The Banished Children of Eve (67 page)

She stood staring at the bloody tracks.

“Go ahead now, Margaret,” he said. “I'm all right. I've cut my foot, that's all. The important thing is nobody was killed.” He nudged her. “Margaret, please, draw my bath.”

E
VEN
J
OHN
S
KELLEY
, steeped in the business of drafting, could barely keep up without spilling a portion of the brew. The overflow collected in a pail beneath the tap. Full, it was hauled by Mick Skelley, the last of John's seven sons, to a table on the side of Third Avenue and hawked at a penny a glass to the dust covered drovers and teamsters too thirsty and in too much of a hurry to care that it was flat and warm.

“Skelley,” a
small toothless man shouted at the tap master, “it's your kind of drafting the people are in need of.”

In the crooks of his fingers John Skelley held three mugs beneath the tap and filled them one by one. Without looking up, he said, “War or peace, the need will never go away.”

“Beware the temperance men!” the toothless man said. “They've their way, they'll do to drink what Lincoln done to slavery, abolish it, such is their promise.”

“Temperance and abolition, twin curses of the laboring man, the same bastards behind both,” Skelley said as he filled the last mug. “But they'll have a harder time taking away a man's drink than his slaves, I'd say.”

“Ach,” the toothless man said, “take all my niggers, but leave me to drink in peace!”

Skelley placed the three mugs on the counter. The toothless man grabbed one. One-Eyed Jack Cassidy grabbed the other two. “That's the trouble,” Cassidy said. “The laboring man isn't left in peace but has his name tossed in a drum and, luck against him, is forced to fight to free the niggers.” Cassidy handed a mug to the man standing next to him.

“Thousand in a single day, that's what Noonan will have netted these past hours,” the toothless man said. “That rate, won't be long every able-bodied workingman is conscripted.”

“Which of youse is payin'?” Skelley asked.

Cassidy tugged at the frayed, soiled patch that covered his eye. “Payin' to get out of the draft, is it?”

The toothless man laughed. “The Union ain't so desperate it needs the likes of Cassidy or me. Even if it was, where in the name of Jazus would we find the three hundred dollars to buy our way out?”

“Damn the draft!” Skelley said. “Which of youse is paying for the drink?”

Cassidy removed his battered hat and tipped it toward the man to whom he had just passed the mug. “Our friend here is standin' us to drinks,” he said. “And you should be aware of the honor he does this place by merely settin' foot in it.”

“Honor enough to get
paid,” Skelley said.

The crowd at the counter was growing thicker and more restive. “Hey, Skelley!” one of them cried, “will ya have us die of thirst?”

“I've brought you the American song master himself!” Cassidy said.

“I don't care if it's Tom Moore risen from the grave. I've to be paid!”

Stephen Foster let go of the counter. He wobbled slightly as he fumbled in his pocket, took out a crumpled greenback, and tossed it onto the counter. How much had Jack Mulcahey lent him that morning in the bar of the hotel? An understanding man, Mulcahey had reached into his leather fold and plucked out several bills.

This should tide you over, my friend.

Only a loan, Jack. Once I deliver Daly his song, I'll pay you back.

A slight hurdle: The song was still to be written.

Foster took a long gulp from his mug. Ever since the rains around the Fourth, the week before, the temperature had climbed steadily, day by day, the city baking without relief, and the dryness in his mouth had grown worse until it penetrated his throat and bowels.

Cassidy put his arm around Foster, pulled him close. “Oh, what times!” he said. “The men of this city have their ears plugged with wax, but not to avoid the Sirens' sweet, destructive song. Done in the service of lucre, that's all that matters, only sound will draw attention, the chime of gold and silver. Ours is not an age for poetry. Yet, Foster, what the Sirens falsely claimed of their music might be truly said of yours: ‘None that listened has not been delighted and not gone on a wiser man.'” Cassidy drained his mug and banged it on the counter. “Another round!” he shouted.

Skelley was back at
the tap, filling mugs. “Cassidy,” he said, “break that glass and it's yours to pay for!”

