by Peter Quinn
He said in as steady a voice as he could, “Yes, fine, I’m merely looking for something I misplaced. Go away, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The door closed. He lay down on the floor, his face against the dank earth, and fell asleep. The next day, the heat was worse than ever. He bathed and dressed. He left without eating any breakfast. The mood in the Exchange was one of desperate anticipation. Everyone was fidgety and irritable. He went to Old Tom’s at ten and stayed there drinking coffee and brandy until the early afternoon, then went home and climbed into the safe, soft familiarity of his bed. He drew his legs up to his chest and fell immediately asleep. The thunder woke him. It was nighttime again. He was wet with sweat. He heard the servants running about to close the windows and prevent a repetition of the previous night’s damage.
The next morning’s Tribune was filled with reports from a town named Gettysburg. An engagement had begun. The Union troops had caught the Rebels before they reached Harrisburg. Lee was on the attack. The news seemed to favor the Union forces so far, but that was to be expected; it always began on a high note, no matter how great a debacle resulted. He stopped at the Union League Club on the way home. The mood was no better than at the Exchange. The heat and anxiety made everyone sick with fever. Night brought no relief. Bedford went straight to his room. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days but felt no hunger.
He was sitting in his office the next afternoon when he heard shouting in the street. He poked his head out the window. A boy was running about, screaming, “Vicksburg’s fallen! Vicksburg’s fallen!” People were emptying out of the buildings, and there was a tentative air of celebration. But within an hour the next edition of the papers was out, with no bulletin from the west. Bedford had a splitting pain in his head. He choked back tears. He told himself that he didn’t care anymore; let Lee win or lose, but let the waiting end. Not wanting to go home, he stopped at the Union League again. The place was full of men who looked pale and ill. They were all in the same quandary. A few, he knew, were playing the same game as he, betting their future on gold and victory for Lee. He had seen them in the Coal Hole. Most were still in stocks and greenbacks, assets that would tumble in value if Lee succeeded. But they were all suspended above the same void, members of the same party of fear and unknowing. For the moment, at least, those like Bedford who had bet against the Union had no need to disguise their emotions, to pretend joy at a Rebel defeat or sadness at a Rebel victory. Everyone was equal in his fear.
Bedford slept well that night. There were no storms. He had no dreams. The church bells woke him at daybreak, a ringing that grew and grew in volume until it seemed certain every bell in the city had joined in. He knew in an instant what it meant. Lee had been defeated. Stopped by a nonentity like General Meade. Bedford lay still, relieved that it was over. He wasn’t sure what to do now, although his choices were few, but the nervous tautness in his legs and back was gone. He was done with waiting. After a few moments, the windows rattled with the boom of the harbor guns, an incessant booming that saluted what had to be a great victory. He closed his eyes. In his mind he drew one of those allegorical sketches the papers would soon be filled with: A shell marked GETTYSBURG was traveling in a descending arc to make a direct hit on a fort marked SPECULATION. Rats in top hats were scurrying over the walls to avoid the explosion.
Bedford didn’t bother to read the Tribune. The first time he looked at the gold quotations was on the following Thursday. Gold was at $130 and falling. That afternoon the note arrived from Waldo Capshaw. We must talk.
Bedford knew that Capshaw must have fitted all the pieces together: the losses at the faro table and the heavy debts to Morrissey, not exactly secret pieces of intelligence; the losses at the Exchange; the gamble on gold. Bedford didn’t play chess, but he knew that there came a point, usually late in the game, where one player was reduced to a few possible moves that were discernible to everyone who understood the rules. He was at that point. He must now liquidate his gold holdings. If he gave Morrissey all he realized from the sale, it would still be but a fraction of what he owed. Morrissey would tighten the screws. Meanwhile, his clients must inevitably come to grasp how he had pillaged their accounts. If he tried to settle with them, to give them what was left, there was no telling what Morrissey would do, although he knew the rumors, how Old Smoke made examples of those who didn’t pay their debts, bloated bodies fished out of the East River and the Hudson; the police wrote them off as suicides. And now Capshaw, whose intent was obvious. Even without having talked to him, Bedford understood the outlines of the offer that would be made. So much in payment, or the story of the filched securities would somehow reach the police. And it don’t matter to me one bit, Bedford, if you go ahead and try to tell the bulls that I’m the one fenced ’em for ya, because I got rid of ’em a long time ago, without a trace, and there’s no way they’ll ever lay a glove on me. You’re the one will go to jail, Bedford. The only one.
