Bold Sons of Erin

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  He turned to Mr. Nicolay. “John here suggested we have you take a look, so we did.” Mr. Lincoln returned those great, sad eyes to me. “Seward didn’t tell you anything about the Russians, because, frankly, we thought we ought to let that dog lie down. Didn’t really seem to bear, given the circumstances of Stone’s death. That was a mistake, not telling you, and I’m sorry for it.”

  “But what about the Russians, sir?”

  A flurry of thoughts swept over his brow before he spoke again. Twas queer. Mr. Lincoln could speak with all the grand formality of Cicero, when the occasion asked it, and he kept his pockets filled with words, as if he had plucked a luxuriant row of books. But his favorite role was that of the country lawyer, the man of simple language masking great wiles. He had played that role so long it fit him like an old, favorite coat. I believe he hid behind it, although he was no coward. Ever underestimated by men who lived above their mental economy, he lived within the means of his thoughts and spoke for a wounded nation.

  But let that bide.

  I heard footsteps running up and down the hall, likely those of a child. If so, I was glad of any joy returned to the President’s House, for Mr. Lincoln had suffered the tragic loss of a son earlier in the year. And it was said his wife made certain difficulties, although such gossip is not always sound.

  Slowly, as if unfolding a delicate package, Mr. Lincoln resumed his explanation. “After Fort Sumter . . . do you know which of the European powers was the first one to recognize the enduring integrity of the Union? It was Russia.” He smiled wistfully. “The greatest autocrat in the civilized world, the tsar, was the only one who insisted that the world’s greatest democracy remained indivisible. Although I do hear he has some reforms in mind for his own folks, to be fair to the fellow. Tsar Alexander wouldn’t even entertain unofficial ambassadors from Richmond. And Baron de Stoekl, his minister to our government, remains the one diplomat in this city I can trust not to cheer on the Rebels at every turn.”

  He waved his endless fingers. “Oh, not that I’m inclined to exaggerate Russia’s affection for these United States. No, Major Jones, the Russians have their own interests, as all people do. They’re still smarting from the licking they took in the Crimea. They want to spite the British and the French. And they know London and Paris have more than a peck of sympathy with Richmond. So the tsar’s just balancing things out, warning them that the brawl ain’t necessarily finished and that he’s still spitting mad.”

  “Given how close we have come to war with Britain . . .” I said.

  “Just so,” Mr. Lincoln agreed. “This country needs friends, and it needs them badly. And we don’t need friends who just send us polite little notes and ask us to tea. We need practical demonstrations of friendship. For all the world to see. Seward and Welles have some ideas on that, by the way. But the point is that the tsar did this country a very good turn, just when we needed a good turn done.”

  All this was of great interest, but I could not yet see the bearing on General Stone and his murder.

  “Here’s the fly in the molasses,” Mr. Lincoln said. “A few months back, Baron de Stoekl put a curious request to Mr. Seward. Tsar Alexander himself asked that General Carl Stone be arrested and put on a ship for St. Petersburg, where he would be tried for treason, attempted assassination, and bad manners in general. Apparently, Russian agents had been looking the world over for him. The war news brought him to their attention, though I still don’t quite see how. The baron was a little evasive on that point, as well as regarding the true identity of our General Stone.”

  He made one of his crackerbarrel-philosopher faces. “Now, I’m a politician, Major Jones. Though I don’t know if any man should make that claim out loud. And I faced a dilemma, with our secretary of state all fit to jump off the roof, except he couldn’t make up his mind which way.” He put on a little smile that was no smile at all. “You remember some time back when I told you about that fellow balanced atop a fence, trying to decide which way to jump? Same thing. If I broke every law in the country that hadn’t been broken already and wrapped up General Stone as a present for the tsar, I might have made the Russians happy. But our German voters wouldn’t be quite so fond of me next time around. And our recent elections weren’t exactly a shout of approval from a people united. As it is, our German citizens are complaining because they think I should have freed the slaves last year, won the war this year and prepared to invade Europe next year. While reducing the cost of beer. On the other hand, that request was the only thing the tsar ever asked of us.”

