Die Once Live Twice (12 page)

Patrick inhaled hoarsely. “I do not believe I can live without...” His voice caught, and he let his breath out with a cough. “Without your love. God willing—and if you will offer me help from time to time—I will conquer the opium.”

Katherine nodded and for a second Patrick thought she might even smile, but when she looked back at him her eyes were serious. “If and only if you can live without it, then I believe you will not have to live without me.”

Patrick took a deep breath, and though his guts were still roiling, he felt that his life had started up again. “I can. I shall.”

During the next month, Patrick discovered just how difficult his promise was. It wasn’t only alcohol or drugs, though his body fought him like a tiger for the first week. The pain in his leg enticed him to assuage it by any means and punished him when he didn’t, but he resisted. For the first three days, his brain barely functioned, and he maintained his resolve only by seeing Katherine and feeling her touch. After that, he was able to eat, and his energy began to return, but now it was being in the hospital itself that threatened to defeat him.

One day, he begged Katherine to take him out. “I know you want only the best for me, my dear, but life in here is too close to those godawful three months when I was a helpless patient. Please, for the love of God, take me home. Give me something to do—let me clean out the stables, let me work the fields, anything.” Katherine was quietly delighted to bring him home, but not to do manual labor.

“Patrick, I think it is time you took up your responsibilities with the company.” For the first time in his recovery, Patrick felt a moment of real doubt. Seeing this, Katherine redoubled her efforts. “Arthur is an excellent manager, but he is not family. I long to have you there with me. It is what your father wanted. Believe me, there is more than enough to keep you occupied. And the satisfaction of building the company is, I believe, as powerful as destroying an enemy.”

Patrick smiled as sincerely as he could. “Anything you believe in must be worthwhile. If that were not so I would be lying in the gutter right now, for it is your belief in me alone that has kept me going.”

But even with his body tamed and his heart eased, Patrick’s struggles were not over. He had not anticipated how difficult it would be to return to society. For two years he had eaten with his hands. Every sentence began and ended with cursing. He lived in his clothes and on a horse. Now civilian clothes were uncomfortable, and he felt naked without his pistol because he expected someone to be shooting at him any moment. Even intimate moments with Katherine required him to watch himself at every moment. The only women for soldiers were camp followers, who expected neither a polite kiss on the hand nor gentleness of any kind.

Returning to civilized behavior, however, was still easier than sitting in business meetings. His concentration lagged, and when he looked to Katherine for support he found that her concentration on business matters was total. When he did manage to catch her eye, she would smile winningly and return to the matter at hand.

He looked forward to Fridays with hunger, for that was when he received real nourishment. He and Katherine went to the farm and they rode horses for three to four hours each day through hill and vale, shooting rabbits and birds. Sometimes he and Katherine just rode into the woods for a picnic. She gave him all her attention and patiently reminded him how to act and even how to love. He was a willing student, and in time he came to believe that he could live with the boredom of the business week as long as he had his weekends with Katherine.

They married Christmas week, 1863, as Katherine had planned in July. Their storybook society romance made the wedding the social event of the entire year: the president of Donovan & Sullivan marrying the leading philanthropist of Pennsylvania Hospital. Katherine was spectacular in a white satin dress, her figure accented by a custom corset. Patrick was in his Army dress uniform with his medals, since the war was still raging and he was honorably discharged. When they exchanged vows, Katherine said firmly, “I do,” and mouthed, “I love you.” Patrick’s affirmation of his love until death was emphasized by a “Thank you, Katherine, my love.”

Within two months, Katherine was pregnant, and she made fewer and fewer appearances at the office. By October she had gained forty-five pounds and waddled, at best, as she moved around their home. She was certain she could not get on shoes and stockings without Emma to help her.

Patrick had become accustomed, even adept, at running Donovan & Sullivan with Katherine’s advice and counsel. He invested $250,000 with Collis Huntington in the Central and Pacific Railroad, which had begun laying track for what would become the transcontinental railroad. A partnership with Andrew Carnegie bought a stake in the steel industry. Katherine watched with pride as Patrick’s confidence in himself and his business acumen grew. “I don’t know what’s getting bigger, Patrick Sullivan, your head or my stomach!”

