Bold Sons of Erin (47 page)

He glanced back toward the flags set by his door. “I’m sorry to say our brigade’s new flag has not come down from New York—but what of that, lads, what of that, I ask you?
Our
brigade don’t need a flag to follow . . . the sons of Ireland have only to follow their hearts.” He swayed again, but fixed himself by settling a hand on a railing. “Where are my brave boys of the 69th? Where are my brave boys? Will you lead us along with your own green harp tomorrow? Shall we follow the flag with the green harp set upon it?” Oh, they cheered him then. “Shall we all fall in on the flag of the 69th?” he asked again. He had the speaker’s art down to a mastery, allowing time for the crowd to urge him on.

He grinned. “We’ll show ’em the meaning of valor, that we will, lads. And if some of us don’t return from the fields of glory, well, the rest will drink a toast to the fallen with Richmond’s finest whisky!” He held up both arms.
“Erin go Brach,
Ireland free and Ireland forever!”

They raised their rifles and waved their caps, swung bottles and bits of loot. They might have been lifting broadswords and pikes into the midnight sky. Jimmy and I were forgotten now, as those fellows cheered their general, shouting for Young Ireland, or recalling the lads of the ’98 and the boys of Vinegar Hill. “Remember Fontenoy!” a red-whiskered captain cried, although not even his grandfather had been alive when that great battle was fought. They do not let go, the Irish, they do not let go.

At last, Meagher calmed them, waving his arms to tame their wild hearts. “Off with you now,” he told them, “and mind you sleep enough to make a fight of it. For we’ll have no laggards among us, come the morning.”

As the crowd began to break apart, he looked down at me and the sergeant, whose brains I had been threatening with my Colt. “Holy Mary, Sergeant O’Toole,” he said, “would you let that poor devil go that you’ve got in your grip there?”

The sergeant gave a clown’s salute and slipped away with his comrades.

Meagher began to descend the steps, then thought better of his condition. He steadied himself on the railing again. “Jimmy Molloy!” he said with a pussycat’s smile. “Come back to your
kith and kin, have you? Did you bring yourself back to join up at last, or just come for another palaver?”

WE SAT ABOUT A TABLE in a handsome room all full of books and pictures. A half-dozen bottles of whisky and brandy wooed a pitcher of water. But the strange thing was that General Meagher was not unsteady at all. His tipsiness had been an affected thing, put on to appeal to his angry soldiers. I saw at once he was canny as Whittington’s cat.

Against a backdrop of acolytes, who were deep in discussion of New York City politics, Meagher listened as I explained my purpose. When I had done, he preened his mustaches, nodded his head, and looked me in the eye.

“It’s a sorry, bloody business,” he said, with nary a trace of drink in his speech or manner. “Danny Boland’s da was the only proper fighting man of the lot of us in those days. And I’m sorry to see the boy come into misfortune. Fusser Donnelly wrote to me, you know—you’d know him as ‘Thomas,’ I think—and I broke the news to the wretched lad myself. Now, how do you tell a man that the woman he loved above life itself was burned to death in a horror? I couldn’t for the life of me tell you the words I said, but the poor devil understood me. Oh, Danny Boland’s a broken-hearted man.”

He inched forward in his chair, bending toward me. “So you want to take him back to your Pottsville courthouse? To put him to rights with the law and see things settled?” He cracked the flat of his hand upon his knee. “Fine. I’m for it.”

General Meagher turned to an aide, “Clancy, would you go out and get young Boland by the collar? Bring him in to us, would you?”

Returning his eyes to me, he continued, “I’ll be glad to have him out of here, to tell you the truth of it. For the fight tomorrow’s going to be a cock-up. We should have been on them days—if not weeks—ago, but Burnside couldn’t screw up his courage or begin to make up his mind. If we reach the Confederate
lines tomorrow, I’ll say my thanks to Jesus Christ and luck.” He paused to take a drink. Of aromatic brandy, not of whisky. “Best to get Boland out of here. He’d throw himself away, that’s sure. He’s thinking how he’d like to die, no doubt. The lad needs time to mourn her, then he’ll find his consolation elsewhere. Every broken heart comes right in the end.”

