“I’m guessing vodka,” says Ward, handing over the bottle. And he’s right. Jackson is coolheaded, as befits his occupation, but even he is having a case of nerves.
Two years ago, Ward had been in Christiania covering the departure of the Fram, which was making a run on the North Pole. As the Fram departed the harbor, Ward, following in a small boat, saw Nansen’s wife standing on a rock in front of the explorer’s house. She wore a white dress to be visible to her husband as the boat passed and the white dress and rock and waves hitting it made her seem like a specter. “Do you think Nansen’s still alive?”
Jackson laughs. “Nansen is still there, and I’ll be the one to the rescue him.”
The following morning, Ward watches as the Windward disappears from view, his coat flapping in the brute wind. Alone on the pier, he tries to cheer himself. Self-pity is not in his nature—or if it is, it shouldn’t be. Perhaps there will be other adventures, ones in which he will perform a role, not simply record for history. But for now, his sketchbook is filled with pictures of the Windward, the thoughts and fears recorded not his but rather those of Jackson. He feels as if he is yet one of the Wards of Wigmore Street: a preserver, an animator—a taxidermist!—although it is Jackson who is very much alive, and he who feels (he can’t help it) as if life is over.
VII
London
January 1900
Casement has been shuttling back and forth from Africa for the last five years. He’s currently consul at Lorenço Marques in Portuguese East Africa, which sounds a lot more fun and exotic than it actually is. Home leave is most welcome, and the leave part of it he wholly understands, although the home part is still a bit of a mystery. Where is his home, really?
This is Casement’s second leave of the last six months. During the first, his doctor in London had informed him that he was in poor shape, due to a combination of weakened kidneys, arthritis, water on the knee, and a compelling need for another piles operation. Faced with all this, Casement had decided to head back to Africa, where his first act upon arrival had been a dramatic collapse in Durban. So now he is back: four months, doctor’s orders. Four months is a long time and beds from the North of Ireland to the South of England have been made ready.
Soon Ward will arrive to whisk him away to the first of his destinations of recuperation. Surgery accomplished, Casement is packing up in his cheap hotel. Nina is put out by the thought that he’s spending money on accommodation, money he doesn’t have, but he did pick up the check, as always, when he last had lunch with her. His brothers are also short on cash and Casement, as a result, is short on cash. It would seem that the only person who has any money is Ward.
The room is cheap. The translation offered by the mirror—a distancing and palliative inaccuracy—still testifies to its shabbiness. And Casement too is shabby, gaunt, and sallow, the yellowness that comes from a pale complexion punished by sun, then suddenly robbed of it. He’s nervous, his heart uneasy in his chest—fluttering like a schoolgirl’s, because Ward robs him of his composure. He can feel that soaring, involuntary hope as he anticipates Ward’s company, can predict the ensuing low spirits when Ward leaves. The recovery. Everything collapse and recovery. Casement carries his bag down the stairs. He chooses a seat along the same wall as the entrance, a place where he will see Ward before Ward sees him.
Ward is late by a half hour and seems to have been running when he bursts through the door. Casement watches him go up to the reception desk and rap with his knuckles, as the clerk has stepped away. Ward has gained some weight and lost some hair but Casement can see the younger Ward somehow superimposed upon the older—the glossy hair, the loose posture, his eager spirit.
“Ward,” he calls across the lobby.
Ward turns, his elbow still resting on the desk. “There he is! Roddie Casement himself!” Ward has obviously been drinking. He rushes to grab Casement’s hand and shakes it so vigorously that Casement can feel the pull of tendons in his shoulder. “Sorry I’m late. I had a lunch meeting with some of Sanford’s associates, and one of them wouldn’t shut up.”
“Do you do that frequently?”
“Lunch? Once a day.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Ward manages to wrestle his features into a sage expression. “I’m not bad at business. I’m just much, much better at pleasure!”
“So where are we going?”
