The Prince of Eden (64 page)

"He's coming, he's in sight."

As one, the milling men turned toward the door. Edward noticed a few of those already seated in the Banqueting Hall rise in their seats and look expectantly over their shoulders.

A moment later Edward heard a carriage outside roll to a stop.

Then a shout went up and as Edward glanced back to the door, he saw a remarkable figure of a man appear, surely one of the tallest men Edward had ever seen, looking even more enormous than he remembered him from that night long ago, a giant of a man, plainly dressed in worn dark brown wool, hatless, though atop his head grew thick luxurious long red hair.

"It's him," Daniel announced, his face as flushed as Edward had ever seen it.

Edward needed no identification, though Daniel gave him one anyway. "Feargus O'Conner," he whispered, his eyes abundantly pouring out a depth of feeling.

There was no question concerning whose meeting it was. Though Daniel presided, the flamboyant red-haired Feargus O'Conner dominated literally everything.

Then Daniel was introducing O'Conner in elaborate language. In spite of himself, Edward smiled. He would not have thought his friend capable of such rhetoric.

And that was the last moment of silence for, as one, the men jumped to their feet, their voices raised to a thunderous pitch of cheering, all hats waving wildly, all eyes focused on the man who, in spite of the cheers, continued to sit with his head down, his hands hanging limp between his legs.

The stormy reception lasted a full five minutes and perhaps would have gone on even longer if Daniel hadn't moved to the front of the platform, lifted both hands in a halting gesture, and finally coaxed them into a semblance of silence.

Edward continued to watch. He'd never seen such skillful manipulation of an audience before. The man seemed determined to stretch

their nerves to the breaking point. And when at last silence descended, all eyes turned as one to the still bowed giant who at last was beginning to stir, his smallest movement as remarkable as Lazarus rising from the tomb.

Then all at once the man stood with sudden energy and, ignoring the convenience of the podium, walked directly to the edge of the platform as though he wanted nothing to come between his presence and their adoration.

"My friends," he began. Edward found himself leaning forward as though fearful of missing a word.

"My apologies for my late arrival. I had hoped to join you earlier, but only this day have I returned from the Black Country, a journey which has left my heart full, my body weak, and my spirit aflame."

He talked on in this vein for some time, describing in graphic detail the life of the pit people, the great northern coal fields lying round the rivers Tyne and Wear, the houses dense with swarms of people, clouded with soot and smoke, the deep darkness of the mines.

His voice fell to a whisper. "I see no point," he grieved, "in such an existence. If this is life and living, then God would be merciful to strike them all dead."

Along with the others, Edward felt himself moved by the accounts. Though the man was a powerful performer, his stories would have stood alone.

"And one night," O'Conner went on, "in a Manchester ironwork, a fitter found a barrow improperly left in his way and, in a moment of anger, he seized it with violence, supposing it to be full, but being empty, it gave way with unexpected facility and by the force of his own movement he was thrown into the furnace. The charge was within four feet of the filling hole and together with two of his comrades, we succeeded in pulling him out with little delay."

He lowered his head. Everyone waited in a state of suspended horror for the words to commence again. "The surgeon was sent for and was two hours coming to attendance. But it mattered little for of hope and help there was none." He faltered. "I held his head in my lap, bits of his flesh clung to my jacket. He retained his senses to the last and during the greater part of the hour for which his life was prolonged his voice was heard in prayer."

The words ceased.

Edward waited along with the others, hearing in the silence only the scribbling of the young reporter's pen as apparently he felt compelled to record it all.

"Later that evening," O'Conner went on, "I accompanied three of

the victim's mates to his house in Coal Lane. It was our heavy burden to inform the widow. But when we arrived, we were blessedly relieved of the brutish nature of our mission, for the poor man's wife was likewise lying dead from starvation and exposure to cold." His voice became like a monotone now, as though he were filing a report. "The deceased was lying in a small heap of straw, without covering. The room was completely destitute of furnishings, firing, or food. Five young children were sitting on the bare flooring, crying from hunger and cold by the side of the mother's body.