Foster took a gulp of ale. A pleasure to be in the enfolding gloom of Skelley's place. Blistering out on the avenue beneath a sun as cruel as found in the South, the South where he had never been,
way down souf, whar de corn grow.
A bitter memory: His brother, Morrison, had talked him into entering “Away Down Souf” in a song contest. It had received rollicking applause, but the judge awarded the prize to another song. Next day, Morrison discovered the judge trying to copyright “Away Down Souf” as his own. As yet unschooled in the knowledge that the world is filled with cheats and exploiters—that they are everywhere—Morrison and Stephen had been shocked.

“Lucky thing we met today.” Cassidy said. “Nothin' save the chords funereal at Zook's obsequies. But the spectacle of conscription, that's true musical stuff, a nation doin' what it must to fight a war, the resentment it raises among laborin' men. There's a ‘Dixie' in this somewhere.”

Dan Emmett's song. Another one-note hack. Knocked it out in an hour. Sounded it. Already be forgotten if not for the war. Foster finished his ale. He had bumped into Cassidy on the way out of Mike Manning's. Headed for General Zook's funeral. A fallen hero, a musical inspiration perhaps. Cassidy talked him out of it. They stopped in Mintern's on the Bowery, where the whiskey was served in glasses loaded with chunks of ice, Saratoga-style. Lost its charm after one drink. The ice melted fast and diluted the whiskey, and Mintern charged a double price for watering down his drinks. Another cheat.

It had been Cassidy's idea to take a horsecar up the avenue and watch the conscription. The trip had been a pleasant one, the stir of air created by the movement of the car as close to a breeze as could be found in the sweltering city. They had left the horsecar at Forty-second Street and gone into Joe O'Brien's. The place was full with men who had come from watching the conscription. Stretched out drunk on a table in the corner was Billy Jones, whose name had been the first out of the drum. Laid out like a corpse, red tablecloth over his legs and crossed mops at his head, Jones snored loudly, but nobody seemed to take much notice. After several whiskeys, Cassidy and Foster went back into the street. As hot as it had been earlier, it now seemed hotter. They walked up the avenue to Forty-sixth Street, the crowd growing thicker. At the corner of Forty-fifth Street, Cassidy met Pat McSweeney, a stooped, toothless wisp of an old man who quickly fell into conversation with them.

“Ah,
Jack,” McSweeney said, “say what you want against the draft, and mind you, I'm opposed as any man, but a short bit ago they called out the name of Councilman Joyce, and the thought of that jackeen in uniform ducking Rebel bullets is enough to turn a man in favor of conscription!”

“Be a blizzard in Hades before Joyce ever wears a uniform,” Cassidy said.

Across from the Ninth District office, a horde of children played around the abandoned, half-built foundations of a house. Ragged and barefoot, they chased one another with sticks, seemingly unaffected by the heat. A pack of mongrel dogs followed, barking loudly. Atop a mound of dirt stood several women, soiled aprons tied around their waists. They ignored the cackling of the children and stared silently at the conscription office. Foster moved through the crowd and went up to the door of the office. Inside, it looked like the waiting room of a rail station: a large, undecorated space with a crowd milling about.

A man bumped Foster and pushed past. “To hell with the draft!” he yelled. “Three cheers for Ben and Fernando Wood!” No one took up the cry. McSweeney took a flask from the back pocket of his woolen trousers, swigged it furtively, and was about to put it back when Cassidy said, “What are ya, a bloody Republican? Hoardin' your treasure against the people? Share the wealth, man! The anthem of all true sons of the Democracy! Share the wealth!” The crowd took up Cassidy's refrain. “Share the wealth!” they yelled in a good-natured way, and McSweeney passed around the flask, a pained expression on his face as it went from hand to hand. When it reached Foster, it was empty. “We have been cheated, gentlemen,” he said with a southern drawl. “There is no wealth left for us to share.”

“Just as well,” Cassidy
said. “Heat like this, there's little whiskey can do to slake the thirst. Ale, that's what's called for. No other cure for the dust that collects in a man's throat.”

Cassidy took Foster's arm, and they walked up to Skelley's. McSweeney trailed a few steps behind. “Ale it is,” McSweeney said. He ran his tongue over his gums. Made a loud smacking noise with his lips. “Him who sees me to a draft will be doin' more than standin' me to a drink. He'll be savin' me from dyin' of thirst!”