“We’re going back to the club,” says Ward. “There’s three-quarters of a bottle of Champagne sitting in a bucket of ice at my table.”
“You just left it?”
“The club’s right around the corner,” says Ward. “Give me your bag.”
“I can carry my bag.”
“We’re in a hurry and you just got out of hospital.” Ward grabs the case. “We have to get there before they clear the table.”
Ward had wanted to book a room for Casement at the club, but non-members are not allowed to stay. Always the gentleman, Ward has booked them both into Sarita’s favored hotel, which will likely be an improvement over anything Casement has ever experienced. And, as Ward explains, he’ll be happy to dodge the recreational supervision that is the mainstay entertainment of the other members. The club is an old one, entrenched in its ways, established and establishment.
“And they let you in?”
“After that to-do with Stanley, it seems a miracle, but one that’s easily explained. Several members are, apparently, on the hook with Sanford and Sanford doesn’t see the point of having leverage without using it, so here I am, obliging. And they make a good bread pudding.”
“How much is that costing you per serving?”
Ward laughs, embarrassed, but in a way that’s a relief for him. “It’s also for the children.”
“Do they belong to the club?”
“Very funny. And no, but it’s in their future. Or at least the boys. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the girls. Cricket is still ferocious, and Dimples is still odd. If they’re lucky, they’ll take after their mother.”
“And how is she?”
“A source of awe, as always. I wish I had her brains, but I’m probably happier with whatever God gave me. And how are you, Casement?”
“Recovering well.”
They have reached the steps of the club. Ward is embracing Casement’s battered bag and his hair, blown athwart the suggestion of a heavy pomade, is somewhat vertical—saluting at intervals in the wind. They exchange a look.
“Unbelievable,” says Ward.
“What?” Casement is smiling broadly.
“All of this didn’t seem nearly as ridiculous before you showed up.”
Casement is finishing up the last of a slice of beef pie—his lunch—although his appetite has been weak.
“So,” says Ward, “what have you been up to?”
“Me?” Casement shrugged. “I was in Lorenço Marques with malaria for company, and now I’m here.”
“But why would they send you to Portuguese East Africa?”
“I am not the first British consul in Lorenço Marques.”
Ward tips up the last of his Champagne and waves to the waiter. “You’re a spy, aren’t you?
“A spy?”
“You’re watching the Boers and the Germans. You’re a spy and I’m a businessman.” The waiter arrives. “Whiskey,” Ward says, placing his order. “And, for different reasons, I’m watching the Boers and the Germans too—the markets, you know.”
“Ward, are you really a businessman?”
Ward shrugs. “I’m mostly in Lambourn and on a beautiful day, with a good horse, there really is nothing like Berkshire. I come to London every couple of weeks. And I do my painting and get a piece a year into the Royal Academy.”
“That is certainly something.”
“Oh, please, Casement, not you too. I don’t want peopl
e to hold my hand and tell me how well I’m doing. I have children. I too have use for that kind of language.” Ward leans on his elbows, fixing Casement with his gaze. “The business gives me much-needed time away from home. I have my studio in the Woronzow Road and I’m working on some sculpture and that excites me, but as long as I’m in England, I’m Sanford’s puppet. He spends half his time in Argentina, which is good—of course—for all of this,” he gestures in a loose way, “but makes me necessary. In a better world, Sarita would take care of the banking. She has a fantastic mind for maths, and this bizarre ability to understand people. It’s impossible to keep a secret from her. I’ve never even tried. But she’s home with the kids, and I’m here, at a club, where they would have loved to blackball me but didn’t have the guts because Sanford’s holding all their money.”
“You could put Sarita in men’s clothes, give her false mustaches.”
“I’ve thought of that, but she actually likes being in the middle of nowhere with the children. But we’re going to move as soon as we can.”
“To France?”
“That’s the idea.”
“And Sarita’s all right with that?”
“She’s behind it. She wants me to focus on the art.”
“Why does she want you to do that?”
