Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “To my tastes, we’ve sounder men than Breckenridge,” someone said.

  “Not for this purpose,” Osborn said, putting his hand on the wrist of the speaker. “He recommends our good faith in compromise.” Osborn looked about. “Horatio at the bridge: Mr. Lavery should be able to make something of that, eh, gentlemen?”

  They all seemed content in it.

  Osborn touched Dennis’ elbow. “When the time is propitious, Mr. Lavery, I think you may propose to your delegation that certain gentlemen of the South are willin’ to meet them on the bridge.”

  On the fifth day of the convention at a little before noon the resolutions committee returned, tired, raw-nerved men. The very looks of them hushed the hall, for they came in like doom-ladened prophets. The ladies of Charleston crowded the gallery and their laughter rang last on the hush. Farrell stopped and looked up and then came on to his place. Ah yes, my boy, Dennis thought, your belle’s hanging high today. The printed reports, majority and minority—for they had not managed a compromise—were passed from hand to hand. The murmuring rose to a din. They could have written it better, Dennis thought, never leaving the hall.

  The majority, signed by the slave states plus California and Oregon, declared that neither Congress nor territorial legislature had the power to abolish slavery or to impair its propagation, that rather it was the duty of the national government to protect even on the high seas the rights of persons and property.

  The minority reaffirmed the principle of popular sovereignty, and admitting the difference of opinion within the party on the rights and duties of Congress, resolved that the convention abide by the Supreme Court on questions of constitutional law.

  There was nothing new in the arguments then, only more noise, and by late afternoon the biggest noises of all were about to shoot off. When word reached the gallery that Mr. Yancey of Alabama had asked to speak, the excitement was such a lady fainted with palpitations. Farrell did not even look up. Dennis stepped outdoors for a breath of fresh air. Gone was the gentle weather, the rain coming down in a steady pour. His own spirits were as damp as the day. He missed the children and Norah. Without his family a man was nothing. And he could not get Farrell out of his mind, the last man in the world he had ever expected to pity. With a family like his what was he? A man should rule his own wife…or stay at home her prisoner. Dennis spat in the puddle at his feet, returned to the convention and at the door joined a cheer for Yancey. In his seat, however, he followed the example of his delegation and sat on his hands until Pugh answered for the North. He’d have sat on them then as well by his own inclination.

  The Lord’s Day was given to plots and negotiations so the vote on the platform didn’t come till Monday morning. As Dennis foretold, the minority version carried, 165 to 138, over a roar of voices trying to hold it back with points of order. Then the Douglas forces, the complacent arrogant fools, Dennis thought, consented to vote resolution by resolution. The first point carried, reaffirming popular sovereignty, the border states voting with the North. The Southerners then got their wind up and began to blow hot and hard. That brought a quick motion to table the rest of the platform and get on to the nominations, where, Dennis swore, they should have started in the first place. Farrell rose and spoke to its second. “Before it is too late, gentlemen,” he shouted. “It was too late when you put it in,” a Southerner cried. Dennis threw away his cigar. “Aye, the God’s truth,” he cried into the din, “he brought it in by the front door and now wants to sneak it out by the back.” And the split in the New York delegation showed wide enough to seat the South between them. Dean Richmond marched his thirty-five New York delegates out for consultation. As they passed the Illinois seats, the cry went up, “Stand fast!”

  Farrell was bristling mad in their conclave. If there was to be a vote on the Supreme Court resolution, then for God’s sake vote in its favor. Do not yield the last honorable point on which Douglas could stand.

  Dennis made his move. Most of the delegation was willing now to yield on the resolution and Farrell himself in his desperation was exposing Douglas’ weakness. “Gentlemen,” Dennis said, never having spoken softer, “if Douglas cannot stand, there are men who can.”

  “No, no,” Farrell cried. “One thing at a time.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of only one thing,” said Dennis. “There isn’t a one of us doesn’t know the platform won’t be worth its paper if we don’t elect the president. Tear up the platform altogether, and stand by a man who can stand without it.”

  “Who, who?” rose now over Farrell’s protests.