“Then summon a priest!” called Cassidy over his shoulder. “That way you won't die doubly cursed—thirsty and unshriven.”

McSweeney followed Cassidy and Foster as they pushed their way into Skelley's. His face brightened when Skelley drew three cream-headed brews and plunked them down.

“Know what we need?” Cassidy said.

“Another round?” McSweeney said.

“A song,” Cassidy said.

“A lament?” McSweeney said.

“A ballad,” Cassidy said. “At once sad and inspiring, in the manner of ‘The Minstrel Boy,' the man gone off to war, wife left home to feed the children, inflation makin' it hard for them to afford the rent.”

“Isn't it the truth?” McSweeney said. “A bit of mutton's gone from six to fifteen cents, and coffee from ten to fifty. God knows what coal will sell for when winter comes.”

“Foster is the man to write that song,” Cassidy said.

There was a commotion on the other side of the bar. John Skelley stood aside as two of his sons hauled a full barrel of ale from the cellar, pushed and pulled it up the stairs, and rolled it into place. The raucous waiting customers pinned Cassidy, McSweeney, and Foster against the bar and cursed Skelley for the interruption in the flow of ale, until Skelley's wife came in from the back, where she washed the mugs. She stood with arms folded, wisps of steel-gray hair falling across her red, perspiring face. Said nothing, just stood there, staring at the crowd. The shouting stopped. Once Skelley began to serve again, a space opened around the bar, and Cassidy, McSweeney, and Foster made their way out onto the avenue.

“An oven
in there,” Cassidy said to a man about to enter.

“Same everywhere,” the man said as he went in.

The sun had moved across to the west side of the avenue, beginning its descent over Jersey, but there were still a few hours before it set, and the air was so baked, even night didn't promise much relief. Groups of sullen men continued to come from the direction of the conscription office, wives and children trailing behind.

“We should be goin',” Cassidy said to Foster.

“Suit yourselves,” McSweeney said, “but I'd say you'd be missin' a grand show.”

Foster was weaving about, having trouble standing. Cassidy took him by the sleeve. “Our friend,” he said, “should be taken to his bed.”

“You'll miss the Mad Maidens, you will. They say it's a spectacle not to miss, even better than anythin' at the Trump!” McSweeney said.

“What maidens are they?” Foster said. Cassidy tugged on Foster's sleeve, but the composer didn't move.

“See for yourselves,” McSweeney said. “It's all free. Bill Cunningham makes the trip north each Saturday, hauls all who care to ride with him or can fit aboard, takes no fare but afterwards deposits one and all at Flanagan's shebeen. Flanagan is Cunningham's brother-in-law, so Cunningham keeps it all in the gets his reward from a cut of the proceeds from the poteen that's drunk.”

“We've better things to do than go in search of mysterious oreads or drink home brew in some highland shanty,” Cassidy said.

“Where is the chariot of Cunningham's?” Foster said.

“Be here any minute,” McSweeney said with a wide grin.

They waited less
than five minutes before Cunningham pulled up outside Skelley's. Boys and men jumped on, pushing and jostling. McSweeney mounted the cart and helped Foster and Cassidy aboard. The passengers yelled and shouted as Cunningham whipped his horse, and the cart jounced into motion. Foster sat on the floor, his back against Cunningham's seat. He rested his forehead on his knees. The rocking of the cart made him feel as if he might vomit. The wagon hit a bump, and his head struck hard against his knees. He leaned his head back, looked into the sky, empty as a blank sheet of paper, heard the grinding of the poorly greased axles, groan of the exhausted springs, clank of the harness chains, Cunningham yelling at his overburdened horse, loud creak of horse's traces straining against the load, several voices singing, one the verses, the others the chorus:

Pat of Mullingar,

She can trot along, jog along,

Drag a jaunting car,

No day's too long when sent along

By Pat of Mullingar.

The cart left the avenue, followed a dirt road through a thick wood, shafts of sun falling through the branches. The grade grew steadily steeper, and the cart slowed to a crawl as it moved uphill. At one point there was a break in the trees. An expansive vista opened up, green sea of treetops, the river in the distance, white sails on blue water. Cunningham stopped the cart and called for volunteers to hop off. Several of the boys did. The cart moved faster, and at the top of the hill, the boys jumped on again.