The perspiration soaked through Bedford’s shirt and blotted the back of his jacket. He went up the hill past the Stevens mansion. Below, from behind a screen of trees, in the meadow near the river, he heard a roar of voices. A few moments of silence. A loud crack. More roaring. He took out his handkerchief, mopped his face and forehead, wiped his hands. He walked through the trees. A crowd of perhaps a thousand or more was standing around a playing field set out in the shape of a diamond.
Capshaw had named the time and place in his note. Meet me at the baseball field in the Elysian Fields, at noon this Saturday, July 11th. Bedford had come several times in the past to watch cricket matches and had seen other players engaged in baseball, an elaborate version of the town ball he had played as a child. He was surprised to discover that the baseballers now occupied this entire section of the Elysian Fields. There were no cricketers in sight. An umpire in a tall black hat walked up and down the line between the home plate and the first base. Whenever the pitcher threw the ball, the umpire would stop, crouch, and deliver a judgment in a loud voice. The crowd groaned or cheered at every call.
“Glad to see ya could make it.” Bedford turned to his right. Capshaw had sidled up next to him.
“Your note was imperative.”
Capshaw gave Bedford a sidelong glance. “If imperative means somethin’ that can’t wait, you’re damn right. Anyways, I figured we might as well enjoy ourselves out here in the Jersey wilderness instead of sittin’ cooped up in some Manhattan hellhole.”
The player at the home plate swung with his bat and connected with the ball. The crowd roared. The ball seemed destined to reach the river, but one of the players standing in the far distance glided beneath it and caught it in his hands before it returned to earth.
“Come on, ya jacklegs,” Capshaw yelled. “Jesus Christ, they haven’t put a man on base.”
“What is it you wish to discuss?” Bedford said.
Capshaw kept watching the field. “Now, now, Mr. Bedford, I don’t think you came all the way over here without some fairly certain notion of what we need to talk about, but there’s plenty of time for that. Right now, why don’t we just try to enjoy ourselves?”
“When I wish to enjoy myself,” Bedford said, “I seek amusements other than watching grown men play at field games.”
“You mean you prefer the inside games, like faro? I woulda thought you’d enough of them kind of diversions.” He smiled again. “Baseball is the safer contest, I’d say. Not that men don’t bet on it.” Capshaw nodded with his head toward a group of Army officers gathered along the line that led from the third base to the home plate. They clutched handfuls of greenbacks and bet on every pitch, the losers screaming at the umpire each time his decision disappointed them. “But the trappin’s are more likely to help a man keep his head. Good Jersey air, sunshine aplenty, and the chance to walk about, you can’t beat it.”
“I appreciate your concern for my health, but I’ve business to attend to. I can’t spend the whole day here.”
The pitcher flung the ball. Th
e player at the home plate swung and missed.
“That boy can hurl the ball, no doubt about it,” Capshaw said. “Ain’t ever seen anyone with the velocity he’s got, and the true wonder is the spin he puts on it, the way he curves the ball away from the batter.”
The pitcher threw with a motion that was something between an underhand toss and a sideways sweep, uncocking his wrist and snapping the ball as he released it. The batter tipped the ball into the air, and it was caught effortlessly by the player at the first base.
“That a way, Candy!” Capshaw yelled. He pointed at the pitcher. “A boy to watch,” he said. “Name is Candy Cahill, the Candy referrin’ to them sweet pitches of his the batters can’t resist swingin’ at. He’s a Paddy, I know, and it’s not my habit to cheer the likes of ’em, but there’s no denyin’ the way they take to baseball, like it was in their blood, the same as drinkin’ and thievin’ are.”
Bedford watched Candy throw the next pitch. There was an undeniable fluidity in his motion, a disciplined agility that could come only after long practice. Bedford admired his gracefulness.
“He looks as if he could do this for his livelihood,” Bedford said.