“Because,” Ward presents an incredulous look, “it makes me happy.”
After some whiskey, it was time to order dinner, and after the carp/roast beef/bread pudding meal, Ward had felt like taking a walk, and then he wanted to catch a cab to a theatre to watch some dancing, and then he wanted a nightcap. They should have stopped at the walk.
The dancing girls had not all been girls and when Casement pointed this out—drawing Ward’s attention to the size of the statuesque blonde’s hands—Ward had been shocked. Maybe that’s what the nightcap was supposed to counteract, but one nightcap—a fragrant brandy—has morphed into three.
“Another?” says Ward.
“Not for me,” says Casement.
“Well then,” says Ward to his empty glass. He picks it up and tilts it around, but the glass is absolutely drained.
The path to the elevator stretches across a lobby populated with men standing with their wives. Ward must have been one of their number on his last visit to this hotel, but the prospect of dodging through it all is now making him perturbed. “Roddie, let’s take the stairs.” As the two men start their ascent, Casement is unsteady and Ward, for all intents and purposes, legless. Of course they’re on the third floor, which is going to be a challenge. After the first flight of stairs, it becomes obvious that Casement will have to help Ward to his room. Ward seems inclined to try his key in every door that presents itself and Casement has to keep gently pushing him to keep him going.
“Why don’t we just try this room?” says Ward.
“Because it’s not yours.”
“But it could be.”
“Give me the key,” says Casement, and Ward does. The corridor forks and Casement steers Ward to the left. Finally, they have reached their destination. “Here you go, Wardy,” says Casement, opening the door. He places the key on top of the dresser. “And a good night. I have no doubt that we will both sleep well.”
“Casement, Casement, don’t leave. I have missed you so.”
Casement hesitates at the door. He begins to laugh.
“You’re the best friend I have. My Roddie Casement. My friend. All those years that have passed mean nothing to me when I think of us, in the Congo. Don’t go yet.”
“All right. I’ll stay a minute.”
Ward collapses into a seated position on the bed. “And you have to help me get my shoes off.” Ward extends his foot, like a child, and Casement pulls at the laces and then wrenches the shoe free. He gestures for Ward to raise his other foot, and Ward does. That task now accomplished, Ward says, “And now my jacket.”
“That is ambitious. You’ll need to stand.”
Ward registers this with a hearty if imprecise nod. He rises to his feet, begins fumbling with his buttons himself, then turns so that Casement can release him. Something in the orchestration of the moves feels well rehearsed and Casement wonders if he’s filling in for Sarita.
“A good tug and I’ll be out,” says Ward.
Casement tugs at the jacket, but the jacket is snug around the upper arms. Another tug and Casement, who is not sturdy himself, has toppled both men to the ground. That’s a lot of noise and he’s hoping that they haven’t woken people up. He stifles laughter, as does Ward, as if they’re schoolboys. They’re sitting propped against the door with Ward on the floor before him, as if they were rowing, but with Ward leaned right against Casement’s chest and Casement feels that hope—a mistaken, drunken hope—flickering in his heart.
“Ward, get up. Wardy.” There’s no answer. There’s a snuffle. Has he passed out? “Ward, get up. Are you there?” Ward has fallen asleep with the miraculous urgency of the drunk. He’s actually snoring, a dead weight, but warm. Casement can smell the salty sweat on Ward’s clothes, see his scalp beneath the thinning hair, feel Ward’s very breathing in his arms. He’ll wake him in a few moments, but he’s sleeping so peacefully, it seems a shame to disturb him. He rests his cheek on Ward’s shoulder and feels Ward’s heat coming through the starched cotton. He’ll just sit there for a short time, just a short, short time. There’s nothing wrong in it.
The next morning comes and goes unattended. Casement wakes up in bed at noon to a tapping on the door: Ward, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, has no recollection of anything after the first brandy. “I was lying flat on the floor just inside my room. I did manage to get my shoes off.” The next train for Lambourn leaves at three. They’ll have time for lunch if they don’t dawdle. “Do you think they’ll give me rashers, even though it’s lunchtime? It’s exactly what I need.”