  This time, Mr. Lincoln smiled truly, for I had learned to tell the difference. “I’m surprised the tsar’s forgiven me for sending him Simon Cameron as our minister—Old Simon’s already out of there, by the way, and trailing a whiff of scandal you can smell from here to the Pennsylvania statehouse. Seems to have found St. Petersburg a bit on the chilly side and took to warming himself with the wrong friends. Napoleon III would have called it an act of war, had I sent that man to France.”

  He paused for a long moment, dark eyes piercing. Letting me make the connections, if I could.

  “So,” I began, “while I do not mean the slightest disrespect, sir, it must have seemed something of a blessing when this General Stone was murdered.” I saw another thing, too. “And, once he was dead, it mattered little who should have the body. In the confusions of war, the loss of a corpse is easily excused. So it was sealed in a coffin and hurried along to Washington by the railroad. And now it is on a ship upon the waters, sailing for Russia, as a present to the tsar.”

  Mr. Lincoln’s eyes narrowed, but his twist of a smile was friendly. “Major Jones, I’d fear for my old occupation, if you ever decided to take up as a circuit lawyer.”

  “I was sent to Pottsville . . . as something of a bloodhound, then. To see if an unfortunate scent might come up. To see . . . if anyone had a mind to trouble Washington about the matter, or to create an embarrassment.” The words were almost painful now, for I had been used deceitfully. “To see if anyone might be inclined to pursue the matter. But not to find the murderer, unless such could not be avoided.”

  “I’m sorry, if that hurts your pride,” Mr. Lincoln said. “No harm was meant. But we had to know if all this was going to blow up somehow.”

  I will admit my sentiments were wounded. I believed that I had served Mr. Lincoln well and proper over the past year, yet I had not been trusted with the true purpose of my doings. I did not even have the dignity of a bloodhound, but had served as a canary in a coal mine.

  “No harm was meant,” Mr. Lincoln repeated, a degree more forcefully. For he read men as you or I would read a book. “Your services are valued greatly, Major Jones. And you were trusted. I relied upon your discretion, you see.”

  I nodded absently, thinking on things.

  His face grew as dark as the war itself. Commanding my attention. “The truth is, I’d be content to leave well enough alone, to a certain point. Maybe that offends you, in the mood you’re in just now, Major Jones. But I have to look at things through a different window. General Stone is dead. And so are tens of thousands of other soldiers who wore this country’s uniform. I’d even let the Irish have the blame, since they don’t seem to mind it and that’s an explanation a Missouri Dutchman can understand. But while you were up there rasslin’ Irishmen, I’m afraid the problem has gone and gotten nasty as a stall that hasn’t been turned over in a month. The scandal may not be making much smoke in your Schuylkill County, but it’s starting to flame up just about everywhere else.”

  “And how is that, sir?”

  “It appears there was a great deal more to this General Stone than met the eye. And not just to do with Russian bears and shenanigans on the other side of the ocean.” He turned, as ever, to Mr. Nicolay. “John’s heard from some of those folks who share a common ancestry with him. In fact, he’s heard from a passel of them, and not only from St. Louis. It appears that Carl Stone was something of a leader among our political radi
cals, folks bent on carrying revolution back to Europe. When our war is over, presumably.”

  He moved his great bones in his chair. “Socialists, Communists, Anarchists . . . Among some of our recent immigrants, revolution seems to be a substitute for checkers. Now I’ve got the Germans and other folks screaming bloody murder, demanding that I produce Stone’s assassins. And they’re convinced that’s exactly what it was, Major—an assassination.” He wrinkled his face in disgust at the thought of such doings. “The truth is we need those Germans, Major. The Union needs all of them, every one. Native-born Americans started this war, but it’s going to take our new Americans by the hundreds of thousands to finish it.”

  He shook his head, slowly, as if the effort pained him. “And I’ll tell you this: If the Russians were involved in some sort of political murder, it’s going to be a cold day for this government. Seward might suggest overlooking it, I expect, and he’d have a good argument. I could make the argument every bit as well as he could, for that matter. But there are some things we just can’t tolerate. We can’t let this country turn into a rough-cut version of Europe, where folks try to solve their problems by bombings and assassinations, instead of through party caterwauling and ballots. I won’t stand for it. I’d have to bid up the game with the tsar, and see if he chose to fold or call. Either way, we’d lose the one friend this country has at the moment.”

