Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  “Ward,” says Glave, “you know you ask her father for her hand. What she says isn’t worth much.”

  Ward nods. “I’m not sure that’s what I’m doing.”

  “It is what you’re doing,” says Glave. “If you can’t see it, I can. We’re back in New York before we head to Pittsburgh. That’s in four days. I just want you—”

  “To what, Glave?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

  Ward prepares to take it the wrong way.

  “Things in your life can look accidental. If you’re entering a marriage, you must do so with a complete sense of purpose. In our line, we do things because they have not yet been done. Others might ask ‘Why?’ and we ask ‘Why not?’”

  “And?” says Ward.

  “‘Why not?’ is a bad reason to get married,” says Glave. “It doesn’t work when you’re involving someone else, in this case a complicated, intelligent woman of good reputation whom you obviously care deeply about.”

  “Well,” says Ward, recovering some good cheer, “you’re full of advice for a committed bachelor.”

  “Which is why you should believe me.”

  “Very funny,” says Ward. He reaches for the flask of whiskey that Glave has extended to him. The train lurches, the lights dim, then brighten. Ward wonders what Sarita is doing now. He imagines her gliding around in her long skirts, pausing at the third-floor windows of her Fifth Avenue residence. He sees her retrieving his letter from the little silver plate extended by the maid or butler or whomever performs that particular task. He sees her as one of those stuffed parrots or hummingbirds—gorgeously dressed, carefully posed, stuck behind glass, and doing a good job of mimicking life.

  Ward wonders what’s happened to Jameson’s skins, all those birds so carefully prepared, and the notes and measurements that had accompanied those fragile feathered hides, so necessary for bringing them back from the dead. He could easily write pages about Jameson, but Stanley has put that off-limits—nothing about the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition for another four months. Instead, he stuffs and stuffs the Scribner’s Magazine piece with naked natives and cannibalism, more naked natives and more cannibalism. The train carriage shudders on the tracks, each little bolt and window casing rattling with impatience. An even darkness beyond the steamed-up windowpane—it’s cold outside—makes the fact that they are moving seem more of a fancy.

  It is midnight when they finally arrive in Boston. Stepping off the train, Ward sees his breath hold in the cold air. He doesn’t feel much about Boston, so instead he finds himself recalling what other people might feel about Boston. The Boston Tea Party. The American Revolution. He pauses, looking to the end of the platform for a porter. He thinks Boston Tea Party again. Finally, a tall man in a rough jacket approaches. He’s wearing an official porter hat, but the sideways glance that he gives Ward is sizing him up in an unofficial way.

  “Good,” says Ward, “I have three crates that I’m going to need help with.”

  “Are you English?” says the man, checking the accent. He’s Irish.

  “Yes,” says Ward.

  “Let me find someone who will help you.” The man begins to amble away.

  “What?” says Ward. He’s doesn’t trust this man to help him with anything.

  “I apologize,” says the Irishman. He bows. “Let me find someone who will help you, Governor.”

  Glave, now exiting the train, is ready with his pipe.

  “What was that all about?” asks Ward.

  “He must be Clan Na Gael.” Glave seems unperturbed.

  “What? A Fenian?” Ward knows the bold strokes of this but none of the finer points.

  Glave nods. “Boston is full of them, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Doesn’t help us with our crates.”

  But sure enough, the Fenian has sent someone else along, and although this man could be the other’s cousin and would not look out of place in Ireland—Ward has never been there, but certainly knows what an Irishman looks like—he speaks the rough twang of the American, with a harshness that must be the local accent. The crates are organized and Ward, now standing on the Boston street, is glad for Glave’s company, is fearful of this Western place with the ice crusting over the puddles and the trams roaring out of the dark streets, the thin women in ratty cloaks darting aside as ladies with ferocious hats of stiff silk lay claim to the footpath. This place makes him nervous. Nerves caused by buildings, streets, industry, civilization. By men who find his accent an assault and who announce their hostility with sarcasm. He never had this feeling in Africa. Perhaps the difficulty of survival was enough that he didn’t have the luxury to want to avoid working out transportation, or the novelty of speaking new languages so great that he wasn’t hesitant to express himself, but here—in these large American cities—he feels both alien and not.

  “Look, Ward,” says Glave, and he points to a poster.

  The Boston Explorers Club

  November 18, 1889,

  At 8:00 P.M.

  Boston Lyceum, 64 Commonwealth Ave.

  Lecture by Mr. Herbert Ward,

  (the renowned African traveller),

  SUBJECT:

  “The Congo Cannibals of Central Africa”

  Illustrated by stereopticon views from drawings and photographs taken by Mr. Ward.

  Membership tickets will admit member and two ladies. Admission to non-members 50 cents each person. Reserved seats 25 cents extra. Boxes $2.00 extra.

  “They’ve placarded the whole town,” says Glave. “You should have a good crowd.”

  And Ward smiles, but he’s aware that he’s stepped into this new life—lecturer, Boston—by accident.

  Casement has been in New York for two days, booked into a decent little hotel on Broadway—recommended by Ward and Glave—which is noisy, but convenient. He has another five days on his own before his friends get back from Toronto and although he has many things he could do—and a list of people who will supply him with drinks and cakes and ­conversation—walking has been entertainment enough.

