Valiant Gentlemen

by Sabina Murray

  Sarita’s sure he’s seen her and is pretending he hasn’t. What is Casement up to? It’s been a year and a half since he stayed in Rolleboise, but he’s aged more than that. Well, he won’t lose her now. Narrow skirts mean smaller strides but she can shuffle quickly and does so, feeling like one of those Bavarian dolls with the hinged legs that move in step. She pushes along the pavement, nudging people out of the way. He’s a quick walker too, although Sarita’s shortening the distance. Still, she’s about to miss him as he’s rounding the corner. “Roddie!” she shouts, and people turn, no doubt surprised to see this well-dressed, well-heeled lady standing there, yelling.

  Casement stops, his head nodding forward with resignation, and he turns, a smile already on his face. It’s so good to see him, even though he was trying to escape. He returns along the pavement and she takes his elbow, leads him around, urging him along. “Let’s go.”

  “Sarita, where are we going?”

  “I’m bringing you to lunch, although by the look of things, I really should be taking you to buy a new pair of shoes.” There’s a hole on the top of his shoe, the leather worn through, and she’s sure the soles are in even worse shape.

  “I’m not sure I have the time.”

  “For lunch? You need to eat.”

  “I have an appointment.”

  “And now you have two. Don’t be rude, Roddie. I know you’re accustomed to turning ladies away, but I am married, and there’s no need to worry.” She’s trapped him with intimacy. She watches the comic slumping of the shoulders. “So, Sir Roger, where do you want to go?”

  “We could go to my usual, the soup kitchen, but I’m worried you might catch something.”

  “Like what?” Sarita widens her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” says Casement, “smallpox? Typhus?”

  “I think you need a steak.”

  “I don’t have the money. And I’m not having ladies pull out their purses to support me. Tongues will wag.” He raises his eyebrows a few times. He’s acting out fun and, as a result, is starting to feel it.

  “There’s a place around the corner where Herbert has an account. No money will be displayed.”

  “Very well. It’s bad enough that I’m out with a married lady. I can’t afford to be embroiled in scandal.”

  The restaurant isn’t too fussy a place and the service is brusque and oil free. Herbert has a liking for it as it’s walking distance from the Sanford offices and also because the portions are enormous, although watching Casement polish off his steak—agonizingly slowly, however, as gobbling would be impolite—she wants to order him another, which is what she would do for little Roddie, who’s having trouble at Eton and seems more and more starved each time she comes to visit. Thank God Herbie’s there to keep him company, although this is his last year and he can’t wait to get out. And Charlie, fine as well, excelling at Christ Church, ready to break it off with the Oxford shopkeeper’s daughter, but unsure of how to do it without her making a fuss. And he’s been “touring in the motorcar” with the sister of a close friend, whom he’d like to get to know better, although it seems that they are already very friendly.

  “There’s also someone else, if you can believe it: the exotic Pandora, whose parents sent her from India so she could be conversant in the ways of the English. Courtesy of Charlie, she’s learning very quickly.” Oh, there’s a big laugh for them both. “Charlie is having difficulty juggling them all and can’t seem to make a decision. Do you know what he said to me? ‘Mother, I just wish this damned war would get started because that would take care of everything.’”

  She’s laughed at this many times already, but sharing it with Casement is a special pleasure. She’s already written to Casement that Cricket, who’s his favorite, is due to have her first child in a matter of months, but hearing about it from Sarita: the vomiting, Cricket’s yelling at poor Colville Barclay—in front of all—never to touch her again, her insistence on mushrooms when they’re out of season . . . it’s all a tonic to him. She can see that. Dimples has gotten into the spiritualist thing, although Sarita thought that had gone out with the last century. Dimples has friends over and they sit around the board, moving a glass. Apparently, Casement’s father had also believed in that.

  “So he was actually a Catholic,” says Sarita, which is the funny thing to say.

  Sarita has, of course, visited the boys, but she’s in London to go to the heart specialist with her father, who thought it improper to go with Paz. Sarita had pointed out to him that at this point in his life Paz was not only being passed off as his nurse but had actually come to occupy the role.

  “Your father has been a wonderful host to me more than once,” says Casement. “Please extend my best when you next see him.”

  “Done,” she says. “Roddie, you’ve asked about everyone but Herbert.”

  “I’ve never known him to be anything but well.”

  “You make him sound so dull,” she teases.

  “So how is Mister Ward?”

  “You can ask him yourself. He’s off the ferry this afternoon and should be here by four. We’ll have dinner. At the soup kitchen, your treat.”

  “Here’s the tragedy: I’m going to miss him. I have a train to catch.”

  To look at Casement’s face, it is a sorrow of epic proportion. “Where are you going?”

  There’s a moment as if he is not sure. “Scotland.”

  “Scotland? Why there?” Sarita watches Casement, who seems to be equally surprised at his choice of destination. “You’re being very mysterious.” Is it consul work? She remembers his time in intelligence and wonders if the looming war has dragged him back in this direction. “Or perhaps you can’t say.”