  “Horatio Seymour of New York. Douglas’ll be hard pressed to get two-thirds of this convention, aye, even a simple majority, and you know it, Farrell. Let them ballot themselves till they’re weary. Then we can put Horatio at the bridge as they say, and he’ll hold it. Don’t you forget it, gentlemen of the Softs: you pledged yourselves to a New York man if the convention found one, Douglas or no. Now I’ll give you a ticket that was proposed to me and with the solemn pledge of at least a dozen Southern votes to prime the rest: Seymour of New York and Breckenridge of Kentucky.”

  You could see the change coming into their faces, Dennis thought. They’d been given a draft of hope. There wasn’t a man, even Farrell himself, wasn’t worn by the care of nursing Douglas through the sick convention. Bury him, gentlemen, Dennis said to himself, bury him quick for he’s dead.

  “Let me ask you, Lavery,” Farrell said, and with cold quiet now himself, “did you propose it to them or did they propose it to you?”

  “As God is my witness, it was them said the name first.”

  “Then I ask you why did they not name Dickenson? I’ll tell you why: they know he could not break New York’s vote for Douglas. And that’s what they want, gentlemen. Not Seymour.”

  “But I should want Seymour if I could have him,” Richmond said, and an easy majority of the caucus agreed. Dennis needed say no more.

  “I tell you,” Farrell cried, “they will not be here to vote for him. I have lived in the house with them. I know. The young people the night you were there, Lavery, you heard them—yes, I knew you were there, I saw you leave—a Southern republic, that’s the sentiment of the South. Not the blandishments they handed you in the library.” Farrell lifted his fists in the air and shook them. Playing the priest again, Dennis thought. “Gentlemen, we have been too long cursed with available candidates, little, little men, whose only-recommendation is ignorance or absence. The people are wiser than you think. And they are stronger than you know. We are indeed at the bridge, and we shall have a strong president now whether he comes from this convention or not. Do you forget there will be another convention in Chicago? Whether or not they name Seward, Seward will carry New York state for them—unless Douglas is the man against him.”

  “And will you vote for Seward if Douglas is not the man against him, Mr. Farrell?” Dennis asked.

  “I will vote for Douglas and no other,” Stephen said.

  “You will vote here as this delegation votes, Farrell,” the chairman said, “or resign in favor of your alternate, and we shall not close the door on Seymour.”

  “Please, gentlemen,” Farrell pleaded. “I shall vote as the state convention directed me, but I beg of you, let us not be beguiled by the fire-eaters. No more Buchanans. They corrupted themselves, corrupting him. Let them not corrupt us as well.”

  “Enough,” Richmond said. “They’re calling the roll on the resolution. Is it your sentiment, gentlemen, to yield on the platform and stand by the man?”

  “What man?” Farrell cried.

  “Douglas, sir, as long as Douglas stands,” Richmond said tartly.

  A shout of approval went up from the rest, and the New York delegation marched back into the convention, and showed the heal in its breach by a vigorous vote that brought the gallery cheering to its feet.

  New York was but the crest. The convention voted mightily against the resolution, taking the sidetrack to avoid a crash. But as b
itter men of the North rose to explain their concessions, to make the most of the compromise, they discovered the South blowing up on its victory. They wanted no less, some of them now, than a slave code in the platform! Even Dennis thought this a bit thick, and his heart sank when Alabama withdrew because they did not receive it. Mississippi went also, and shouting prophecy: in sixty days the world would see a united South. The cheers rocked the hall. Dennis stood up on his chair when South Carolina withdrew, Osborn going out with them. Dennis sat down, cursing softly to himself. A politician was a politician, South as well as North. But Richmond’s eyes were aglow. “Never mind, Lavery,” he said, “we may yet get him to the bridge, and those who walk out one day can walk in another.”

  All night long the town of Charleston celebrated. The crowds were still gathered at midnight cheering an independent Southern republic. “Perhaps even now,” Yancey told them, “the pen of the historian is nibbed to write the story of a new revolution.” Yea! Yea! and hurray for Dixie! If it was nibbed tonight, Dennis thought, it might be nubbed tomorrow.

  When he returned to the hotel he found that Farrell had moved from his father-in-law’s house. He was stretched out on a cot not far from Dennis’.