“He don’t, not yet, but there are some that do, at least they take a good part if not all from playin’ ball.”
“I wasn’t serious,” Bedford said. “I didn’t intend to imply I believed men are paid wages to play this game.”
“Don’t matter that was your intention or not, it’s the truth.”
“Men play and are paid? But by whom and for what?”
“Well, some of the big bettors is willin’ to help make sure that the best players are in the game, and have been known to make up the wages a workingman might lose by comin’ to play. And over in Brooklyn, the Union Baseball Club has put a fence around the field and is chargin’ admission to see the game, ten cents a head.”
“And people pay?”
“Four thousand of ’em at the last game.”
“But why pay when you can see the same game played in unfenced fields and lots?”
“The best players is the ones taken to playin’ behind the fences. They get paid from outta all those dimes.” Capshaw turned and faced Bedford. “If I was looking to make a wise investment, it would be in baseball instead of gold. Seems to me the future of this game is a good deal more certain.”
“We’ve touched at last on business,” Bedford said. He felt a surge of anger as Capshaw continued to smile at him. “Suppose we go for a walk and discuss in private what is on your mind, and afterward you can return and enjoy the contest without distraction.”
“All right with me,” Capshaw said.
They walked away from the crowd, down a path that led back to Sybil’s Cave. In some places the forest was so thick and lush they had to walk in single file. Sybil’s Cave was nothing more than a long narrow hole that ran into the cliff beneath Castle Point. It was said that if you stood in its mouth and shouted a question, the echo would contain an answer, and because of that it was a trysting place for young couples who called each other’s names into the darkness and listened as the sounds reverberated, the names mingled together. It wasn’t until dusk, however, that the lovers came, using the darkness and foliage to their advantage.
Capshaw walked ahead. His straw hat was pushed to the back of his head, in the same fashion as Halsey. It rankled Bedford, the carelessness it implied, a contempt built on arrogance that Capshaw and Halsey shared, a visible assertion of pride in their own crudeness. Both of them had the habit of treating Bedford like some Knickerbocker aristocrat whom they enjoyed tweaking with their miserable manners. And both had helped bring him to this point, Halsey with his taste for faro, Capshaw with his eager willingness to pay cash for purloined bonds; each had led him to this path through a humid, airless forest.
“Jesus Christ,” Capshaw said. He stopped walking. “Look at this mess.” Directly ahead, the path dipped into a hollow that the rains had transformed into a small pond of fetid, stagnant water. Capshaw left the path and began to step carefully around the periphery of the muddy pool.
Bedford followed. The ground was wet and slippery. They grabbed at the branches of bushes and trees to keep their balance. A horde of mosquitoes hovered above the brown water and quickly became aware of the scent of warm blood, smell of sweat and lactic acid, aroma of hair oil. The mosquitoes buzzed in front of Capshaw’s face. One flew into his ear. He shook his head violently, slapping the side of his head with his hand. He almost lost his footing. He stood still and beat the air with his hat. “Place is overrun with Jersey hummingbirds.”
A large mosquito, if not as large as a hummingbird, landed on the back of Capshaw’s neck. Bedford was close enough to see it prepare Capshaw’s skin for its bloodsucking. Capshaw slapped his neck, but it was too late. The mosquito was gone. A small red papule and a smear of blood marked where it made its bite.
The squadron of insects had Bedford’s bearings now. He flagged the air with his arms, and the mosquitoes moved out of range, some flying to his rear, others zipping about his head. He felt a small, sharp pain behind his ear. He swatted quickly and crushed a large mosquito with his hand, a mess of legs, wings, and blood. Capshaw stopped again. Bedford shoved him. “Move!” he yelled.
Capshaw slid and fell onto one knee. Bedford picked him up. The mosquitoes filled the air with their maddening, annoying, threatening drone, hovering around unprotected skin, looking for the chance to draw blood. With one blow, Bedford killed two that had landed on the back of his hand. He killed another on his cheek. Capshaw began to run. The ground had become drier and firmer, and Capshaw raced ahead in a half crouch. Bedford kept walking at his same pace. He struck at the mosquitoes methodically as they landed on his neck, face, and hands, killing them with increasing accuracy. He knew he couldn’t reduce their number in any significant degree. For every one he killed there were a thousand eggs waiting for new rain to nurture them into larvae, the larvae into pupae, the pupae into winged adulthood, into bloodsucking, parasitical adulthood. But the toll he took brought him a small measure of satisfaction.
