A Passionate Girl (14 page)

“You're one in a barrel, Maggie,” Tweed said and threw her a greenback.

A waiter girl arrived with three bottles of champagne. At least, I thought “she” was a girl, because “she” was wearing a short skirt and wore about a pound of rouge on her cheeks and lips, but a second look revealed that “she” needed a shave and had thick black hair on “her” arms. “Hello, Gorgeous,” Bill Tweed said. “Meet the Fenian girl. You're probably more interested in her friend from Tennessee.”

Gorgeous fluttered his eyes at Dan. “He's a hunk,” he said as he opened the champagne.

Dan could only gape in astonishment. I did the same. “Look at the greenhorn and the hayseed. They can't believe it,” Sweeny's girl, Kate McGuire, said. Everyone had a laugh on us, and the champagne went around. In the hall outside there was a constant jingle of bells, which the waiter girls and boys wore on their boots. A stream of them passed us, arm in arm with customers, to enjoy themselves in other compartments on the balcony.

Ella Weaner was very drunk by now. She sat on Tweed's lap and sang, “Creep into my bed, baby.” Kate McGuire was almost as drunk. So, I regret to say, was Annie. “Give us a little strip, Ella,” Tweed said.

“Anything you say, Bill,” she giggled.

Lurching up on the table, Ella proceeded to sing another round of verses from “Creep into My Bed” while taking off her clothes. In five minutes she was utterly naked, singing away, her breasts swaying and her belly vibrating before Tweed. On the floor below us dancing ceased. Everyone gazed up, transfixed by the spectacle, roaring approval when Ella made a particularly sensual movement with her pelvis.

Tweed suddenly turned to the crowd below. “Anyone want her down there?”

There was a roar of acceptance. Tweed rose to his feet, and with a sweep of his big arm he hurled Ella Weaner off the table and over the balcony. I rushed to the rail and saw a dozen leering, laughing men catch her and go crashing to the floor beneath her weight. The rest of them pounced on her, pawing at her breasts and thighs. “Whoa!” They roared and flung her high in the air and caught her again. “Whoa!” They hurled her across the floor like a sack of meal. Then Billy McGlory himself hauled her down and danced around the floor with her, his finger probing deep into her sex while Ella gasped and giggled. Suddenly she pulled away and struck McGlory in the face. “Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch,” Ella screamed. “I ain't one of your goddamn cunts.”

McGlory looked up at Tweed. “Shall I teach her a lesson, Bill?”

“No,” Tweed said. “She needs her face to make a living.”

“Just one punch, Bill,” McGlory said, circling Ella Weaner.

“Jesus, he'll kill her. Stop him,” Tweed said, to no one in particular.

Before anyone else could speak or move, Dan McCaffrey vaulted over the balcony and sprang to a beam that supported some gaslights below us. He swung on it like an acrobat and dropped into the crowd only a few feet from Ella and McGlory.

“Mr. Tweed says no,” Dan said.

“Screw Mr. Tweed,” McGlory said and raised his fist to strike the blow that would have smashed Ella Weaner's face. But the blow never fell. Dan whirled Mc-Glory around and punched him twice, once in the belly, then in the chin, and sent him flying into the crowd on his back.

A half dozen bruisers started for Dan, but they were frozen by a bellow from Bill Tweed. “Cut it,” he thundered. “The man who swings at him will be floating in the river tomorrow night!”

Tweed threw down Ella's clothes and told her to get dressed. Several of the crowd kicked the garments to Ella's feet, and she put them on. We descended to the dance floor, and Tweed collected a sullen, weeping Ella. As we emerged onto the street, we heard a bell clanging 4:00
A.M.
from the west side of the city. “I think Trinity is telling us it's time to go home,” Dick Connolly said.

Dan and I left them at Sweeney's Hotel, which was nearest to the bottom of Broadway. Upstairs in the sitting room, Dan kissed me drunkenly. “How about lettin' this baby creep into your bed?” he said.

For a moment all I could see was Ella Weaner's naked body being mauled by the drunken dancers on the floor of Billy McGlory's hall. I saw Annie dancing giddily with Dick Connolly. “No,” I said. “Not tonight.”

Dan stepped back, his face the sullen mask I had seen on the
Manhattan.
“You figure Roberts is a better bet? Or maybe Tweed himself? He was givin' you the eye all night.”

“I'm figuring nothing,” I said. “I'm tired and—a little sick from too much drink.”

“The hell you're figurin nothin',” he snarled. “You seen how your sister's makin' out and you're gonna do at least as good.”

