Sons of Fortune

by Malcolm Macdonald

  He did not panic. He could even, for half a second, appreciate the irony of it. All the things he had done in his life, all that he had learned, useless and useful, all his plans, his defiance of his father, and now he, Caspar, was here to make his fortune and show everyone, especially show his father and make him eat his words. All that was about to be cut to nothing by a cannonade fired indiscriminately to quell a mob whose quarrel was not even remotely connected with him! What a waste, he thought. What a waste of me!

  Then he saw the girl and all thought of himself evaporated. He was not the only one to make the obvious connection between the sudden police withdrawal and the towering presence of that frigate with her guns pointing so as to rake the entire length of the street. All around him people were turning their backs to the ship and trying to flee up the street or out via the cross streets. The girl, afraid of getting caught up in the mob, was clinging to the brass knocker of one of the banks. Caspar knew he had to go to her rescue.

  A respectably dressed man loomed out of the swirling crowd nearby. Caspar grabbed him by the arm and shouted: “That girl, sir! We must go to her assistance!”

  The man looked incredulously at him, said “Shee-it!” (which Caspar was slow to interpret), wrenched free his arm, and vanished back into the mob.

  Caspar began to feel desperate. The momentum of the crowd was carrying him farther and farther from the girl. He fought his way to the inner edge of the sidewalk and, curse by blow, struggled back upstream toward the girl. When he was still some yards from her he saw her hand torn free from the knocker. At once she was swept into the crowd and fell. He heard her scream.

  Like a mad demon he fought and pummelled his way to where she was lying. She was being fearfully trodden and trampled. He bent to try to lift her, praying he would not be borne down, too. And at that moment there was a noise like thin ice breaking up along a river in thaw—a sort of skittering, clattering sound that seemed to come from the walls above and opposite. It passed, quicker than thought, up the street. The screams and the roar of the cannon were simultaneous. He realized then that the first sound had been the grapeshot scattering along the walls of the buildings. A man behind Caspar, a man who would have been shielded had Caspar not bent down at that moment, fell across him, bearing him down upon the unconscious girl. Caspar did not need to feel the hot blood pouring onto his neck and shoulder to know that the man was dead.

  The mob had passed. Caspar risked looking up. Incredibly he saw that the shot had turned their panic into anger. They were looking at the fifteen or twenty dead who littered the street and they were actually turning and preparing to march on the ship!

  With every ounce of strength he possessed, he hauled the girl out from beneath the dead man. It could only be moments before the sailors reloaded and fired a second salvo. He half-dragged, half-carried the girl down the street—the fifteen longest paces of his life—to the corner of Pearl Street. He just made it around the bend as the second cannonade rang out. Again it was preceded for a fraction of a second by that chilling, withering noise of shot skittering along the walls and pavement.

  There were screams, of course, but something else—a great angry roar that curdled his blood and filled him with as much fear as had the sight of the frigate’s guns. He was no more safe here than he had been in Wall Street.

  He lifted the girl, fireman fashion, across his shoulders and stumbled up Pearl Street. He got no farther than Platt Street before his knees gave way under him. He took the skin off his cheek and left hand but managed to save the girl from a nasty crack. He struggled to his feet again and looked around for shelter. The first house in Platt Street, on the northern side, was open; later he was to learn that a Negro family had abandoned it in terror an hour earlier; at that moment it seemed as if Fate had decided to leave the horseshoes out of her fists for just one round. Too weak to lift the girl again, he dragged and rolled her up the five steps, through the front door, and into the passage.

  A room opened to their right. He went in alone. It was empty but for a bed and some infested clothing and blankets. He pulled the mattress to the window with the half-formed idea that if they were surprised, they could at least have the slight hope of escape by it. When he went back to the passage she was beginning to stir.

  He had only got her halfway to the mattress when she came around fully. She saw him. He smiled to reassure her, not knowing how ghastly the blood and the dirt from the street made him look. Her eyes went wide in horror; she drew breath to scream and then winced at the pain in her ribs. It allowed Caspar time to say: “You’re safe. You’ve been hurt, but you’re safe now.”

  He thought she fainted again, but it was just the pain. When it passed, she opened her eyes. Caspar meanwhile had found a can of water, which smelled fresh, behind the door. He dipped a clean handkerchief in it and came back and laid it on her brow. His words had only partly reassured her but this completed the job.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Name of Caspar Stevenson, miss. From England. I came through Castle Garden yesterday.”

  She grinned. “My!”

  “Yes. The guidebook says nothing about all this, you know. I shall have a very sharp word or two to say to the publisher—a Mr. Miller, I believe?”

  She bit her lip rather than laugh.

  “Sorry!” He hit his forehead with his clenched fist. “Look—can you struggle up onto the mattress if I bring it here?”

  He pulled the mattress over from the window, arranging it to touch her so that all she had to do was a single roll. Seeing the contortion of her face in performing that one simple manoeuvre, he was glad she had been unconscious while he carried her.