  “It’s a hell of a turn, isn’t it?” said Dennis, passing.

  “Well, there were more schemes than yours went a-foul today.”

  “Aye,” said Dennis. “They’d’ve gone out one way or the other so there’s no harm done.”

  “Not to your cause anyway,” Farrell said, never moving from his back. “You’ve made friends South, so what’s the loss of a few North?”

  “Oh, bag your head and go to sleep,” Dennis said. “I never knew such a poor loser in my life. There’s another election in four years, man.”

  Farrell sat up. “God in heaven, Lavery, what are you doing here? This is not the Fourth Ward. You’re not putting up a man for alderman.”

  “And do you think you’re puttin’ up one for president, Mr. Farrell? Let me give you a bit of advice: you can’t ride a dead horse, not even to his own funeral.”

  The last business of the convention was balloting on the presidential nominations. New York insisted that to win, a candidate must have votes equal to two-thirds the convention as convened, not merely two-thirds of the delegates present…and then voted solidly for Douglas as though they had not made it impossible for him to win at Charleston. The convention adjourned without a candidate, to reconvene in Baltimore six weeks hence.

  2

  “TILL THE DAY I die, Norah, I’ll see nothin’ wrong in what I did. But they’re stormin’ at me like I stirred a hornet’s nest. Oh, I’ll sting them back, never fear. In the end it’ll still be the New York vote they’ll need whoever they put up at Baltimore. And in the end I’ll do more for them than ever they did for me if they ask it. And if they don’t, God help them when they come to gettin’ the vote. They thought they were stranglin’ me with the unit vote and it was themselves they hung up. I tell you, Norah, Farrell’s a fool. He called me a liar when I told him Douglas was in debt to Fernando Wood for a fortune. He’s been livin’ on Wood’s money and never knowin’ it. He has no more sense of politics than—than Michael here. And maybe less for my boy has the sense at least not to talk back to his elders, eh, Michael? Did you know that Osborn wants me to chair another convention if we don’t get what we want at Baltimore? And I might do it, by the glory! If Farrell can go for a rail splitter—and I’ll wager that’s what he’ll do in the end—I ought to be able to stomach a gentleman, eh, Michael?”

  “Pay some mind to little Fernando, Dennis. He’s cravin’ your notice.”

  Dennis laughed. “Oh, isn’t he now?” he said.

  3

  “COUNSELOR…” JUDGE ADAMS SAID, having interrupted Vinnie’s argument while he read a note the bailiff handed him. He puckered his mouth a couple of times to speak, but changed his mind each time about what he was going to say. At moments like this it always seemed to Vinnie that he was rearranging his teeth.

  “Yes, sir,” Vinnie said, hoping to prompt him. The trial had been long and tedious, a matter of property damage, less urgent by far than other matters pressing him that day.

  “It has been brought to my attention, Mr. Dunne, that you are simultaneously pleading a cause in another court.” Vinnie frowned. He did have other cases calendared, but none in judication. “It is grossly unfair to this court, sir,” the judge went on severely, “and if I may say so, to your client. I am going to put this case over until that other is resolved. And if I were sitting in judgment there, I should direct the verdict—and award you twins. You have been sent for, Counselor. Go and Godspeed!”

  Oh, Godalmighty, Vinnie thought, fleeing the laughing courtroom, Judge Adams and his humor. He lept the iron fence of City Hall park and caught the rail car as it was pulling into Centre Street.

  “Take it easy, lad,” the trainman said. “The war ain’t started yet.” Vinnie paid his sixpence fare. “Sure looks it though,” the trainman went on. “Ever seen so many flags?”

  The devil flag you, Vinnie thought. Was there no steam in the boiler? “Never,” he said.

  The trainman went down the car and collected the rest of his fares, then came back to Vinnie, apparently having a sorry choice of listeners. “Didn’t vote for Abe, myself, and I ain’t sure I’ll fight for him, but I think he’s right all the same. I wouldn’t give you a chewed corncob for the nigger, but when it comes to shootin’ down the flag, I don’t hold with that. No sir. I’m a Union man, one country indivisible. Hail Columbia!”