There are no rashers available and the waiter’s look makes clear to Casement that this is an irregular request. Ward responds with a look of equal and extravagantly enacted disdain. Predictably, Ward sleeps most of the way to the station and the entire journey to Berkshire. He has his sea legs back by the time he reaches Lambourn, which is good, because the three older children have decided to meet them at the station. It is an unseasonably mild day, windless, and with uninterrupted sun. Sarita has sent a cart because the children like riding in the open, as does Ward, and there are some things to be picked up in town. Cricket, Dimples, and Charlie pile in with the luggage in the back and Ward, sprawled and using a full sack of potatoes as his pillow, lies down between them. The children giggle, tickling his face with a piece of straw as he attempts to get the last nap in, while Casement—up on the bench beside the driver—turns around to grab their little hands as they poke at his back and tug the bottom of his jacket.
This house is no tent on the banks of the Congo. Lambourn Place is a sprawling Tudor manor that encases a series of older dwellings—like Russian dolls—all the way back to 1489; the earliest home, Rogers Manor, was built by Alfred the Great. It is hard not to be agog at such a spectacle of brickwork and history. “We’re only renters,” Ward had said. But what a rent it has to be.
His room is down its own corridor, but if Casement wants something more private, he has only to ask. Sarita chose the room both for the décor and the warmth. The fireplace throws a lot of heat and this room is less penetrated by drafts, which are a perennial problem at Lambourn Place, although lack of space is not. Casement has assured Ward that he does have enough privacy: Any further and he’d think they didn’t want to see him, and even if they did, he probably wouldn’t be able to find his way to their company.
The previous night, Casement had sunk into a profound sleep. His dreams were strange and full of sounds, sensations, blunted realities. He heard footsteps pacing outside the door and—at one moment—he thought the footfalls had actually passed into his room, that there was someone standi
ng beside his bed. Malaria, he thought, ghost-fevers. Casement slept late, until ten. He’d been woken up by the girls chatting outside his door, Cricket saying, “He’s not going to like it,” and Dimples’s reply, “Why not?” He’d opened the door in his robe and bare feet. Good mornings were exchanged. Dimples was holding a pillowcase like a sack. She opened it and there, twitching languidly at the bottom, was a small green snake.
“I do like it,” Casement said. “It is a beautiful thing. I have seen many snakes and this is by far the sweetest and most appealing.” Dimples was victorious. Later, he’d heard her telling Sarita that Mr. Casement had liked the snake, heard Sarita’s delight to know it.
Lunch will be served in about an hour, and until then, Casement can enjoy his book in this room, which is the “drawing room” but might as easily be called the “third living room,” as there are many such rooms, although not all have furniture. Ward is out riding. That is what he does in Lambourn, if the weather permits. He is inordinately fond of his horse, “The Monkey,” and—if his accounts are accurate—spends half his life suspended mid-vault over hedgerows, another third or so thundering across Berkshire, a bit shooting (and hitting) various representatives of the local wildlife, and whatever is left eating, sleeping (the horse, too, needs sleep), and working on his oils. Ward had tried to convince Casement to go for a ride that morning as it was clear, although very cold. He could always borrow the reliable Snowball from Cricket, although his feet might drag. Casement had reminded Ward that recovering from this particular surgery and riding were not compatible. Instead, he is reading Mon Frère Yves by Pierre Loti, ostensibly about a friendship between two men—one a rough Breton soldier and the other an officer.
Sarita pauses at the doorway. How still Casement looks, and fragile. It’s hard to believe that this man is single-handedly trying to overthrow King Leopold and save thousands of Congolese from slavery. She watches at the entrance until it feels a violation. “Hello,” she says. Casement, deep into his reading, is startled. He’s instinctively lowered the book and is holding it to the right side of the chair, out of view.
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