Bold Sons of Erin

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  With the ghost of a sigh, the lawyer settled his eyes on Mrs. Walker. Then he read on. “To my kind and devoted friend, Mrs. Dorothea Walker, née Brooke, I leave the sum of fifty thousand dollars, free and clear. Further, to Mrs. Walker, I bequeathe the following properties in the Pottsville Borough: Her current house of residence on lot 55, Minersville Street, as well as my share of those houses erected on lots 67, 68 and 69, Minersville Street, in which properties we have enjoyed a like and mutual interest, as recorded by the firm of Hemmings and Briggs, and registered in the County of Schuylkill. Finally, to Mrs. Walker, the Florentine screen from the ladies’ parlor in my Mahantango Street abode, and my silver-headed walking stick, bearing the inscription, ‘To Chummy-Chums,’ returned to her for the sake of my remembrance.”

  I do not remember clearly, for I was shocked to a numbness, but I may have gasped at the figure Mr. Hemmings had read out. For my tallying, based upon my knowledge of the colliery books I had kept before the war, told me the lion’s share of his available wealth had now been apportioned. We might have ten or twenty thousand dollars for my Mary, but no more.

  Now you will say: That is a very fortune, and how else would you come to such an amount, you greedy man? But I will tell you: Although you are right that I was greedy and presumptuous, I wonder how you would have felt sitting in my place?

  I looked at Mrs. Walker, expecting to find her beaming in her triumph. Instead, her face was streaked with tears and she lifted a flowered handkerchief to her lips, then began to sob.

  She was shaking her head, as if denying all.

  Mr. Hemmings paused in his reading, patient as a lawyer fellow must be. But Mrs. Walker didn’t see him, for her eyes were shut tightly now.

  Of a sudden, the creature snapped opened her eyes and stared over at my darling.

  “Mary,” she said, “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know it would be so much . . . I didn’t know . . .”

  Now, my beloved is a lady, first and last. And she replied in a voice with no hint of jealousy or discourtesy.

  “It was his to give,” she said. “And he gave it where he loved, Dolly.”

  Mrs. Walker turned her face away from us. Oh, I would not be unjust. Perhaps she felt some deep emotion for the man. Perhaps we never sink so low that our heart is void of affection. Perhaps the murderer loves his wife and the robber adores his children.

  But I was heartsick.

  “Shall I proceed?” Mr. Hemmings asked. He got a nod from me, but twas a nod from an empty shell.

  “To my dearly beloved niece, Mary Myfanwy Jones, née Griffiths, I leave the sum of two hundred thousand dollars, free and clear . . .”

  I know I gasped at that. As did my darling. For we had no idea the old man had possessed such wealth in his private accounts. That is the quietness and fortitude of the Welsh for you. Mr. Evans ever had been strenuous at his labors, I will give him that.

  “ . . . further, to Mary M. Jones, all remaining papers of investment, notes, bonds, and sums that shall remain after the bequests listed above and below have been paid. Also, to Mary M. Jones, my residence on Mahantango Street, with all its grounds and furnishings, except as stated above; my interest in the Marquand Building, lot 143, Centre Street, and my interest in the Thomas and Thomas Building, lot 44, Market Street, said properties deeded and recorded in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. Further, to Mary M. Jones, all my property holdings in Bala Cynwyd and Chester, Pennsylvania, and all lands deeded in my name in the borough or holding of Cape May, New Jersey, as well as improvements thereon. To Mary M. Jones, my personal holdings in the Pennsylvania Railroad and in Cawber Iron and Steel, free and unencumbered. Finally, to Mary M. Jones, the portrait in pencil and wash of her mother, the late Virginia Griffiths, née Evans, wrapped in velvet and kept in the top, right drawer of my dressing table.”

  My wife’s hand and mine own had parted, for we had been plunged into worlds of disbelief. At a time such as that, a fellow does not know what he is about, see.

  Mr. Hemmings read on. “To my beloved grandson, John Evan Jones, to be placed in trust until his majority, the sum of fifty thousand dollars. An additional sum of fifty thousand dollars to be held in unnamed trust against the birth of a second, healthy child to my niece, Mary M. Jones, after which said birth it shall be held in trust in that child’s legal name until said child’s majority is attained.”