  The day before he had wandered to the west, by the docks, and, confused, found himself at the end of an alley, the sky obscured by a web of clotheslines. His sense of direction had failed him. He turned a couple of times and headed back from where he came. At every door the chilly air would be cut with the smell of something decidedly organic and unpleasant. Casement tried to look like he knew where he was going, which involved a quick step, and that, in turn, made orienting himself impossible. Upon taking his third corner and reaching the end of yet another alley, he could not decide whether he should exit to the right or left and in this moment of hesitation attracted the attention of some rough types who were sizing him up as he stood there in his good traveling clothes. A clang of metal to his left startled him. It was a man at work emptying ash cans and Casement saw, with relief, that he was black—an American African—and decided that he was a good person to ask.

  “Excuse me,” said Casement, “I need to get back to Broadway and have somehow gotten completely turned around.”

  The look the man gave him was something between weary and incredulous, and then amused. This man also noticed the toughs across the street. There was a moment where he said nothing, as if hoping that Casement would go away. Casement was sympathetic. He too wanted himself to go away and was just waiting for assistance. Finally, the man responded, “Just follow me, sir. I’ll bring you to where you can get back to Broadway.”

  Later, as he was checking for his mail, he mentioned the incident to Mrs. Sawyer, who ran the hotel.

  “Where were you?” she said.

  “I’m not completely sure, but it was probably directly west, not too far from the water.”

  “Mister Casement,” she said, her face drawn dramatically to its opposing corners, “don’t go there. It’s dangerous.”

&n
bsp; “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  She shook her head dismissively. “This isn’t Africa,” she said.

  “I spent six years living shoulder to shoulder with cannibals—”

  “These people don’t want to eat you,” said Mrs. Sawyer. “They want your money and they don’t mind killing you to get it. Stay away from the black people. And whatever you do, don’t talk to any Italians. And the Irish, best avoided.”

  “But I’m Irish.”

  “And so am I, on my mother’s side. But you’ve got to be careful.” She considered. “Don’t talk to any Irish south of Fourteenth Street and west of Seventh Avenue. You can go north as far as you like as long as you stay near Broadway. Why don’t you go look at the Park?”

  And then she waved him off. She had cooking to do and—judging from the size of her—food to eat.

  Of course Casement is aware that he has romantic notions of the United States. These rough settlers had managed to throw off the yoke of British Rule and even as a boy, as he’d pasted the articles on Parnell and Davitt from Freeman’s on his wall, his thoughts had wandered back to the American War of Independence—a war that was won—where the British suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of these farmers. And cabinetmakers and eccentrics and silversmiths. He knows little of eighteenth-century America and his knowledge of American history quickly succumbs to a synedochic devolution. The accounts of the American War of Independence that he read as a boy had all been decidedly unsympathetic to revolutionaries and he suspected that English schoolchildren—without the benefit of an Irish gimlet eye—were all happily ill-informed, as were the majority of the British population, a situation that probably led to the revolution in the first place.

  Casement had wanted a concise history of the American War of Independence. He’d also thought to try Whitman again, Leaves of Grass, which he’d looked at years ago and found interesting in some ways, but metrically unhinged. He did like his poems to have some music. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Sawyer had no idea where a bookstore might be, but had fixed him with that look—oddball—and then sent him away with a reminder not to stray too far from the path.

  That was this afternoon and now, after wandering off the path and discovering various parks, he has finally found the bookstore and it’s closed. And he’s hungry. Having walked a randomly chosen couple of blocks, he has discovered a lunch cart with a list of options and a few recommendations: “Ham and Egg Can’t Be Beat,” “Have a Hamburger, There [sic] Fine,” “Eat a Pork Chop and Be Happy.” Something about this lunch cart is so richly American and un-English that Casement’s astonished by it. He wishes he had someone to share it with. He is committing to his choice of meal when he notices that he has caught the attention of another man, finely dressed, who has him fixed with such a curious look that Casement is momentarily embarrassed by it. He is surprised that the man smiles—eyebrows slightly raised—when he sees that Casement has seen him, as if he thinks Casement has recognized him. Of course Casement has no idea who he is. Maybe this man has confused him with someone else. And then the man is walking over and then is beside him, looking at Casement, then back to the lunch cart. The man has a walking stick and he leans on it lightly.

  “You look confused. I thought you might need help,” he says.

  “No,” says Casement. “I was just wondering whether a pork chop would really make me happy.”

  The man shakes his head subtly. “Not this one, old chum. If you really want a pork chop on a Wednesday—one that will make you happy—you should go to Green’s, on Twenty-Second Street.”

  “Thank you for the recommendation,” says Casement. And he waits for the man to leave.

  “Where are you from?” says the man. “I’m trying to figure it out. I’m going to say English. It’s the way you carry yourself. But your accent—also English, but with a kick to it. Maybe from the north? Liverpool?”

  “I’m Irish, but I’ve spent time in Liverpool.” This man’s directness is a wonder to Casement. He wonders if he’s a swindler.