  He looked almost frightfully glum. And when Mr. Lincoln was blue, he liked a joke. He cranked up one corner of his mouth and said, “All those complicated European philosophies they’re arguing about . . . and we’re having a bushel and a peck of trouble just sorting out the bad apples of democracy. Those Germans now,” he said, with a sly little smile for Mr. Nicolay, “the problem is they just think too much. Can’t help themselves. And the last thing you want in politics is a fellow who thinks too much, who’s got so many brains in his head they’ve squeezed out all the common sense. Politics takes a smart man, at least most of the time. And the lower a man’s position, the smarter he has to be. But a genius seems to me a downright menace to the practical business of government.”

  He made a deep sound, laughter’s ghost, at the back of his throat. “I can’t say I’ve studied ’em properly, but, near as I can figure it, all those radical programs don’t add up to much more than a full moon over the hen-house. Your Socialist expects the state to make folks good, the Communist expects folks to make the state good . . . and an Anarchist doesn’t think the state’s good for anything but target practice.”

  I must admit I know little of such doctrines, except that their adherents put faith in their own notions, not in God. It is no wonder such folk are unhappy. Poor Mick Tyrone, my friend, bedevils himself with the miseries of the world, and always sees the canker on the rose.

  “And did these Socialist fellows and such like tell you any more about General Stone?” I asked Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Nicolay. “A hint of his crimes? Or another name, perhaps?”

  Both men shook their heads, in physical harmony.

  Twas Mr. Nicolay who spoke next. “That is the thing, Major Jones. They all wish to know what has happened to him, why he is murdered, who is to blame. They speak of conspiracies and revenge. But they will say nothing of the man himself. They are fond of secrets, these people, and do not part with them easily.”

  “Whether they have secrets or not, the Union needs their support,” Mr. Lincoln stressed. “Even more than we need the tsar’s, if it comes to that.”

  “Mr. Pinkerton has looked into things,” Mr. Nicolay said, “but he has found nothing.”

  Mr. Lincoln grimaced at the mention of Pinkerton’s name. “I don’t think we’ll have much more use for Mr. Pinkerton’s services. Mr. Davis never created half as many Confederate soldiers as Allan Pinkerton created in his own head. He and George McClellan are two peas in a pod.”

  Both men looked at me.

  “Major Jones . . .” Mr. Nicolay began, “we need you to find out who has murdered General Stone. We need the information truly this time. And we need to know why he was killed. We need to know more of the man himself, of his political affiliations, of the Russian interest in the matter . . .” He looked as serious as ever a German fellow could look, and that is saying something. “We must rely on you.”

  Mr. Lincoln leaned toward me one last time. The light had left us and he sat in shadow, but his eyes were little fires.

  “I don’t suppose you have any of these bomb-throwing radicals among your circle of personal acquaintances?” he asked.

  “OOOCH, MAJOR JONES!” Frau Schutzengel cried, rushing down the hallway toward me. A mighty locomotive she was, trailing clouds of kitchen steam behind her and signaling her approach with the wave of a rag. “You are coming back to us again! Und so soon! I make a big Apfelkuchen for the dinner!”

  Now, I must confess that, charged by the remarkable bulk of dear Mrs. Schutzengel, I always feel the impulse to step backward. I have withstood the assaults of Johnny Seekh and Jimmy Pushtoon without flinching. And I know that my Washington landlady means me no harm. Still, the good woman has a way of filling her hallway that puts me in mind of a rush of irregular horse. A part of me fears a trampling.

  I stood my ground and she pulled up short, firing her oven-drawn sweat in all directions and sweeping a hand across her generous brow. Queer it is. We always wished to embrace, I think, for we had become great friends, but such things are not done by polite society. And though Mrs. Schutzengel was a fervent Communist—which I believe is akin to a Unitarian—she did not mean to compromise her manners. Nor did I.

  We shook hands.