“How can you accuse me of such a thing?” I said. “Did I ask you for anything on May Eve?”

“You were a country girl then. Now you're in the big city and learnin' fast.”

“I'm learnin' fast about you,” I mimicked him, losing all control of my temper. “The only thing that troubles you is your inability to get your hands on some of that money you saw tonight.”

“I know what I want my hands on,” he said. “And I'm gonna get it before daylight.”

He strode to the door and slammed it behind him with a crash like a cannon shot.

I stood in the dark room in the middle of the night-shrouded city, weeping with bewilderment and anger and fear. Behind me a mocking voice asked, “Did you have a pleasant night of it?”

I whirled on my brother, Michael, a dark blur in the door to his room. “Shut up,” I said. “I want no advice from you—nor any man.”

I fell into a troubled sleep and awoke to find late morning sunlight streaming in the window. The room was unmercifully hot. I opened the window and found it was just as hot outside. I was about to discover New York's tropical summer. I discovered something else when I ventured into the sitting room, on my way to the bathroom. A champagne bottle sat empty on a table, and a woman's dress, reeking of perfume, was flung on the couch. From Dan's room I heard a muffled male voice, then a female voice, laughing.

I fled down the hall to the ladies' bathroom, my face aflame, my heart pounding. I could not decide whether to weep or curse. I had given myself to this man, living out a poem, a dream of unselfish love, of heroic self-sacrifice for a noble cause. I was painfully learning that he was no unselfish hero and life was not a poem. I thought of the whirl of the past days, the stories and pictures in the newspapers, the respectable ladies in Mrs. McGlinchy's parlor in Brooklyn, the denizens of Billy McGlory's dance hall, Colonel Roberts greedily counting the money, Annie's drinking, Michael's insults—and now this betrayal by Dan McCaffrey. It was like a story I had read by the American writer Poe, “A Descent into the Maelstrom.” I felt as helpless, as bewildered, as the victim in that terrifying tale. I could only hope that in the end some sort of explosion or upheaval would fling me up from the depths into which I seemed to be drowning.

When I returned to our suite, milady's dress was gone. I emerged from my room in time to meet her as she came out of Dan's room. She was not what I had imagined—a regal blond beauty like the countess at the Louvre concert saloon. She was short and red-haired and as Irish as I was, with a northern accent. “Good morning,” she said. “I'm Nora. You must be the Fenian girl.”

“I prefer my own name,” I said. “Bess Fitzmaurice.”

Nora tossed her head in the direction of Dan's room. “He told me all about you in his cups last night. You may know a thing or two about guns, but you don't know much about hangin' onto a man.”

“When I need advice from the likes of you,” I said, “I shall be in a bad way indeed.”

“When you've been around this town a while, honey, you may change that tune,” Nora said, showing her teeth. “Famous one day, forgotten the next, that's the way things go in New York. I've seen actresses livin' like queens one month and lookin' for jobs as waiter girls the next month. You'll find out, if the British don't do for you first.”

I opened the door to the hall. “Good-bye,” I said.

“We may meet again,” she said. She strolled impudently to the door of Dan's room. “Au revoir, lover.”

The reply was no more than a mumble. Nora blew him a kiss and departed. I sat on the couch, too unhappy to think about eating until past noon, when Michael appeared. He had gone down to Moffat House, the Fenian headquarters, and told John O'Mahoney about our alliance with Tammany and what he knew of our trip around New York with Tweed last night. O'Mahoney had given Michael a scathing opinion of Tweed and his partners. They were totally untrustworthy. They were supposedly the friends of the poor Irish in New York, but in fact they only threw them crumbs from their political banquet table and used Irish votes to augment their power on election day. Irishmen in Tammany, like Dick Connolly and Peter Sweeny, were bloodsuckers ready to sell out their countrymen to line their own pockets with gold. An alliance with them would ruin the reputation of the Fenian movement with the rest of America.

“The head center”—he used O'Mahoney's official title—“has called a meeting at Moffat House this afternoon. He wants you and Dan to attend. We're going to settle this matter once and for all,” Michael said.

“I'll leave it to you to rouse Mr. McCaffrey,” I said. “I'm not speaking to him.”

This was pleasing news to Michael, and he took even greater pleasure in dragging Dan from his bed. When he stumbled into the sitting room, I felt a pang of remorse. He was suffering from one of the worst hangovers in the sorry history of alcohol. His normally fair skin was a pale green; his eyes were slits.