  “Are you going to get that pork chop?” The man’s eyes flit back and forth. “Or there’s always the hamburger, but ‘there fine.’ Did you know they fined you for eating hamburgers in New York?”

  Casement knows he should laugh, but he doesn’t. He feels mesmerized. “I’m still deciphering New York.” The man is not black and he is not Italian and he is not Irish from below Fourteenth Street, but somehow Casement doubts that Mrs. Sawyer would approve.

  “New York is an open book, unlike you.” The man extends his hand suddenly. “Sam Butler. I’m in sales, textiles. Let’s go to Green’s.”

  “Roger Casement. I’ve been working for the British Consul in the Congo.” Which is easier—and probably more truthful—than confessing to his recent stint as missionary.

  “Green’s, then?”

  If this were Africa, he wouldn’t hesitate. Even if he didn’t like the man—if he was a rheumy Belgian with a greasy mustache, pocked jowls, and pink-rimmed eyes—he would be there at the table, no problem. And here is a civilized man on a street lit with lamps, a police officer strolling there in the offing, and other men of good appearance occupying themselves in the getting to and from seemingly respectable pursuits, and he hesitates. “If you have other plans, Mister Casement, it’s a shame, but it was a pleasure to meet you. And I do hope you have a pleasant time in New York.” Butler tips his hat and is about to make his exit when something in Casement shifts.

  “Mister Butler, I have no plans. I will take you up on your generous offer of company.”

  “Good,” says Butler. “I hate eating alone and I’m not meeting my friends until nine o’clock.”

  Green’s is a fifteen-minute walk and in that time some pleasantries are exchanged. Butler has seen the posters for Ward’s upcoming lecture and thinks it might be fun to attend. He’s never been to Europe, and never been farther west than Chicago. Butler finds the lure of travel alluring, but not enough to leave New York. He’s surprised to find that Casement doesn’t know the borders of the various neighborhoods. And standing here as Mr. Butler rattles off the different restaurants, theatres, shops, it does seem as if the world is brought to some sort of metonymic manifestation here in New York. Five thousand people are arriving daily at Castle Garden and, although it seems an impossible figure, Butler assures Casement that as they head farther south, it will seem about right. “I’ll take you down to the Bowery after dinner, if you like,” says Butler. “It’s not the best neighborhood, but I kind of like it.”

  “I would find that interesting,” says Casement, catching an image of Mrs. Sawyer’s disapproval in his mind’s eye.

  And then they’re at Green’s.

  “Do you drink, Mister Casement?”

  “Not to the exclusion of other things in life.”

  “As an enhancement, to brighten things up?”

  “At my leisure.” Casement is aware that he has not had a real conversation in days. He runs through his minor exchanges—the black ash-can worker, Mrs. Sawyer, the man at the newsstand who directed him to the closed bookshop. He hasn’t spoken much at all and now, facing Butler, is reminded of coming in from the jungle after weeks spent searching for porters, and suddenly being faced with the news from Europe. One world is reality, one world is dream, and the exchanging of one for the other seems almost arbitrary. Every sentence he says seems awkward and tentative.

  “How long were you in the Congo?” asks Butler.

  “Six years.” Easy question.

  “I have to confess, I know absolutely nothing about the Congo. I don’t even know what to ask you.” Butler is momentarily saved as the waiter arrives with bottles of beer. “What is it like?”

  “What is the Congo like?” Casement repeats stupidly.

  “Tell me about the Congo.”

  This Butler is full of exaggerated expressions and, to unde
rscore his last statement, he pushes back from the table, swings one leg over the other, and fixes Casement with a look that anticipates horror. Should Casement tell him about rampaging elephants? Naked cannibals? Surveying for the railway? Fevers and deaths? Cowardice and bravery?

  “It must be hot,” says Butler with conviction.

  “Yes, it is,” says Casement. “With lots of insects and these insects bite.”

  And they’re off and the conversation starts up as if cranked by an enthusiastic organ grinder and the chops arrive.

  “How’s the pork chop?” asks Butler.

  “This pork chop,” says Casement, “has made me very happy.”

  And he’s telling Butler about his latest trip home, how good it was to see his sister Nina and cousin Gee, and about the Transvaal with Ward and all the Manyemas and how the Manyemas had to have suits made for them in Rotterdam—twelve suits of a uniform, inexpensive cloth—and the look on the German tailor’s face as he saw the Manyema march in, filling his shop, and their patient waiting for the tailor to do whatever was done with measuring tape. And he tells Butler all about the portage of the Florida and—is it the third beer or the fourth?—what a wonderful artist Ward is, how he should devote more time to it, and how he’s looking forward to returning to the Congo with Ward and Glave, looking forward to seeing the missionary friends and his boys and all of that, looking forward to hunting. Hunting with Ward. Working with Ward, just the two of them, and a thousand Africans, in the jungle.

  “I’m so glad you have friends,” says Butler. “I find it strange when people don’t, or they don’t talk about them.”

  Casement doesn’t know what to make of that statement other than that Butler is extremely friendly and often finds himself talking to people he doesn’t know. Perhaps this explains his facility with identifying accents, Casement’s included.