  “I will make it to Rolleboise as soon as I can,” he says.

  “Maybe next time I see you, you’ll be a world-famous hero.” She watches him as he tracks some rogue thought through his memory. He’s quiet for some time and then, remembering he’s in company, manages a smile that has a wince contained within it. “That’s your other appointment,” says Sarita in a tone she saves for her boys, for when they lack confidence, “an appointment with destiny.” She smiles her casual, brave smile, but as always this is a cover-up for the very insecurities that she shares with her sons and now Casement, her anxiety that all will not be well, that heartsick contraction that makes her think of the uncertain future with respect and fatalism and only the faith that it’s likely that she, at least, will survive as that is what she’s good at.

  Outside the restaurant, back on the pavement, Casement seems to be casting about for what to say. He is uncommonly distraught. “I am so sorry I missed Herbert,” he says, finally.

  “Herbert will be quite jealous we had lunch.” She glances over at the long panes of the restaurant, gleaming and reflective, and sees Casement and her captured there—his tall stoop, her girlish stance. “Let’s make a plan for next spring. You always love the spring in France.”

  “I do.” Casement takes her extended hand and squeezes it. His grip is firm, yet his hand feels cold through her glove, the bones too pronounced. “Goodbye, Sarita.”

  “Roddie,” she says, leaving her hand in his. “Say it again.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  But to look at him makes her think he knows. “So it won’t sound so final.”

  “Lovely to see you,” he says. “Let’s get together as soon as we can manage.”

  “All right, Roddie. À bientôt.”

  Sarita releases him, watches his agitated gait as he expands the distance between them. She makes a note to remember this particular moment—Casement walking on, the sun washing cold on the long windowpanes, the clip and drag of a slow-moving horse towing a slow-moving cart, a tentative spring sky. She feels a grip—a chill—and wonders why of all things she’s feeling this: the pull of grief.

  III

  New Yo
rk

  July 1914

  At six o’clock, he is still waiting for Adler Christensen to show up. This is Adler’s place, joyless and plain. Adler would say honest. The bar has shadowy corners in which patrons lurk, silently draining glasses, uninterrupted by such distractions as company or conversation. Or sunlight—that splashing excess of American heat that glories in its stinking brilliance, more and more, as July draws to a close. Casement is on his second gin and tonic, even though he knows he should take it slow. This latest bout of malaria has made it hard to eat, which has brought down his weight, which has made him an easy drunk.

  Here in America he has raised close to $5,000 but does not have control of it, as the Americans are quick with introductions and invitations, but know to hang on to their accounts. He does his dog-and-pony show, and the profits disappear into some coffers that are being held on behalf of an independent Ireland. Irish Americans are still Americans, quick to remind you that they’re the risk-takers, the successful ones, the people who have embraced the twentieth century and, much as they share brotherhood with their picturesque, backward brethren, they’ll take the lead, thank you very much. They like Casement well enough, although the moment he gets in the full swing of his passions, he can see the looks exchanged: the man’s unstable, they seem to say. He has cash pushed into his hand as if he is a gentleman with an allowance, is told where to show up and how long to stay.

  Casement is an activist, an organizer, a man who will change the face of Ireland.

  Casement is a man waiting for another man to meet him, one whose spirits are diminishing as his spirits (rattle of ice in glass) are diminishing.

  “Another, sir?” says the barkeep.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just inches past five. A good time for a drink.”

  “As you advise.” Casement manages a smile. He’s been asking the time every few minutes. The barkeep raises his eyes, attention drawn to the door, and Casement follows his gaze. There is Adler.

  Adler looks nervous and could use a wash. His blond hair is dark with grease and why do his eyes pick around the room like that? He seems to be concerned at the possibility of a fight, or angling for one. It’s the same look Casement remembers from the first time he saw Adler in Montevideo ten years ago. Casement—down on the pier—had returned the glance, then felt unsure, that this man might be looking for the kind of money earned through a straight beating. Adler had followed him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, Aren’t you interested?

  Then, as now, he is a little in awe of Adler.

  Adler is Norwegian and speaks an American-inflected English, both slang and accent. He’s a stray dog and has shown up broke in as many cities as Casement has made an appearance with a full wallet. That they should meet is understandable, but that Adler’s transit should cross him again, here in New York, seems like fate. As much of Casement’s time is spent cooling his heels, company is good. He was waiting to find out if the guns made it to Ireland, and just today they have been safely landed in Howth, transported to the city center with great pomp and circumstance—no doubt Hobson’s idea to capitalize on the moment. But soldiers had opened fire on spectators at Bachelor’s Walk, and that’s the spectacle—innocent blood, martyrs. And that’s the rallying cry. Urgency attaches to civilians shot down on the streets of Dublin, so now Casement waits for the money to start pouring in. He waits to see what this new war means to the Americans, who have fought a war with England but now waffle on whether or not to back Germany, or perhaps just to thank the cold sea for buffering them from all that gunpowder and bloodshed. He waits and waits and waits.

