‘ the rivers all running with blood. And there’s my little Sergeant Jones, me darling man, all lathered in gore, ramming home the bayonet like a very devil and shouting, Who’ll stand by me, men? Who’ll stand by me?’ And wasn’t it Jimmy Molloy what was the only one flocked to the call? And didn’t we beat the black boogers down, the two o‘ us? And wasn’t it Private Jimmy Molloy what carried the good sergeant back what that couldn’t walk no more, and what saved him from having his head cut off or worse? Wasn’t that a scrap for the remembering, no
w?”

  “And for your service, I spoke in your defense, Molloy. You would have had twenty years, not ten.”

  “ ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ says Jimmy Molloy. For you’ll never have gratitude in this world, but only the grief o‘ your doings. But an’t there a shilling too heavy in your pocket, Sergeant Jones, and wanting to buy me a little handful o’ crumbs for me supper?”

  I gave him a dollar. There is pain. But the truth is there was more soldier in him than in a hundred of your baronet colonels or viscount lieutenants. Twas only the drink that drove him down, and his lack of moral faculties, and his base parentage.

  “I know you will squander it on wickedness, Molloy. But eat something first. And think on your sinful ways. For a man can start afresh in this country. And muscles you have still. There is labor to be had, see. And honest soldiering.”

  He shook as if I had struck him. A shying horse the man was. “Oh, no more soldiering for me,” he said. “No more o‘ your ’Yes, Sergeant,‘ and ’No, sir,‘ and what all, and your brass an’t shiny or your musket an’t clean. No, there’s a mistake Jimmy Molloy’ll not make again.”

  “Work then.”

  But he went queer on me. “And speaking o‘ sin,” he said, “though I would not class it such, benefit o’ clergy or no, I’ll have ye know ye had my sympatee. Sure, and didn’t ye have the sympatee and the bleeding tears o‘ the entire regiment, when that brown girlie died on ye. For beautiful as all the angels she was, and kinder than the archangels, and terrible it was to see ye standing on parade, and barking like the great dog o’ a sergeant ye was, and the tears pouring over your face like monsoon rain. Oh, damn the black cholera, says I, for nothing should touch the likes o‘ that Ameera and the little one what went with her to break the heart o’ our good Sergeant Jones.” I said nothing for a time. “Tis truly sorry I was, and am. And weren’t we all?” he continued. “For any man with eyes could see how ye loved her, nigger Hindoo or not.”

  “That will do, Molloy. And she was not a Hindoo.”

  “Oh, sorry I am to think on it.”

  “I said that will do.” I could not speak further. We may harbor memories in us for years, and think we have mastered them. But let a fellow who was by us in the battle speak a word, and our losses were but yesterday’s.

  I closed my eyes. Until I fair mastered myself. Then I just said, “That was in another lifetime, Molloy. It is behind me, and I will leave it so. I would thank you never to mention the matter again, if ever our paths should cross.”

  “Ah, pain there is still, then? And don’t I understand it, too? Twice sorry I am, Sergeant Jones.”

  “There is no Sergeant Jones on this earth.”

  “Will ye not join me for a glass, sir? As my guest? For to kill the pain o‘ remembrance?”

  “Drink has been your bane, Molloy. It will not be mine.”

  “Oh, ever a hard one ye was, sir. Ever the hard one. But only when it come to your native lady, I remember the great mooning boyo ye was… with your whiskers perfumed and your scarlet coat the fit o‘ perfection…”

  “I’ll leave you now, Molloy. Good luck to you. Do not waste God’s gifts.”

  “Nor yours, Captain, sir.” He held up the fist with the dollar squeezed tight. “A terrible good man ye are still.”

  “Listen… have you heard of an establishment called Mother Flaherty’s?”

  “Mother Flaherty’s? Man, ye’ll find no comfort there, nor little brown sweeties, for tis worse than a convent, it is. Tis for the boarding o‘ girls from the Old Country not yet fallen to the streets. Though fall they will, for all your talk o’ Amerikee. No, ye’ll find none like your Hindoo goddess there, sir.”

  “Molloy, I am a married man. With a child. And happy and content. Have the charity to let the past go.”

  “Dwelling on it, am I? Then forgotten it already I have. And Jimmy Molloy will be glad to drink your happiness, sir. For an honest man deserves as much, and honest our Sergeant Jones was ever, and bless him. Even if he fooled the colonel himself.”

  “How do I get to Mother Flaherty’s?”

  He told me. Twas not far, but the ways were rough. “Be careful with ye now, sir,” he said. “For not every man here about lives according to the stipulating o‘ the Holy Mother Church. Go careful with ye.”

  “Have your dinner, Molloy,” I told him. “Before the drink.”

  I walked away.

  The discomfort in my leg no longer seemed of consequence.