“Coffee,” he gasped. “Get me some coffee.”

“Go get your own coffee,” I said. “You're quick enough to go get other things for yourself.”

Michael took pity on him, only because he was under orders to deliver him to Moffat House on schedule. He had a pot of steaming coffee sent up from the restaurant and all but poured it down Dan's gullet.

“I met Nora,” I said, watching the show. “She's lovely.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“You talked me over thoroughly, I gather, and found me wanting,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“The feeling is mutual,” I said.

That was a lie. Behind my bitter words, my heart was a stone that felt nothing. I was numb with anger and pain.

We arrived at the Moffat mansion off Union Square around 1:00
P.M.
A huge Fenian flag, with its gold harp and sunburst, flew over the door. The former home of a patent medicine millionaire, the house was well worthy of being the headquarters of a government in exile. The furnishings were palatial—immense gold leaf mirrors and brocaded velvet draperies, French empire furniture upholstered in gold and green. In the dining room, Head Center O'Mahoney and the members of the council were gathered around a large oval table. We sat off to one side, observers more than participants.

Pulling on his long beard, O'Mahoney began the game with a stiff demand for an explanation from Colonel Roberts. O'Mahoney pointed to me. “This young woman, who has become in a few short days the symbol of our movement, was seen last night all over New York on the arm of William Marcy Tweed.”

“So she was,” said Roberts coolly. He was obviously well prepared for this challenge. “My opinion of Mr. Tweed corresponds to yours. He's a corrupt politician. He's also the most powerful man in New York City and in the state. Proof of this, if you need it, is here in this satchel.”

He put a small black bag on the table and opened it. Quickly he took out the mountain of greenbacks we had collected last night. The other members of the council gaped at the pile. “Nine thousand dollars, gentlemen. To be placed in our treasury. From one night's work with Mr. Tweed.”

Roberts launched into an impassioned discourse about political realism. The Irish were accused of being dreamers and talkers, without practical ability. He heard it every day in business, and he had heard it in the Union Army. There was some truth to the charge. It was time to put an end to those stories by showing the world that we could deal with men like Tweed and others in Washington, D.C. “We're fighting a war, not conducting a tea party or organizing a gentlemen's debating club,” Roberts roared. “Mr. Lincoln and his friends didn't win the war just ended by asking for a letter of recommendation from a soldier's pastor. They just asked: Will he fight? I asked Mr. Tweed that question last night, and his answer was yes. There's the proof.”

He pointed to the pile of money.

The council looked to John O'Mahoney for an answer. He pulled at his beard and said he was no orator, much less a debater. He said he would let the question be decided by a majority vote of the council. A pleased smile spread across Roberts's face. He knew that with Tweed's help he now had a majority of the votes on the council. From that moment, John O'Mahoney ceased to be the leader of the Fenian movement in America.

“Wait!”

Michael sprang to his feet, his face aflame. “As a young man who's pledged his future to this cause, I think I'm entitled to be heard,” he said. “I came to these American shores with a heart full of hope, with faith that in America purity of purpose and integrity of means were possible, because the degradation to which our people are subjected in Ireland was not operative here. But I now find a new kind of degradation threatening us, the degradation of too much wealth, of easy riches, of power that corrupts as it pretends to assist us.”

For ten minutes Michael poured forth his natural eloquence in this vein. He said he stood with John O'Mahoney and they both spoke for Ireland. It was madness to expect Tweed or any other American politician to care seriously for Ireland. Only the Irish could do that in a sustained way. Only they could keep as their goal Ireland's liberation. “Don't be distracted by American schemes,” he cried. “Don't be fooled by American promises.”

The response of the council was angry and ugly. Roberts made a sneering, bullying speech that ridiculed Michael's pretensions to speak for Ireland or anyone but himself. I disliked that part, but I could not disagree with the rest of his argument. Without the help of the United States, there was no hope of striking a serious blow for Ireland in the near future. Now, now was the time to act, while veterans roamed the country in search of employment. At his close, Roberts pointed dramatically at Dan McCaffrey. “Ask this young man if he would risk his life for Ireland if we came to him five years hence, when he has perhaps married that lovely young girl beside him and is settled on his farm in Tennessee. No! It is unreasonable, impossible.”