  “Sir Roger,” says Adler, moving him up the bar with his elbow. “No Champagne? I thought we were celebrating.”

  “We are,” says Casement. “But the landed guns haven’t yet accomplished anything, except for killing some bystanders in Dublin.” Adler gives him that look, Can’t you ever enjoy yourself? And he can’t. “And now Austria has declared war on Serbia.”

  “Serbia?” Adler shrugs.

  “You find Serbia dull?”

  “Not dull, just not interesting.”

  “And how do you feel about Russia?”

  “How does anyone feel about Russia? It’s full of Russians—­condescending drunks.”

  Casement has to laugh. “You’ve just described yourself very well, my dear Adler.”

  “Often true, but right now I am sober.” Adler waves over the bartender. “What is he drinking?” he asks with lazy gesturing to Casement.

  “Gin and tonic,” says the barkeep.

  “Well, I’ll have that, but no tonic please.” Adler looks around, still twitchy. He really wants that drink and is impatiently rapping his fingers on the counter. He manages a patient look for Casement and claps a heavy hand on Casement’s shoulder. “Your face is crumpled like a grandma’s. What is bothering you?”

  “The Prussians will soon march on Belgium.”

  Adler is unmoved, confused, and disbelieving, as if all these facts of all these countries are some variety of gossip that fails to entertain, that flit about without gaining mass. Russia. Prussia. Serbia. And now Belgium?

  “When Germany marches on Belgium, the Irish will side with the Belgians,” says Casement.

  “Why?”

  “Because Belgium is a Catholic country.”

  “For the Pope?” Adler is being purposefully obtuse. He does this for his own entertainment. His drink arrives, placed with a cheery knock on the surface of the bar. The glass is smudged, and Casement would have asked for another, but Adler downs the gin like he’s a pirate. He looks at the empty glass thoughtfully and rests it on the bar, raising a finger to the barkeep for another. “I don’t understand any of it. The news is changing every day. Why bother?”

  “You’re not interested in what’s happening in Europe?” says Casement. He means to sound incredulous but can’t muster that right now.

  “No one understands this war. And religion? No one understands God. It’s true. Sir Roger, do you understand any of this? Don’t lie to me.”

  I’m not one of your little boys. That’s what Adler implies now with a sly, sideways glance through his smiling blue eyes. His face is cherubic or florid, round cheeks, fleshy lips, a relaxed dissipation that Casement knows has been identified by Devoy—who is running the American show—and everyone else whom Casement has introduced to Adler. Or introduced Adler to, as he is now Casement’s amanuensis. Devoy doesn’t trust Adler—calls him “that Christensen”—but Devoy doesn’t trust anyone. Devoy is an old-style Fenian rebel living in exile. He’s spent a lot of time in prisons and breaking people out of prisons, which has led him to believe that everyone has a price. And honestly, looking at Adler, who is already at his second drink and most likely picturing the next, it’s easy to see why Devoy would think Adler’s price within reach of anyone who might want to purchase him.

  “Where were you today, Adler?”

  “I had a meeting.”

  “Business?”

  “In some ways, yes. Listen,” and Adler turns to him. He’s going to ask for more money. “I need some money.”

  “I’ll get your drink,” says Casement.

  “It is not for me. And you will ask who it’s for, but Sir Roger, I don’t think you want to know.” Here Adler tries to compose his features in some sort of apologetic, boyish cast, but he’s betrayed by a coldness in his eyes.

  “Are you being blackmailed?”

  “Yes,” says Adler, “if marriage can be called that.”

  Casement has put away another gin and tonic. Together, he and Adler move along the New York streets, ready for a change of location and some food. At this very corner of Broadway is the same rooming house that he stayed in as a young man in the room above Glave. Glave had been flitting about arranging payment for a story set in the Yukon. And Ward was in New York too, so long ago. All of t
his is being lost, rained upon by the years, drained of color, returning only in stuttered memories that float to the surface as brightly colored streamers before fading and sinking through the deep. And he could meet it with despair, but the fact is that Casement is walking down the pavement with Adler. At least, he is not alone.

  Adler, despite his affectations of boredom and disinterest, has a clever mind. He breaks things down into small, workable chips of action. Oh, Casement has always been good at the lofty thought, but once presented to Adler, this becomes a contact at the docks, a folder of information, a ticket to Norway. Once Adler fixes his various problems, including this wife—a youthful error—they can focus on the work at hand. And even Devoy must admit that Adler, with his years at sea, his Norwegian papers, his casual grasp of numerous languages, will be helpful in getting Casement to Germany to purchase the arms. The looming war has made all movement suspicious. Had he managed to get to Germany in preceding weeks, he might have been all right, but the Americans are predicting that England will declare war on Germany within the next two weeks, that by the middle of August, the world will be embroiled in the likes of a war it has never previously encountered, the war that Ward has been articulating for years fed on the facts and lists and figures and spies of his old friend Harmsworth.