  “Dear Mrs. Schutzengel,” I said, “there is good, to see you again.”

  “Und Ihre Frau, Herr Major? Your wife? She is good? Und das Kind? The little boy?” she asked. “Und das Waisenkind, die Fanny?”

  Ah, there lay troubles yet unsettled. But a family’s dismay must be kept private.

  “All are healthy and wanting for naught,” I assured her. “Although there was a certain loss. An uncle.”

  She knew the outward bits of my life, for we often talked in her parlor, with dinner behind us and my Evening Star in my hands. Mrs. Schutzengel would read her dauntingly thick German books and grunt—though nicely—when a paragraph displeased her. Bit by bit, we shared scraps of our pasts, although I fear that I told more of mine. I am a Welshman born, see, though I have become an American. And talk is our cakes and ale.

  “Der Onkel Evans?” she asked. “The great capitalist?”

  I nodded. “Not quite so grand as all that, Mrs. Schutzengel. Truly.”

  “Then I am sorry. Because he is your uncle. Although he is an exploiter of the workers und Mitglied der Parasitenklasse.” She wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of her nose with the corner of her kitchen rag. Fair soaking the good woman was, for she did not stint on effort at her stove.

  Behind her back, the kitchen clanged untowardly of a sudden. Mrs. Schutzengel turned and barked, “Gott im Himmel, was ist denn das für eine polnische Wirtschaft! You spoil the dinner und I hold back your wages!”

  “My wife’s uncle,” I clarified. For I still thought of him as such, although the man himself had told me otherwise. As soon as I had spoken, a coldness filled me.

  I roused myself, resolutely, from my moment of despond. For I had larger matters to attend to, and a man who neglects his duty has little worth. “Look you, Mrs. Schutzengel . . . I have need of your counsel, perhaps of your help. But it must remain a quiet matter, between ourselves, see. It may be terribly important. Perhaps we might speak after dinner?”

  Her face turned purple. I do not exaggerate. And sweat come up afresh on her forehead, as if her boiler had been restoked, until the woman fair glistened.

  “Nach dem Abendessen? Nein!” She looked about her in wounded fury, although we two remained alone in the hall. “After the dinner, he wants to talk to Hilda Schutzengel! To his friend, the Schutzengel? When he has the problem now?”

  She slashed the air with
her rag and I felt the spray on my cheek. It smelled of chicken broth.

  “No!” She shook her massive head and stamped her foot. I do believe the china shook behind the parlor wall. “Her dear friend, who does the duty in the war against those Rebel Aristokraten und gegen die Sklaverei, und he thinks the Schutzengel makes him wait until after the dinner!” She brought down her imposing foot again. More shook than merely the china this time. “It is now that we are talking! Gleich jetzt.” She pointed to the parlor. “Marsch, marsch. I tell the girls not to ruin the dinner und I come to you gerade!”

  I went docilely, for Mrs. Schutzengel’s friendship was commanding. Lovely it was to have such a friend, when a fellow needed help. But I will confess I would have waited, willingly, until our meal was behind us. For I feared the girls she had taken on in Annie Fitzgerald’s wake would not do justice to Mrs. Schutzengel’s standards. And I like to find proper cooking on the table.

  One of the new girls was a Lutheran, from Sweden, where the people think all flavor is a sin. She was large and pale, and prone to unsightly blemishes. The other creature, small and dark, claimed to come from a place called the Kasubai. At night, I heard her weeping in the attic. In the morning, she fetched our night pots and sang her country’s songs off-pitch in the yard. Between the two of them, they could damage a dinner.

  Mrs. Schutzengel swept into the parlor, muttering about the lack of pride and diligence among the members of her beloved working class. Still vivid with sweat she was, and she glowed in the day’s first lamplight. Sitting herself down in her high-backed chair with a great exhalation of breath, she intertwined her fingers and asked, “Oooch ja, was denn?”

  I sat down myself, closer to her than usual. Listening for the tread of other boarders upon the porch. My questions did not want a larger audience.

  “Mrs. Schutzengel,” I began, “have you ever heard of a German immigrant fellow named Carl Stone?”