"And there's more, my friends, the second half as important as the first. When we left the dead man's house, we took the five children up the hill to the factory owner's home. Oh, very grand it was, freshly whitewashed, with lace curtains at every window. We herded the frightened children around us as we knocked and a moment later a pert maid appeared on the other side of the door and informed us that we were to go to the rear entrance. I was about to inform that pert maid," O'Conner went on, "that we would gladly wait when behind us, just coming up the gravel, we heard a horse and rider, and turned to see the gentleman jauntily swinging a riding whip."

Now O'Conner lifted both his hands. "Quite fleshy, he was," he said, cupping his hands about his own lean belly. "Now, as we approached this fine gentleman, with the five children in tow, he seemed to ignore the children as well as the three men who were accompanying me. I alone seemed to interest him and as three stewards held his horse, he climbed down, still eyeing me with interest, and approached, smiling, his hand extended."

Here the mock amusement on O'Conner's face faded. "I did not take that hand, but instead fell to informing him of the double tragedy which only that day had descended upon the little ones. He appeared to be listening carefully. I thought I was speaking clearly. But at the end of my tale he merely patted his rounded belly and informed me that these tragedies do occur and there was little, if anything, he could do about them, but if I was desirous of staying for tea, he would be happy to chat with me about the Italian opera, or old King William, who would surely die any day now."

This last was delivered in a flippant manner though underlying both words and tone was a devastating sense of incredulity. Now he stood before them. "I recount it for you, my friends, as it happened. And I ask of you now, is it right?"

For an instant the direct question seemed to take them all by surprise. But finally a deep angry male voice on the far side of the hall shouted, "No!" And gradually the refrain was taken up by others.

"Shall we permit these conditions to exist?"

Again, a resounding No! which caused the floor beneath Edward's feet to vibrate.

Feargus O'Conner smiled and softly repeated, "No." He stepped closer to the edge of the platform. "Then I propose a scheme," he smiled, "a new birth, a movement so powerful as to knock all those fancy gentlemen off" their horses. And it shall start here, in this very hall which in the past has housed both the crime and the criminal, this banqueting hall for the corrupt descendants of one of England's largest fortunes."

Edward stood still, newly alert.

"The past is over," O'Conner entoned now, "and I predict a new age, born here but spreading to all corners of England, a dawn in which you, the people, will sit in Parliament. And in this new dawn there will be no property of the individual. The duty of all property owners will be to share with others, and if the poor do not work less, the rich will certainly work more. This dawn will be yours," he promised. "But it will not be effortlessly achieved. We must work as we have never worked before, in the factories, persuading others, in our schools, converting the young, and in the very seat of corruption itself, Parliament."

At the end, he stood with arms outstretched as though eager to embrace a new storm of applause. And it came, as apparently he knew it would.

On one point, Edward was in total agreement with the wild-eyed Irishman. The world was out of kilter and becoming more so. Perhaps it was time that the Eden family paid its debt to the past, to the centuries of exploitation, and the amassing of great wealth.

With the sense of having settled a score with himself, Edward increased his applause and looked about him at the other men and felt for the first time a vague kindred spirit with them. Whatever reservations he had about O'Conner, he would keep them to himself and try with great diligence to work with him.

The applause showed no signs of diminishing. He noticed many of the men trying to push close to the platform, hands outreaching.

When O'Conner had shaken hands with the men crowding around him, he strode through the door, Daniel at his side.

After the bulk of the crowd had pushed past him, Edward left the banqueting hall and started toward the stairs. It occurred to him that the greatest tragedy consisted of the fact that his views and O'Conner's were not that far apart. In no way had Edward disagreed with anything the man had said earlier. Starting up the stairs, he stopped

and looked down toward the clogged doorway of his house. O'Conner was still there, shaking more hands, clearly enjoying the adoration of his followers, Daniel at his elbow.