I gave my Donal Ogue a glare, which was intended to inform him that it was unreasonable and impossible to expect this lovely young girl to marry him in five years—or fifty. He ignored me and vehemently agreed with Colonel Roberts. The new leader—for that was what Roberts was swiftly becoming—declared that it was his intention to go to Washington, D.C., immediately and consult with the leading politicians there. “Let greenhorns from Ireland carp at America,” he shouted. “I have faith in her devotion to freedom, her sympathy for the oppressed.”

The council voted eighteen to two in favor of Roberts's policy. John O'Mahoney, the founder of Fenianism, became a mere figurehead, whom Roberts and his friends maintained in office for their own purposes. To soothe him, they agreed to send a diplomatic mission to Ireland, explaining the shift in policy to the Fenian leaders there. Patrick Meehan, the owner of the
Irish-American
, and a man named Dunne, fat and rather stupid looking, agreed to leave on the first available ship. Roberts meanwhile would depart for Washington, D.C. He asked the council's permission to take with him, as an “attention getter,” the Fenian girl and Major McCaffrey.

I glanced at Michael. His glower spoke disapproval, but I had already declared my independence of him. I glanced more coolly at Dan McCaffrey and decided I was now independent of him, too. I would chart my own course, make up my own mind about this adventure. “I'm at your disposal,” I said.

On the way back to our hotel, Colonel Roberts expanded on his plan. He wanted me and Dan to create a kind of variety act, which could be performed at Fenian meetings and rallies. It was to be based on our newspaper stories of me fighting off a horde of British troopers with Dan's pistol. He had arranged with Dick Connolly for me to take lessons in marksmanship at a shooting gallery on the Bowery, during the hours when the place was not open for business. Dan was to be my teacher.

Roberts took us directly to the gallery and introduced us to the owner, a cheerful, moon-faced Irishman named Slattery. Roberts slipped him a few greenbacks, and Slattery closed his doors to the public. He informed us that he was adjourning to the corner saloon and left me and Dan alone.

Mockingly, Dan picked up a big revolver not unlike the one he wielded in Ireland, and said, “This is a gun.” He picked up a cartridge and said, “This is a bullet.”

“Don't treat me like a fool when the folly is all on your side,” I said. “I hoped I would be excused the task of ever saying another word to you. Now it seems we're thrown together again. Let's say only what's necessary, as plainly and as simply as possible.”

That silenced him. Sullenly he shoved six bullets into the cylinder and showed me how to squeeze the trigger. The target was an Indian, painted on paper and hung on the rear wall. The first shot I fired, the big gun bucked in my hand and went flying to the floor. The bullet went into the ceiling. Dan's condescending smile infuriated me. I seized the weapon with two hands the next time and minded his admonition to squeeze, not jerk, the trigger. I brought the Indian's chest in line with the sight at the end of the barrel and fired again. The bullet was only a foot or so wide of the mark. Slowly, over the next two hours, using my two-handed style, I improved until I was able to put an occasional bullet through the painted Indian. But I was still far from the markswoman described in the papers. Each crash of the gun made me flinch and tremble.

“Is there no lighter gun?” I asked. “This cannon is simply too heavy.”

Dan shrugged. “What difference does it make? You're never goin' to learn to hit nothin', anyway, except when the law of averages gets in your favor.”

He picked up the gun and put six bullets in the Indian's head. I stalked out in a fury. By the time I reached the hotel I was exhausted. The temperature was in the nineties, and it must have been 110 in the shooting gallery. I bought a copy of
Harper's Weekly
at a newsstand on the corner and spent the next hour absorbed by the grisly tale of the execution of Lincoln's assassins. It was not very cheerful reading. Paging through the advertisements, I came across one for “the National Revolver, the lightest gun in the world.” It was being sold by George N. Hickcox at 54 Cliff Street.

I rode to Cliff Street in a hackney coach and found bewhiskered Mr. Hickcox in the process of closing his store. It was a veritable armory, with pistols and rifles of every shape and size on the walls. The National Revolver cost twenty dollars. I bought it, and three hundred rounds of ammunition, and went back to Slattery's shooting gallery on the Bowery. He was still closed, awaiting the business rush of the evening.

I set to work. The revolver fit neatly in my hand, and it did not buck or leap when I squeezed the trigger. Using bull's-eye targets, I fired deliberately and examined the result, learning to judge the drift of the bullet to the right, a peculiarity of the gun, no doubt. I grew more and more used to the bark of the gun. Slattery wandered in after I had been at it for about an hour. “Still here?” he said. “By God, you mean business.” He watched me for a few minutes and declared himself amazed. I was learning fast. He gave me a few bits of advice about how to stand for better balance and letting my breath out before I fired.