  “I’m going to pull it near the window,” he said. “I must be able to watch the rioters.”

  “They’re not rioters,” she said with difficulty.

  He could not understand why she said it but he didn’t want to make her talk. He smiled down. “Of course not. It’s the church picnic, just got a little out of hand.”

  “Wash your face,” she whispered. It seemed a lot easier to whisper.

  As slowly and gently as he could he dragged the mattress to the window and then went to dip his handkerchief in the water again to wash the blood and grime from his face.

  “Better,” she whispered. She sounded Irish, but then a lot of the Yankee accent sounded Irish to him.

  All the same, when she said “better” it could almost have been Mary Coen. He smiled at her. What could he say that wouldn’t start a conversation? Perhaps “yes” and “no” wouldn’t tax her too much.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Don’t bother about please and thank you. Just say yes or no—or shake your head. Thirsty?”

  “A bit.”

  He looked out into the street. It was full of rioters in angry groups; working up courage, perhaps, to return to Wall Street. He saw several muskets and revolvers plus one carbine, and almost everyone not so armed had a club or butcher’s knife. Across the street was a fruiterer’s; next to it, a wine and liquor shop. He described the scene to her. “Shall I risk going across for an orange or something?”

  She winced with pain as she raised her hand to clutch his. “No!” she said urgently. “Not for me.” Her hand was cold—on such a day as this, too; it must be the hottest day of the year.

  He took off his jacket and draped it over her feet. She had nice, trim little ankles. He looked at her face then, just as a face, rather than as something to clean or to worry at because of the pain it registered. It was a very pleasant face, too. Strong. Good, clear features, generous mouth, deep-blue, vivacious eyes—not afraid—curly auburn hair, what he could see of it under her bonnet.

  “Is it all still there?” she whispered, grinning. She was learning a way of talking that was not too painful.

  “Was it so obvious? I’m sorry.”
>
  “It was quite an audit.”

  He told her what had happened back there in Wall Street. Then, having nothing else to say, he told her—or began to tell her—what had happened to him yesterday, until he saw it distressed her. So instead he told her about the voyage over. She liked that much better.

  “What’s happening outside?” she asked.

  “They seem to have given up the idea of fighting for the moment. Except one another. They’re just getting more drunk.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” she said bitterly. Then she smiled again. “Tell me about England, where you live and that.”

  “I’ve left all that behind,” he said.

  A police officer rode into the street and dismounted, tying his horse to a lamppost right outside the window. Caspar thought the man was either brave or amazingly foolhardy. The officer walked across the street and into the saloon. The rioters were too astonished to molest him, though several shouted at him and brandished their weapons. Caspar decided not to tell her about it. Tell her what, instead? What had she asked? England.

  “My family has several houses, actually. There’s Thorpe Old Manor up in Yorkshire…”

  “Where’s Yorkshire?”

  “It’s part of the north of England. It’s bigger than Canada.”

  “But it can’t be. All of England isn’t bigger than New York State.”

  “I know it isn’t. But Yorkshire’s bigger than Canada, all the same.”

  She smiled. “I see. Go on.”

  He liked her; she caught his jokes quickly. The officer came out of the saloon while he went on speaking to her. Despite all that followed he did not once pause in his narrative nor betray his horror in his tone as he told her of the Old Manor, and Maran Hill, and Hamilton Place.

  The officer was halfway back to his horse—sword in one hand, drawn pistol in the other—when a great thug of a man came running from the saloon brandishing a rifle above his head. He held it by the barrel, turning it into a club. He brought it down full force on the officer’s neck and shoulder, dropping him at once. Immediately the whole crowd fell upon him, kicking him and thrashing him with clubs.

  “Are you a ‘sir’?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not. I’m a commoner. But I have the courtesy title of Honourable. I met some people the other night—I mean last night—who said I should use it here. It would be good for business: The Honourable Caspar Stevenson. What do you think? I don’t know your name, by the way.”

  “Dee Lane,” she said.

  Someone put a couple of twists of rope about the officer’s ankles and groups of laughing men took turns dragging him up and down over the cobbles. He was still conscious and at one point he even attempted to rise.

  “I think you surely should, Honourable,” the girl said (pronouncing it “on-a-bull”). “It’s cunning.”

  “Cunning?”

  “Well—cute. Why do you have that title?”

  “Because my father’s an earl, actually.”

  A priest came into the street. The men paused in their game.

  “You always say ‘actually’,” she said. “You said, ‘We have several houses, actually’ and ‘My father’s an earl, actually’.”

  “Do I?” He laughed.

  The priest bent over and administered the last rites to the officer.

  “Will you be an earl one day, Hon’able?”

  “Only if my older brother dies before me. Or if I make a fortune and go back and give a lot of it away, I might be made an earl in my own right. Then”—he laughed—“I’d be Right Hon’able.”

  She closed her eyes and grinned knowingly. “Just like here,” she said. “You mean pay the politicians.”