  Mother Flaherty’s was still another sort of rooming house. It looked to have been a country stable in better days. Now it was a barracks of beds, clean though, with its windows barred against the world. Mrs. Flaherty, whose crucifix rose and fell with her breathing, had a great suspicion of me at first, but finally she relented and agreed to let me interview Miss Annie Fitzgerald, so long as she, the matron, might remain in the corner of the room for the sake of propriety.

  “She’s a good girl, that Annie,” Mrs. Flaherty told me, “with clean habits. But she’s found no work and I’ll have to turn her out at the end of the week. If I let one stay without paying, they’ll all expect the same, and none of us will eat. And it’s bad enough with the typhoid going around now, and one of them taken off to the infirmary not a week past and dead in a day. And her a regular-paying girl.”

  Annie Fitzgerald was a straight, plain young woman, with hair the color of moleskin and a pudding of a face. She was the sort of maidservant wise parents would have in the house when their boys got to a dangerous age. Her face was bright with expectation when she come up to me.

  She curtsied and I nodded for her to sit down across the table. A few other girls peeked in from the next room, but once they had their look at me they soon went off. Mrs. Flaherty worked on her embroidery by the glow of a kerosene lamp, for there were no gas fittings in these parts.

  “Are you needing someone for to work, sir?” the girl asked me straight out. “There’s nothing to housekeeping I can’t do or won’t. And I’m decent, and give to the church.”

  “There is sorry I am, Miss Fitzgerald. But I have not come to talk about employment.”

  The expectation faded away, and all that was left of her was the look of a worried mouse. “Yes, sir,” she said. There was a meekness to the girl that promised the streets would devour her, and not one illusion of joy would she have of the doings.

  “Miss Fitzgerald… I would like you to tell me about Anthony Fowler.” Her eyes perked up again at his name. “Anything you can think of that might help me understand him. I’m trying to find out who killed the boy, see.”

  She looked at my uniform. “Are you a constable, sir? Or a bailiff, like?”

  “I am an army officer. But think of me as a constable, if it makes it easier to understand matters.”

  “I would rather think of you as an officer, sir.”

  “As you will, Miss Fitzgerald. Now… so far as you could tell… did Captain Fowler have any enemies?”

  She did not even need to think about it, but shook her head with conviction. “Only friends he had, sir. Great friends, all of them. And admirers. Of all kinds. Always gone he was. The invitations would be lying in a great pile on the sideboard. ‘Where shall I go tonight, Annie?’ he’d say to me. ‘Shall it be to dinner with Senator Such, or to an at-home with Mrs. Much?’ Kind, he was, sir. And funny, when the mood was on him.”

  “Never a cross word, then?”

  “Never, sir. Never to me. Although he was a terror on the subject of freeing the Negro. Would that someone would take the part of us Irish like that.”

  “Now he had a few close friends, I believe? A Major Trenchard, for one?”

  She got the same frozen look on her face as the one that had come over the colored maid.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Fitzgerald? Something about Trenchard?”

  She looked down. “I had no liking for him, sir. Begging your pardon.”

  “Did he… ever disturb you?” A rueful smile crossed her face. “
Oh, nothing like that, sir. Though he was always getting after Imogen. Wouldn’t let her alone, he wouldn’t. And her not interested in the least, but fearful for her position…”

  “Imogen?”

  “Madame Reynaud’s maidservant, sir. A colored girl, she is. But kind. And clever. It’s half so clever I wish I was.”

  “But… if he didn’t bother you… why didn’t you like Major Trenchard?”

  She studied the hands in her lap. “Because he was wicked.”

  “And how was he wicked?”

  She did not reply for a time. I watched the blush spread over her white skin.

  “How was he wicked, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  “He wanted Captain Fowler to let me go.”

  “And why did he want him to do that?”

  “He said I wasn’t pretty enough.” She glanced across the room at Mrs. Flaherty, then leaned slightly toward me, whispering, with her eyes lowered. “Major Trenchard said a housemaid was a hoor. And hoors should be pretty.”

  “There’s a good girl. You’re perfectly presentable, Miss Fitzgerald. But is there nothing else, then?”

  She had the shyness of one accustomed to being ignored. “He and Captain Fowler would argue.”

  “About what, girl?”

  She shook her head again. “I was always up in my room in the garret by then,” she said. “With the door locked, like a good girl, sir. I could hear their voices, but not the words. It was terrible sometimes, though. And the two of them such great friends, otherwise.”

  “Do you have no idea at all what they were arguing about, then? No idea at all? It could be very important.” She rocked her head from side to side, eyes cast down again. Twas her way of thinking hard.

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir,” she said. “Only that it was something to do with the marriage.”

  A possibility opened before me. A matter of great delicacy.

  “Would that be the marriage of Lieutenant Livingston, then?” I asked her.

  Surprise lifted her head. “Oh, no, sir. The marriage of Captain Fowler.”