He glanced toward a dark-haired, deep-eyed major. “Isn’t that right, O’Hanlon? Isn’t Sally Tomorrow every bit as lovely as Sheila Yesterday?” Without awaiting a reply, he returned his attentions to me. “Take young Boland out of here tonight. He’s the last of his line, and it’s too good a line to lose for a young man’s folly.” Of a sudden, he smiled. His teeth were imperfect, yet his grin lit up the room. Meagher had the gift so rare among men of inspiring even those who disapproved of him. “But I’m not the host I should be, am I? I’d shame a Belfast butcher with my heartlessness. Have you two gentlemen had your supper this evening? We’ve splendid hams the boys found in the cellar.”

We did not get to the hams before Boland come in. At first sight, I thought him a hard boy, for, small though he was, he had some bulk and the square jaw of a brawler. But when he stepped closer, I saw that his strength was illusory. Muscles could not mask a gentle character. He had a poet’s eye and woman’s lips.

“Private Boland,” Meagher said, in a hale, officious voice, “this is Major Abel Jones. He has arrived from Washington, along with Mr. Molloy—whom I believe you’ll recall from a previous visit? They’ve come to escort you back to that Pottsville of yours, to clear your name and set you right with the law.” He wheeled toward me. The sash at his waist fluttered handsomely. “Isn’t that right, Major Jones? Private Boland has nothing to fear from the law?”

“That is correct,” I said, addressing the pair of them. Then I narrowed my interest. “Look you, Private Boland . . . we know that you have done no crime, and that you meant no ill. But you must come home and tell that to the judge, for the law
must record your statement and speak you free. You must retract your confession. I will back you myself, son, and you have my word there will be no betrayals.”

“You shall leave tonight,” General Meagher told him, as if it were a trivial consideration. “You’ll be back among us a week hence, I expect. Perhaps sooner.”

“No,” Boland said.

His voice was not loud, but it revealed a stubbornness that robbed the well-meant smiles from my face and the general’s.

“Respecting your rank and position, sir,” Boland told his commander, “I won’t go. Not tonight. I won’t be seen as yellow-tailed.”

“Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind!” Meagher assured him. “I don’t expect we’ll have more than a minor scrap tomorrow . . .”

But Boland knew better. The general’s charm fell short.

“Me da was no coward, and I’ll be none,” the private told us. “Begging your pardon, I’d rather fight beside me own, than go skulking off with the Welshman who killed my wife.”

The lad knew more than I had hoped, and much more than was good for him.

“Show proper respect,” the general said sharply, “to Major Jones. Or you’ll spend tomorrow under arrest, and we’ll see how you like that. Nor do I understand such an absurd accusation. I’ve had communication with—”

“I’m sorry for the choice of words,” Boland said. “But I’d rather go into arrest than run away.”

He turned to me, then. With hatred burning deep down in his eyes. God only knows what his people had seen fit to tell him.

“If the law would have me go, then, can’t it wait a day? No Boland ever ran from a fight, and I won’t be the first. Sir,” he added, as an afterthought.

Meagher looked at me. Pretending to let me decide. But I saw that he had changed his mind with the fickleness of the Irish and would not force Boland to go. Not before the battle.
For when the talk is of courage and fighting, or being thought a coward, the Irish discard their soundest resolutions. And without the general’s support, I could not separate Boland from his comrades.

When I did not speak, Jimmy made an attempt to introduce common sense.

“If it’s fighting ye want,” he told Boland, “I think ye may have it in plenty, and more besides. For tomorrow won’t be the end o’ the war, that’s a promise, and ye’ll have your chance to die a dozen times over, if that’s what you’re after. Go back and clear yourself with the law, man. Then ye can fight free and clean for the Union. Or for Ireland. Or just for the sport, if that’s the sort of man ye are.”

Boland eyed him coldly. “If ye have such a great knowledge of fighting and war, Mr. Molloy, why aren’t ye in a uniform yourself?”

I nearly cut into Boland then, to tell him that Jimmy Molloy was the bravest man he ever would meet and that he should be ashamed. For I saw his words had taken Jimmy aback. And I did not like what I saw on Jimmy’s face. He was a discontented man, see, unhappy in his marriage, a rover at heart. And war is too great a bait for such fish to resist.

Meagher interposed. He had turned from backing me to supporting Boland, and that was the end of it.

“Perhaps,” the general said, polite but wearied, “you might grant us a grace of one day, Major Jones?” Immediately, he turned to Daniel Boland. “How’s that then, lad? If Major Jones waits until the battle’s behind us, will you go along with him willingly? And behave as a gentleman should?”