A thought then came to Edward. "Mr. O'Conner," he shouted over the milling men. Instantly he felt the weight of eyes as all heads turned about. At last in the new stillness, O'Conner himself looked up. "Yes, Mr. Eden?"

Edward moved down a step. "I was interested to know," he began, forcing his eyes to stay on that strong mocking face, "what became of the five children? The ones so tragically orphaned which you spoke of earlier?"

The simple question at first seemed to fall on deaf ears. The men turned their heads toward O'Conner as though they too were interested in his response.

"Children?" O'Conner repeated.

Edward tried to explain further. "You said you found them waiting with their mother's body. What became of them?"

Clearly disarmed, the red-haired man merely shrugged and shook his head. "I—I don't remember," he faltered. "I suppose one of the pit men took them home." Now as though angry at having been caught without a ready answer, he made a strong demand of his own. "Why do you ask?" he called out.

Edward paused. "I was just curious, and concerned. I wish that you would have brought them to London. We could have accommodated them here. I fear you might have left them to an uncertain fate. With what eagerness we would have received them and tried to soften their tragic double loss."

For the first time, he heard a hush fall over the men, as though at last he might have said something they understood. Unfortunately that understanding did not extend to Feargus O'Conner.

Now Edward saw him step away from the threshold and move toward him, his voice hard, mocking, as though mindlessly he felt a compulsion to destroy. "Your charity, Mr. Eden," he said in biting tones, "moves us all." He lifted his arm, still moving toward Edward. "You want children?" he pronounced acidly. "Then I shall bring you children, wagonloads of children, all abandoned, all hungry." His voice rose in a demented tone. "You want children? Then I shall bring you children, all the children of London. Is that what you want?"

Edward waited for the infuriated voice to clear the air. Then he lowered his voice for contrast. "That's precisely what I want, Mr. O'Conner," he said. "We are at present investigating other properties and will purchase as many as necessary to accommodate them. Further,

we shall staff them with paid teachers whom Daniel Spade will train and we shall not cease until we have provided a new dawn for an entire generation of English children."

He'd not planned to sermonize, yet that seemed to be the effect of his words on the staring men, all except Feargus O'Conner, whose face now bore an expression of total disbelief

He stopped midpoint between the threshold and where Edward stood, his eyes wide and cynical. "What you've just described, Mr. Eden, requires a fortune."

"I possess a fortune, Mr. O'Conner."

"And you'd be willing to spend it in my cause?"

Edward hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "In your cause, Mr. O'Conner? Not necessarily. In the cause of humanity? Without hesitation."

Then there seemed to be no further reason to stay. The weight of all those eyes was beginning to wear heavily upon him. Unlike O'Conner, he was totally appalled by the spotlight. All that he longed for now was the peace of his second-floor chamber, to sit by the fire with his boots off, to listen to Elizabeth softly croon to his son. He waited a moment longer to see if there was any reason why he shouldn't take himself to that place of refuge. Finding none, Edward nodded in an unspoken goodnight and started up the stairs.

Lost in these thoughts, he was scarcely aware of Daniel's voice coming from below. It sounded strangely weak, and as Edward took the top step he looked down on his friend and saw a peculiar expression on his face, half apology, half entreaty.

But of greater interest to Edward was the fragment of the man standing next to Daniel, only one black boot visible.

Edward needed to see no more. He listened carefully as Daniel stammered, "I was—wondering, Edward, that is to say, we—were wondering, Mr. O'Conner and myself, if it isn't too late, could we, might we have a word with you?"

Still Edward focused on the black boot. No movement there, neither objection nor encouragement. Longingly Edward glanced toward his closed chamber doors. How convenient and perhaps wise it would be to say no to the two men waiting below. But as he looked back down the stairs, he saw Daniel's pleading eyes, and Edward knew better than anyone else that his friend's dream needed both a leader and a fortune.

Apparently the leader was standing beside him. Only Edward could deliver the rest of it. Well, they weren't that far apart. Perhaps a union of sorts could be consummated, but not for the sake of the Movement, or any one man.