“Well, my love, your stomach will soon shrink,” he said, laying a hand on her stomach, “but don’t count on that happening with my head. Oh my goodness! He moved.” In November she delivered their son Jeffrey, named after Patrick’s father.

When the Civil War ended, Patrick’s celebration was tempered, as it was for all the North, by Lincoln’s assassination. Often his thoughts would take him back into the middle of a battle and he would recall the excitement that had coursed through him. It was almost a physical thrill, and there was nothing like it in civilian life. He regretted only that he wasn’t a part of the final victory. His leg bothered him occasionally, reminding him of his other regret, but he told himself that Patricia had been like the opium and the whiskey, a crutch that he had needed in a time of weakness. He had no longing for her and he thanked God that Katherine loved him enough to save him from Patricia’s clutches.

Pregnant again in 1865, Katherine hoped for a girl, but delivered a second boy the next spring. They named him Patrick Jonathan Sullivan III, but called him Jonathan to prevent confusion. Patrick was delighted. Boys could ride and hunt with him and he would teach them expert marksmanship. One night in bed Patrick joked, “Since we had another boy, are you going to get pregnant again next year?”

“Maybe.” Katherine grinned at Patrick’s frown. “Maybe every year until I have my girl.”

“Oh,” Patrick groaned. “I don’t know that I can take another round of sleepless nights.”

“And just which nights were those? I recall you sleeping quite soundly while Emma and I took care of the boys. Besides, girls sleep through the night. My mother always said that’s what I did.”

Patrick humphed and spoke to the ceiling. “But do you really want to go all those months without relations?”

“Aha, now we have all our cards on the table.” She couldn’t help laughing at his pout. “Oh, Patrick, put your mind at ease. I’m just kidding. If I got pregnant every year I’d be fat and ill-tempered. You’d fall out of love with me.”

Patrick propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. “No. I don’t think so. I heard from Arthur about how tough you are when you are angry. So I won’t ever be a traitor to you again.”

“I think we’re going to be just splendid together.” She kissed him and ended his pillow talk when she slid her hand across his belly to his groin.

Patrick’s swagger returned after his marriage. He was president of the most successful company in Philadelphia and knew it. He was married to the most desirable woman in Philadelphia and knew it. Whenever he got too far out of line, Katherine would chide him, “You’re just lucky my grandfather taught me to recognize a good investment or you’d be married to that red-haired whore.”

He rekindled his friendship with Edward, who had married Ginny, and who was a veteran of the war, too, serving with a Pennsylvania regiment. He, Edward, Arthur Hampton and Tommy James, another war veteran from Philadelphia’s Main Line society, hunted together and socialized with their wives.

To celebrate Jonathan’s first birthday in April of 1867, Katherine had Emma dress their rectangular oak dining room table with their finest tablecloth and her father’s treasured silver candelabra. Pewter plates and Waterford goblets sparkled in the candlelight, and decanters filled with red wine stood at each end of the table.

During sherry before supper, Katherine proudly brought in two-and-a-half-year-old Jeffrey, who held onto her skirt even though he knew their guests well. On the other hand, one-year-old Jonathan, still wobbly on his feet, was a source of great merriment. Patrick finally called Emma to gather the boys so the adults could be left alone.

As Pollard served the hot carrot soup, Patrick’s favorite, the men discussed the new holiday proclaimed by the National Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, the organization of veterans of the Union Army. Decoration Day would be May 30, it had been announced at the local Grand Army of the Republic meeting that day. As the Commander of the Philadelphia post, Patrick was in charge of organizing the events. “The men will all march in our uniforms and I’ll arrange for the Penn band.”

“Ginny and I will gather the wives to place flowers and small flags on the graves,” Katherine said proudly.

“I told Patrick he should run for national commander,” Edward said, raising his glass. “He is as great a hero as any!”