Capshaw was standing atop the rise where the path left the hollow. He beckoned Bedford with his hat. “Come on, man, run for it, there ain’t a one of ’em up here.” Bedford felt his heart thumping against his chest, but it wasn’t from physical exertion. He didn’t quicken his step.
It was only a hundred or so more yards to Sybil’s Cave. They stood at the entrance. There was no one else around. Capshaw stuck his head into the cave opening and shouted, “Who’ll win the war?” The last word echoed back at them. War, war, war, war.
“Well, according to Sybil, peace ain’t as close as some people think,” Capshaw said. “Maybe it makes sense to hold on to gold. No telling. Might shoot back up.”
Bedford sat on a rock. Below, across the treetops, was the wide, majestic Hudson; beyond it, the masts and steeples of New York wrapped in a dirty haze of heat and smoke. At the point the city ended, where the hills were dotted with shacks and shanties, the river bent gently, beginning its course into the great hinterland, an avenue of water connecting to other avenues, canals and rivers and lakes, a ceaseless traffic of riches.
“What is it you are so eager to discuss?” Bedford asked. He watched the river and tried not to betray any emotion. His heart pounded so thunderously he wondered if Capshaw could hear it.
Capshaw stepped in front and blocked his view. “Look at me when you talk. I ain’t one of your Paddy servants. I’m just as good an American as any self-appointed gentleman.”
“You didn’t bring me here to discuss your patriotism, I hope. If that be the case, I’ll take my leave right now.”
“You don’t remember the first time we met, do you?”
Bedford thought he remembered it all too well. A sparsely appointed parlor in a desolate row of houses across from the shell of the papist cathedral. Shades drawn in the middle of the day. A brief haggling over price. A sickening tightening in his intestines, an intim
ation of final ruin.
“It wasn’t when ya think,” Capshaw said. “That wasn’t the first time.”
There had always been something distantly familiar about Capshaw. But it was an old problem for Bedford, this poor memory for names and faces, even of people he liked. “I’m sorry, then,” Bedford said, “because I can recall no other meeting.”
“We met at Bill Poole’s funeral in ’55.”
“I wasn’t at his funeral. I witnessed the procession, as everyone did, watched on Broadway as the cortege went by, but I didn’t attend any of the ceremonies or the burial in Brooklyn.”
“‘Twasn’t at the ceremonies we met, but afterwards, at the lodge house of the United Order of Americans, at the dinner hosted by George Law.”
“That I remember well,” Bedford said. Stark had taken him, as always. A curious crowd. Around the bar were Poole’s followers, the nativist street fighters of the Order of the Star-Spangled Banner, scarred veterans of the war against the Paddies, the last defenders of the besieged neighborhoods of True Americans that had been enisled by the incoming tide of foreigners. On the back of his hand each man had tattooed a spread-winged eagle, and around the eagle’s head were the letters of the Order of the Star-Spangled Banner, OSSB. Gathered about a table in the corner were the officers of the United Order, men with no tattoos, at once the Saxon brothers and social betters of the men at the bar: John Harper, the former mayor’s sibling; Rodney Atkinson, the merchant; and assorted ministers, brokers, lawyers, and a handful of judges.
Each group stayed in its own part of the room until George Law came in like a lion falling upon its prey. “Roarin’ George,” some called him in tribute to his vocal thunder, but to most he was “The Live Oak,” a title inspired by his size and bulk, the trunk of his body as thick as a great tree’s. Hod carrier and stonecutter, he had saved enough to start his own construction company, and had made his fortune on the contracts he pulled down for the building of the Croton water system. Already known for his devotion to the defense of True Americans; when he had won the biggest prize of all, the contract to build the High Bridge, the seven-arch aqueduct that would cross the Harlem River, the longest and highest such span in North America, he claimed it would be built with 100 percent American labor—”which means,” he said, “it will never fall to pieces.”