  Mr. Hemmings gave me a queer sort of look, then added, “To Major Abel Jones, husband to Mary M. Jones, I bequeathe the Evans family Bible.”

  The lawyer fellow avoided my eyes and rushed into the testament’s closing paragraphs.

  “All lands and properties owned or leased by Evans Coal and Iron, incorporated in the Counties of Schuylkill, Carbon, and Berks, and all works, improvements or structures thereon, as well as all movable assets, subscribed rights of way, and funded permits, said assets valued by survey in July 1862, in the sum of one hundred sixty-seven thousand, four hundred, thirty-two dollars and ninety-one cents, I bequeathe jointly, in even shares, to Major Abel Jones, husband to Mary M. Jones, in recognition of his diligence as a man and his loyalty as a husband and father, and to my friend and companion, Mrs. Dorothea Walker. Major Jones shall have the deciding vote on business affairs, and it is expected that Mrs. Walker shall be a silent partner in the management of Evans Coal and Iron.”

  Mr. Hemmings gave us quite a set of looks upon that revelation, and, if I must be honest, I am not certain whom he pitied the more, myself or Mrs. Walker. For Mr. Hemmings knew me for a man of firm convictions.

  And then he read the last bit, which come as near to a great surprise as the rest of the stipulations. “Joint executors of this will shall be Major Abel Jones of Pottsville, Pennsylvania, and Mr. Matthew Cawber, resident of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. All attested and signed by myself, Evan E. Evans, and witnessed by Harvey Hemmings, Esq., on this 19th day of September 1862. May God forgive me my sins and remember my virtues.”

  I think the air in that room was as heavy as a souper fog in London. Oh, we could see each other clear enough. But we all had a blundering feel about us, as if we could not get up and walk without tumbling over the furniture or colliding with one another. I fear it was a mood akin to drunkenness. Although no spirits had been taken, of course.

  After what he considered a proper interval, Mr. Hemmings said, “If I may . . . given the peculiar division of certain assets of the deceased . . . if I may ask your attention . . . our firm already has received an offer that we have been asked to convey to you . . .”

  We all looked at the fellow. As if he could take back all he had just given, as if he might declare he had made it all up.

  “We have received an offer that would relieve you of the cares of managing these mine and colliery operations . . .” he looked sagely at me and my uniform “ . . . an anonymous consort of gentlemen offers to purchase the holdings and assets of Evans Coal and Iron for the sum of two hundred twenty-five thous—”

  “No,” Mrs. Walker snapped. Almost a shout it was. She was up on her feet, with a sunburned color in her handsome face. “Evan built it up. And Evan left it to us.” She looked down at me. “We won’t sell it.”

  Mr. Hemmings looked at me. And his somber face asked, “How will you manage a colliery and mine, while you are away at your wars.” He looked to me for common sense, see.

  “No,” I said, and I must say I surprised myself. “No, Mr. Hemmings, we will not sell Evans Coal and Iron. And if they have already offered such an amount, then we know it is worth more. For the wicked prey on the grieving, that I will tell you. We are not selling the Evans properties, see.”

  “Not at any price,” Mrs. Walker insisted. Although I would not have gone that far myself.

  Mr. Hemmings gazed at each of us in turn, then looked us all over again. He plucked the spectacles from his nose, laid them down on the green mat on his desk, and said, “Of course, you realize that each of you will require the services of a trustworthy, established law firm in your business endeavors. Jus
t as dear Mr. Evans required our services. If I may suggest a similarly advantageous arrangement . . .”

  WE STEPPED INTO THE HALL, the lot of us tottering. We had been made rich, you understand. In time, it would emerge that my Mary and I held assets worth over half a million dollars, which placed us among the wealthiest folk in Pottsville. Twas almost Philadelphia wealth, although I will tell you we never lost our heads over the matter. For Methodists embrace their good fortune with sober mien, as they do their disappointments and disasters. But half a million dollars, in money and papers and properties! Of course, that day there was only a glorious vagueness about the sum. But I will admit that my criticisms of Mr. Evans were muted, at least for the moment.

  I resolved to pray for his immortal soul. Clearly, his sins had weighed awfully upon him, or he never would have confessed his doings to me. And repentance is the first step toward salvation, a matter Our Savior made clear and good John Wesley explicated for the benefit of Mankind. We must not be too harsh in our judgements, for there was good even in a crucified thief.