  Hail Mary, Vinnie thought, and remembered then something from his childhood. He looked up into the face of the trainman. “When I was a boy in Dublin,” he said, “there was an old woman who knelt in the back of the church, and do you know what she prayed all through the Mass?”

  “What?”

  “Haily holy haily holy haily holy haily holy.”

  “Daft, was she?” the trainman said.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Vinnie. “I just thought she didn’t know when to say ‘amen’.”

  Vinnie arrived at home only in time to say amen himself to the first cry upon earth of his daughter.

  “You were ever impatient, my darling,” he said when he was permitted to Priscilla’s side. She looked like a child herself, pale and bright of eyes. “You were indecently quick about it, you know.”

  “Would you have had me linger?”

  “I would not. And selfish that, too. You were over the pain before I had time to catch it.” He sat and held her hand. “Dearest, dearest one. Was it terrible?”

  Priscilla smiled. “I’ll wait for tomorrow to go through it again.”

  “Don’t joke about that for maybe you’ll have to. Judge Adams directed a verdict of twins.”

  “Is he a midwife?”

  “They have much in common,” Vinnie said.

  “Will they never bring the child to me? Is there something the matter with her, Vinnie?”

  “Only her temper, dearest. She came in like a Bowery gal and they’re trying to soothe her.” He went to the door then and waited. In a moment he took the infant from the nurse’s arms and brought her to her mother.

  “She isn’t really very pretty,” Priscilla said, “but then I’m not either.”

  “Then never in all my life,” said Vinnie, “have I seen anything pretty.”

  She made a face and then closed her eyes for a few moments. When she looked at him again she said: “Vinnie, all the while I was waiting, between the warnings, I was thinking of Delia and Stephen. What will happen to them if there’s war?”

  “Nothing more than has already happened to them, I suspect. And perhaps the war will solve it—end the strain, at least.”

  “Will it be over quickly, do you think?”

  “No. I wish I could say I thought so, but I’m afraid the South will fight until her last resource is spent—unless the Union yields. And we cannot yield, Pris. Not now.”

  Priscilla put her cheek
to the tiny head beside her. “Do you suppose Maria understands?”

  “Maria,” Vinnie said, for the child would bear the name of Priscilla’s mother and his grandmother. “Maria Dunne.”

  “Maria Elizabeth Dunne,” Priscilla said.

  “I don’t think she understood a word we said,” said Vinnie.

  “Vinnie…”

  He could tell from the tone of her voice what was coming. “Don’t ask it now, Pris. I don’t know. I shan’t go right away surely. But some men must. Oh, some are willing and anxious. They’re mustering in all over the town. Alex, by the way, has a captain’s commission. ‘I wish I was in Dixie.’ I never heard so many bands playing so badly. And I wish Dixie were at the bottom of the sea.”

  “Poor mother. Her only son,” Priscilla said.

  “And us starting another family of daughters,” Vinnie said, trying to lift the dark mood from them.

  “They at least don’t have to go to war.”

  “This will be the last war, Pris—for America surely. So let’s manage a son if we can.”

  “Oh, darling, I do love you. Come close and kiss me.”

  Vinnie brushed the infant’s brow with his lips and then kissed Priscilla softly, her eyes and her mouth. “I must send the good news home,” he said. “You had better rest now. I’ll walk down and tell them myself.”

  “Do. Mother will love you for it. Not that she doesn’t now.”

  “I’ve grown rather fond of the old girl myself,” Vinnie said. “Sleep, my darling.”

  Priscilla nodded. “Vinnie,” she said when he reached the door. “Maria and I shall be quite all right, you know—if you feel that you must go.”

  He looked at her and scowled that the tears not come into his eyes. “Don’t say that, Priscilla. Don’t make it easy for my conscience to rule against my heart so soon.”

  But that summer Vinnie drilled with a target and rifle club, and in the autumn was offered a lieutenancy by Thomas Francis Meagher, once a Young Irelander, known in ’48 as Meagher of the Sword, in the Irish Brigade. Vinnie accepted. By Christmas they were encamped outside Alexandria, Virginia.