  The priest stood up and walked back among the throng to Pearl Street. Here and there he exchanged friendly words and greetings with the rioters. As soon as he had gone they began dragging the officer around again at the end of the rope. By now he appeared unconscious.

  “No,” Caspar said. “It’s not as blatant as that. One founds libraries, alms houses, schools for mechanics, one endows colleges—that sort of thing.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” She had spoken too violently; she winced and paused until the pain subsided. “You mean you do all that in your own name, and the pols, who’ve gotten nothing out of it for themselves, give you more honours? That doesn’t line up.”

  “I suppose not. I’ve never thought of it, actually.”

  “Actually!”

  Some women came with knives and began to slash at the officer’s flesh. He was, beyond doubt, unconscious now. The women laughed a great deal and encouraged children to come and drop stones on the man. Some of the stones were very big and needed two or three children to lift them. He must have had several bones broken by it.

  “Actually, Hon’able, what line of business are you going to make this fortune in, actually?”

  “I don’t know, act…—no, I mustn’t say it!” He laughed. “I had thought of small arms and ammunition manufacture. But…oh, I don’t know. With all this burning and destruction, and all those green acres up beyond Forty-fifth…perhaps building would be more sensible.”

  “Who do you know here?”

  “Only people I’ve met. People at my lodgings, Mr. Fox, and…”

  “No, no. I mean who do you—you know—know. Who will get you the work? Who’ll protect you? That sort of ‘know’.”

  The men came back out of the saloon and began dragging the body around again; the women ran whooping and shrieking after it with their knives until one, in her excitement, cut a lump off one of the others. Then they fought among themselves and the men had to come and separate them. They all went back into the saloon, leaving the body in the gutter. To his horror, Caspar saw the man was still moving.

  If it weren’t for the girl he’d risk going out and helping the poor fellow.

  “I think I can protect myself, Miss Lane,” he said. “And as for getting work, if the price is low enough and the quality is…”

  She whistled—not in amazement. She whistled a tune.

  “No?” he said.

  “No,” she confirmed.

  “It’s the land of opportunity, isn’t it?”

  “It was, Hon’able. It surely was. ‘Land of opportunists’ is more like it now.”

  “Get me work from where?” he asked. “And protect me from what?”

  “Whom,” she said. “Work from whom. Protect from whom. You need someone to talk to people who can put work your way.” She crinkled imaginary money in her fingers as she said “talk.” “And you need someone to protect you”—again the imaginary money—“from the gangs.”

  “I see.” He looked at her. “How do you know all this, Miss Lane?”

  “Family business, you could say.” She clenched her eyes and tried to raise a hand to her forehead.

  “Is anything the matter?” he asked.

  “My head. Is it cut open—on top there?”

  There was blood on her bonnet; he had thought it came from the dead man. “Shall I take it off and see?” he asked, being careful to keep any alarm out of his voice and face. He undid the strings and gently peeled off the material. The blood was fresh. “It looks as if you’ve grazed the skin. Does it hurt?”

  “It’s a terrible itch.”

  “But no headache?” He tried to sound very knowing.

  “No.”

  “Even so, I think I’d better try and get a doctor to you. I’ll risk going out.”

  Swift as a cat she grabbed his arm. “No! They’d kill you, Hon’able.”

  “They would not!” He laughed at the very notion—even though he was looking straight at the body of the police officer, not four yards from the window.

  “They would. Believe me—I know. I’m all right. It’s just a graze, as you say.” She smiled. “Just wait.
It’ll cool off and then you can get word to my father.” She held out a limp hand for him to grasp. “Tell me about your father, your people.”

  ***

  Three hours later Caspar realized he had said a great deal more than he would have believed himself capable of saying. It was not only that Miss Lane was such an encouraging listener, who smiled, who frowned, who melted in sympathy, who radiated understanding; it was not just that. His narrative had turned into a voyage of self-discovery, too. Never, not even to himself, had he been forced to connect all the different hopes of his father and mother and Boy and Winifred, and all the pressures of Society and convention into one single narrative. (Of course, he said nothing of Mary Coen—that was both private and irrelevant.) It helped, too, to explain it to a foreigner, who could not possibly be expected to understand the ins and outs of English Society. And while he was explaining them to her, his hair—though it had not literally stood on end—actually bristled on his scalp. For he realized he was coming to see his father’s point of view. Not to share it, of course. But to see it as a plausible, even rational, alternative to his own: The demands of Society were the single most powerful force in England; Society was the source of all patronage; its members had access to all kinds of privileged information—much of it trivial gossip, to be sure, but not all of it; there was nothing Society could not arrange, conceal, promote, or kill, if it were so minded. To choose to be outside it was to suffer a kind of amputation; to flout it, even in some minor degree, was to risk that same cutting off; so to go against its demands and dictates you needed very good reasons. From his father’s point of view were Boy, Winifred, and himself “good reasons”?