  As we stood all muddled in that narrow hallway, with its smell of soap and ashes and mildewed files, Mrs. Walker took advantage of my lack of self-possession.

  She held out her hand to me.

  “Looks like we’re partners, ducks. I ’ope we may be friends, if only quiet-like.”

  I took her hand in mine. Twas warm, though gloved in black kid. As a gentlemen, I could do no less, you understand.

  I had not even begun to think about the implications of our new relationship. Nor did I wish to ponder it just then. I only wanted a breath of cold, clean air, to verify that all was real and not some laudanum dream.

  But Mrs. Walker had me prisoner and would not release my hand. Her face was fittingly earnest, though I misapprehended the reason until she spoke again.

  “Major Jones . . .” she began, seeking for the proper words to reach me. I fear she thought me something of an ogre, for she had grown to view all men as pliant and I was not.

  I was about to excuse myself, when the woman found her tongue.

  “ . . . Major Jones, forgive me do, but I ’ave to seize upon this opportunity, for Mary says you been obstinate. I don’t know where to turn, I don’t, and I’m desperate, I am. Even Mr. Evans, God bless ’im, was no ’elp to me in the matter, and you’re the last ’ope I ’ave, with your ’igh connections.”

  She clutched my hand as a young recruit clings to his musket while marching into a volley.

  “ . . . Nobody cares, not a one of them,” she said bitterly, “though gay enough the brood of them carried on when Kathleen gave them their ’appiness of an evening.” Tears returned to her eyes, though different in temper from those shed in the office. There was anger now, even rage. “They won’t ’ear a whisper about ’er fate, not a bloody one of them will. Not that Fatty Gowen or the magistrate, nor any man among them, they’re all so afraid of their secrets pouring out.” She could no longer control herself and she sobbed. “I fear the poor girl’s been murdered these two months.”

  FOURTEEN

  “KATHLEEN BOLAND WAS A LOVELY LITTLE THING,” Mrs. Walker told me. “Not twenty years old, she wasn’t, but wild as a camp full of gypsies.”

  We sat in Mrs. Walker’s private parlor, a room I found extraordinarily pink. It had that gimcrack lavishness that heathens sometimes get up to, all flimsy and false when you take a second look. I found it not lascivious, but sad.

  I could not invite her home, of course, so her residence had remained our only choice. Understanding she was, for she led me in through the alley door, sparing me the embarrassment of the front entrance, where company might be encountered. Nonetheless, one missy in relaxed apparel emerged from the kitchen and hooked her arm through mine, declaring, “I’m game, if you are, Shorty,” but Mrs. Walker gave the lass a reprimand that stung her to a blush.

  “I ’ad to put some manners on Kathleen,” my hostess told me from her nest of pillows. “When she came around knocking and asking for work, she was raring to take on two or three gents at a time, if the money was flowing. I would ’ave turned ’er away from my door for the shame of ’er, if she ’adn’t been as pretty as you please. But I left ’er in no doubt, I did, that I always keep an establishment of the ’ighest tastes and quality. Our gentlemen visitors ain’t allowed no more than a smile and a squeeze in the public rooms, for I won’t ’ave Sodom and Gomorrah under my roof. I always tell my girls, I tell them, ‘Ladies, just show the boys enough to give them a proper ’int of what they’re in for. And close your door be’ind you when you’re entertaining, for a gentleman is easily embarrassed.’”

  She sighed over her professional travails. “I tell you, Major Jones, just as I told Kathleen that very first day when I seen ’er, all looking fresh and pert as the flowers in May . . . I said to ’er, ‘One at a time and easy does it, and wash up proper after.’ Dr. Carr keeps telling them, but it’s a battle to get them to listen, and the careless ones pay the price.” Mrs. Walker had chatted herself into a disheartened state. “It’s rare to meet a proper young lady these days. Though Kathleen Boland could ’ave passed for a princess. Until she opened that shanty-Irish mouth of ’er’s.”

  I sat there listening and not listening. I still had not gotten very far past the name. Kathleen Boland. Boland. Kathleen . . .

  “What color hair did the lass have?” I asked. I fear I interrupted Mrs. Walker, which is rude. But she did not seem to mind.

  “It didn’t know if it wanted to be red or brown, it didn’t. But she had an ’andsome crop of it.”

  “Might you describe it as ‘cinnamon’ in color?”