“It is a position of great responsibility these days, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Tommy James said. “Where do you stand on giving the Negroes in the South voting rights? They’re uneducated.”

“Tommy, GAR is supporting voting rights for those Negroes who fought for the Union Army. It is a plank of the Republican Party’s reconstruction plan, too. I support it,” Patrick affirmed.

“The war was fought so that all men could be free and equal,” Katherine said quietly.

Tommy shook his head but said no more. “The wounds still run deep,” said Arthur.

“Gentlemen!” Patrick boomed, “and we are all gentlemen here—I believe it is time we should get to serious business. I suggest cigars and refreshment in the library.”

As the women moved into the front parlor where Emma served them coffee, the men settled into overstuffed leather chairs in front of a smoldering fire. The walls of the room were lined with dark mahogany shelves filled with books. Pollard served whiskey to the three guests and coffee to Patrick. “Do you want your usual cigar, sir?”

“Absolutely, Pollard. And for my guests. Thank you.”

The four sat deep in their chairs, mostly concentrating on their cigars while further conversing about the business plan of the veterans’ organization. After a period of silence, Patrick said, “My friends, I believe that we have spent too much time afflicted with the burden the ladies call ‘civilized behavior.’”

Eyebrows were raised around the fire, and Arthur said, “There are those savants who suggest that it thins the blood.”

Edward, joining in the spirit, said, “And all this bathing! I believe I am washing my skin away.”

Tommy, smiling mischievously, posed a question. “How exactly do you propose to cure us of this evil, Patrick?”

Patrick let out a long plume of cigar smoke and looked around at his friends. “Don’t you men think it’s time for a stag hunt?”

All sat forward in their chairs. “You mean just us men together?” Edward smirked.

“I believe that’s called a doe hunt,” Arthur said.

“If it’s just for men, you’re out,” Tommy gibed to Edward.

“Let’s do it!” Patrick slapped his thigh. “We’ll ride my railcars to the mountains and hunt deer. We’ll sleep in one car and drink in the other.” Cigar smoke clouded the room as each man excitedly called out his idea for the trip. The decision was for a week-long outing to the Allegheny Mountains in mid-May. “We need to be back for the first Decoration Day,” Edward emphasized.

“We’ll take the train to Newark, where we can hook the cars onto the Erie line train to Bradford. One night in a hotel and I’ll hire a guide to take us into the hills for five days. Sound good?” Patrick waved his cigar toward each of his guests.

“We’re on!” Arthur exclaimed, and the four men stood. The three guests touched their whiskey glasses to Patrick’s coffee cup to confirm their agreement.

Bradford, Pennsylvania, was in the middle of a forest in a valley of the Allegheny Mountains. The Pennsylvania oil rush had turned it into a boom town. The hemlock trees on the hillsides, which rose steeply up from the valley, were being chopped down by the hundreds for the tannin in their bark, used to produce leatherworks for horses. As in any boom town, every other store on Main Street was a bar. Each block had a whorehouse to service the men from the oil and lumber industries.

Three of the four friends from Philadelphia were seated at a poker table in the Royal Flush Saloon. Tommy was missing. “Exploring the town,” Arthur said with a wink. With three others, they had been playing cards for two hours. Patrick was smoking his second cigar and Edward was slurring his words after a fifth whiskey. The pot was the biggest of the night, nearly $3,000. Patrick had three aces, but one of the other players, a man named Andrew who owned a tannery, bet five $100 gold pieces, a show of confidence that made everyone fold but Patrick. Patrick raised $1,000, bringing the pot to $4,500. Andrew looked past Patrick and nodded slightly. Suddenly a fight broke out behind Patrick and everyone at the table turned to look—everyone but Edward, who was sure he saw Andrew palm a card. The fight was quickly broken up, and when attention returned to the card game, Andrew threw in ten more $100 gold coins. Edward shook his head to Patrick, who ignored him and called the bet. When the hands were laid down, Patrick lost to a full house of three kings and two tens.