Bold Sons of Erin (32 page)

I rode toward Pottsville, lonely and forlorn. The railway followed the river through the hills. Towns flashed by in the early
dark, with lamplit windows hinting of other lives. I wondered how much sorrow those people knew. I should have pondered that murdered girl and the murder of our general. But I sat in the dusk of the car with murdered hope.

“SHALL I BEGIN?” Mr. Hemmings asked. His office was lovely with books of law and wood polished up like brass, although the air was tainted with cigar smoke. I sat between my Mary and, at a decent remove, Mrs. Walker. The latter figure had possessed the sense of decorum to enter the offices of Mr. Hemmings’s firm through a rear door. And veiled. But now she sat there, got up in a widow’s weeds and straight-backed as a lady at her tea, with no more expression upon her face than a statue made of marble. She was a fair one, Dolly Walker, almost beauteous. I will give her that. Well fitted she was to lead honest men astray.

Myself, I was all awry that day. One moment, I found myself feeling sorry for the creature in her mourning. For what must life be like when all of our entrances are made through back doors and no one treats us with the least open respect? Then I would berate myself for my folly. The woman had made her life, such as it was, and now she sat positioned to rob my Mary of her rightful inheritance.

Mr. Hemmings made a sound deep in his throat, more a growl than a purr, and repeated,
“Shall
I begin, then?”

He was looking at me, although I was the party least concerned. But then I was the only man present, excepting himself. And men of Mr. Hemmings’s generation did not look to the ladies for authority.

I remembered my resolutions and turned my face to my darling. She nodded. And gave my hand a squeeze. As if to encourage me. As if the will had more to do with me than it did with her.

To answer the demands of common courtesy, I aimed an inquiring look at Mrs. Walker.

She nodded in her turn. She had lifted her veil and it angered me unreasonably. For though my Mary is a great,
unblemished beauty to me, the untutored eye would favor Mrs. Walker. With her haughty carriage. And her back as straight as the barrel of a musket.

“You may begin, Mr. Hemmings,” I told the fellow. Black as a crow he was, and somber. As a barrister or solicitor always should be. A fellow who has read the law must encompass the gravity of an undertaker and the character of a gentleman of the cloth. Where would we be, if such folk made a spectacle?

Standing behind his desk, Mr. Hemmings settled his spectacles on his nose and broke the document’s seal. Unfolding the papers, he turned—just so—to let the window light the testament’s contents.

There was a great muchness of “know all ye present” and “soundness of mind,” of “the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania” and “the County of Schuylkill,” all read out in a voice that might have been reading verses from the Bible. I noted that the last revision of the will had been concluded but a month before, and I worried that Mrs. Walker’s charms had gotten to the old man. I am ashamed to think on it now, but the sin of greed was upon me as I perched in that leather-backed chair. I could tell you that I was only on the look-out for my Mary’s proper share, and that would be the truth, to a degree. But the selfishness within me had a purpose of its own, and not a noble one.

I sneaked a glance at Mrs. Walker, who sat there imperturbable. As if she hadn’t the least care in the world.

My dear wife looked at me, not at Mr. Hemmings. She took my hand again.

Mr. Hemmings read out the minor bequests, which were alarmingly numerous. An elderly maidservant was pensioned generously, while the other members of Mr. Evans’s household staff were remembered with nice amounts. No doubt, I told myself, to buy their continued discretion. But I could find no fault with his remembrances of miners crippled in his service, or of pit widows and their children. In each case, the size of the award was excessive by our Pottsville standards and I knew the other colliery lords would dislike the business. Nor could I stop
myself from tallying the sums as Mr. Hemmings read on, for I am, first and foremost, a good clerk.

He left a smaller amount to his church than was customary for a man of his social station, but devoted one thousand dollars to the care of the county’s indigent. And then there were bequests to distant relations in Wales, of whom I had not heard a whisper spoken.

I fear I was inching forward on my chair. For I heard his fortune whittled away, and still the giving went on.

Then, with a pallbearer’s look drawn over his face, Mr. Hemmings paused, breathed deeply, and raised his eyes above his glasses to inspect the three of us. I think I must have squeezed my angel’s hand unto a hurting. But her grasp did not desert me.

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. Just 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.