  Mrs. Boland considered my proposition. “I suppose that’s as good a way as any to describe it. She ’ad a great flash to ’er, Kathleen did. The other girls were as jealous as old maids at a cotillion. Shall I call for some tea, then, shall I?”

  I declined her offer. I feared the very contagion of the place. “And she come from Heckschersville, Miss Boland did?”

  Mrs. Walker betrayed her surprise. “And just ’ow did you know that?” A doubtful look darkened her brow. “I don’t recall you ever coming around to—”

  “No, Mrs. Walker. Nothing of the kind. It is only that a fellow in my position hears things.”

  “Well, you’re ’earing more than I do. Since poor Kathleen disappeared that first week in September, mum’s the word among the ’igh and mighty. Oh, they were all ’appy enough to take an interest in ’er while she was alive, the sort who wouldn’t ’ave tipped their ’ats to ’er in the street. But now that she’s gone, it’s as if the girl never existed.”

  “So . . . Kathleen Boland was from Heckschersville and she—”

  “And that’s where she took ’erself off to, the morning I saw the last of ’er. ‘I’m only away for the Monday and Tuesday,’ says she, ‘for I’ve things to put in order bye and bye.’” Mrs. Walker took on the sentimental look that is a ready companion to immorality. “She never showed ’er face among us again. I know something awful’s ’appened to ’er. She’s murdered, sure as there’s secrets kept at the bank. Murdered as dead as a salted cod. For we found almost three ’undred dollars in ’er room, and she ain’t been back for it. I’m still ’olding it for ’er, I am. I keep things honest and fair in my establishment, though the girls all wanted to spend it on a wake. They’ve got the Irish ’abits, even those that ’aven’t a drop of Irish blood. ‘And what if she ain’t dead?’ I told them, although I know she is. If I can’t put that money back in ’er ’and, it’s going in the poor-box.”

  My hostess tutted over life’s misfortunes. “Saving up ’er money for ’er betterment, Kathleen was. Though I think she liked the life well enough . . . she would ’ave found some parts of it ’ard to give up, and pity the man who ever tried to bind ’er. She was ruined from the start, and she enjoyed it, our Kathleen. No ’arm intended to the poor child’s memory.”

  “So, Kathleen Boland returned to Heckschersville. To put something in order. An
d you are convinced she was murdered?”

  “Well, she ain’t come back, now ’as she? With three ’undred dollars left in ’er room. And wasn’t the poor thing terrified when she left us? ‘I don’t want to go, but I ’ave to,’ that’s what she said to me. She was frightened as the deuce, with her gabbing of witches.”

  “Witches?”

  Of a sudden, Mrs. Walker smiled. I do believe the room brightened around us. It even appeared that she still possessed all her teeth. Nor were they fouled.

  “You’re going to ’elp me, then, are you? Oh, I says to Mrs. Jones, to your Mary, says I, ‘E’s a romper, that ’usband of yours, even if ’e likes to pretend ’e’s a parson.’ I knew you’d ’ave an ’eart for a poor, murdered girl.”

  “I will help you, if I can, Mrs. Walker. Indeed, I believe I may be able to get to the truth of things rather quickly now. But when you speak of witches . . . did Kathleen Boland believe—”

  “Family problems, it was. With ’er brother. ‘Danny’ she called ’im. Danny Boland. She loved ’im up and down, the poor girl did, for ’e was all the family what was left to ’er. The brother ’ad a wife that was a trouble to ’im. And I don’t mean a trouble of the usual sort.”

  “The ‘usual sort’?”

  “You know. The woman nagging, and the ’usband drinking and wasting all ’is earnings. Or roving about. Fighting to break their bones. There wasn’t none of that sort of thing between them. Kathleen said ’er brother was the very model of an ’usband.”

  “And Mrs. Boland? Was she a ‘very model’ of a wife? Or was she . . . one of these witches you spoke of?”

  Mrs. Walker rolled her eyes toward Heaven. “‘Witches’ might be one way of putting it. And a nice way, if you ask Dolly Walker. You know ’ow superstitious the Irish are, with their spells and curses and whatnot. But the woman was Bedlam mad, I could tell that much from ’earing Kathleen talk. And none too nice in ’er morals, thank you, and ’er a married woman,” Mrs. Walker added, not without indignation.