It may be that Boland saw he could ask no more. Or perhaps his thoughts were darker and more fateful. But he answered, “Yes, sir. Thereafter I’ll go, with no complaint against anyone. After the battle, I’ll go.”

Meagher nodded, not without some sadness. He did not wait for my agreement, but told the lad, “Off with you, then.
And get yourself to sleep. You’ll do us no good tomorrow, if you’re tired and lagging behind.”

Boland saluted imperfectly, turned his back, and left. As if he were the general among us. That is how the lot of them were, see. Independent of mind and prone to division. The Irish could talk themselves into a feud over matters beneath a Welshman’s or Englishman’s notice. Perhaps it spoke best of Meagher’s genius that he managed to bind them together as well as he did.

I felt worn out myself. With the exhaustion that comes over a man when he sees that he has failed. I had begun the business to uncover the facts of a general’s murder. But I had already left more death behind me than the murderess herself. Perhaps Donnelly and Kehoe—even Gowen—had been right. The best that might have been done for the Irish was simply to leave them alone.

I had sought to do my duty. But even duty may leave a bitter taste.

General Meagher sought to enliven me, and he did persuade me to take a bit of ham, which was smoked to a succulence honoring the pig. He offered me a corner in an upstairs room, where

I might sleep warm and keep myself from the frost for the rest of the night. I did not make even a courteous protestation, but took myself off to sleep, guided by a tipsy aide who found all the world amusing, including me.

As I climbed the stairs that discouraging night, I left Jimmy below with his countrymen, answering queries from General Meagher as to Irish prospects in Washington’s city government.

IT WAS BUTCHERY, not a battle.

With the morning mists heavy upon us, Jimmy and I took leave of General Meagher, whose demeanor had grown sober in every respect. He knew what lay ahead. Although he sought to be jovial with us, his levity did not convince. Meagher wore a uniform of green, not blue, and now his sash was gold. Striking he was in his finery, but his countenance was that of a
man bound over. We left him amid an assembly of grim-faced officers.

We found a perch in the upper floor of a house near the edge of town, where we might watch the fight as it unfolded. After making certain that the building—looted, ravaged, soiled—harbored no sharpshooters who might excite our enemy’s attentions, we took command of a lookout, knocking the last shards of glass from shattered panes. We knew our business, God forgive us the cruelties of our service, and sat a bit back from the window, in the room’s shadows, where we might see without being seen from without.

At first, there was little enough to view, for the winter fog adored the river valley and would not leave its bed. But we heard the army readying itself. Disembodied voices barked commands, the bootfalls of companies, regiments and full brigades clapped over the earth. Their drums remained silent, in a clumsy pretense at stealth, and the regimental bands, whose members soon would trade their horns for stretchers, were not allowed to disturb the Rebels’ breakfast.

The efforts at secrecy, half-hearted, were of no use. The Confederates knew our army had come. They had watched it gather for days and even weeks. If they did not know the certain hour of attack, it mattered little. The only manner in which we might have surprised our enemies would have been to leave them unmolested.

The town grew still more reverberant with the sounds of our preparations. Too many men crowded too little space and the noise of jouncing canteens alone was enough to alert the enemy. Sergeants snapped out heathen oaths as stray boys sought their comrades. Iron clanged on tin, steel rang on iron. And a low hum, a noise not akin to music, but to animals crammed in a pen, rose from soldiers packed into streets and alleys, awaiting orders to unfold their ranks in the fields beyond the town.

I heard a horse’s hooves, but saw no horse.

Just below our perch, men marched along. Judging there was no danger yet, we moved close to the window and looked
down. Twas no parade, but a labored movement from somewhere in the rear, herding another thousand blue-clad boys to where the brigades would align to await the drumbeat that sounded them forward to battle. We saw only flashes of faces, even when we briefly leaned out of the windowframe. The tops of caps bobbed along the street, their insignia dulled by wear and the weather. The soldiers wore leather packs strapped over their greatcoats, but those would be set down before the attack. White hands gripped wooden rifle stocks, the tip of a mustache disappeared in a cloud of frozen breath, and a face turned up to find us—as if one lad of them all sensed we were watching. They clattered along and whispered, somber, nerve-ridden, excited and resigned. Their flags remained furled in gray cloth sheaths, waiting for the sun and the sight of the enemy.