Men of No Property (51 page)

Vinnie had reached the interesting condition of watching it all as a spectator, his toes tucked under the rail of the oak table, his chin couched in his hand. They were tapping Miss Tucker’s store of ribald songs now, one richer than the other, and Vinnie found a moth’s courtship of the camphene lamp much more diverting. He was reminded again of Peg as he had often been that day. Poor fragile moth, once spangled as a stormy sunset.

Suddenly the door between them and the bar flung open and a great sleek lad of the town stood, his hands on his haunches, watching them. Mistress Tucker cut off her song in the middle.

“For the love of Mother Mary,” said the townie, “will you look who she’s closeted with!”

“You get out of here, George Reilly, and close the door,” Miss Tucker cried.

But Reilly came on. “Thank you, Miss Tucker, I don’t mind if I do.”

Taylor bounced the girl from his lap and lurched to his feet. “See here, Reilly…”

“See where?” said Reilly, pulling a chair from the corner and straddling it.

Vinnie glanced at the men at the bar straining to see into the room. He could count a half dozen. With their long, thin cigars and square-rigged chin whiskers, they were chums ganging together, and likely drew lots to see who would come in. And yet, Vinnie thought, he’d seen Reilly before and often enough to remember at another time than this.

“I was shocked at the tunes I was hearing,” said Reilly. “Or were you puttin’ Republican words to them?”

That was it, Vinnie thought, getting hold of his memory. Reilly was the pride of Young America, New Haven chapter. He it was who had led the jibes and jeers wherever Vinnie had tried to recruit for the Young Republicans. Alex, the fool, was taking off his coat, and Reilly’s friends were edging toward the room despite old man Tucker’s remonstrations. Vinnie rose from his chair, and gave Alex a pull into his. “By my soul,” Vinnie cried, “it’s Mr. Buchanan’s little boy.”

“The captain it is,” said Reilly, and with his face to his chums and the jerk of his head toward Vinnie: “Oh, we’re skirlin’ the pipes tonight, boys. I’d never’ve thought from the noise of it this was a ratification meeting. Where’s your bloomers, Tucker?” And as the girl was wheeling past him, Reilly lifted her from her feet and turned her over and onto them again in a quick somersault, Miss Tucker squealing like a frightened chicken.

“That’s enough,” said Vinnie.

“Now there’s a smart lad’s had enough before he’s had any. “Wouldn’t you like to go a few rounds with me, captain, a last tilt you might say, to celebrate?”

The boys in the door gave a loud vote of approval.

“I might be persuaded,” said Vinnie.

“Oh, God,” Matheson groaned from the table, “I wish I were sober.”

“I wish I were drunk,” said Taylor.

“We’re with you, Dunne, honor bound,” Phipps piped in a voice to match his size.

Somehow it was always the coxswain who was raring for a fight, Vinnie thought. “Isn’t there a Buchanan rally tonight? Or do you only show up for Fremont, Reilly? I have some recollection of meeting you there.”

Reilly took off his coat. “We won’t be missed till we get there,” he said.

“And if you don’t get there at all, will you be missed?”

“Are you mussin’ or hedgin’?” said Reilly.

“I never muss if I can find a hedge,” said Vinnie, “if you’d like the truth but I’m a terrible man when I’m hedged. May I choose the weapon, Mr. Reilly?”

The man looked at him, startled, but for only an instant. “Why not?” he said, with a wink at his friends and a glance at the table. It was cluttered with fruit knives and bottles.

“What’s your first name?” said Vinnie.

“George. Does it offend your highness?”

“What a thing to hang on an Irishman,” Vinnie said, “the patron saint of England.”

“Save your wits and name your weapon, captain.”

“But my dear fellow, that is my weapon. I’m challenging you to match wits with me—to debate any subject of your choosing.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Reilly.

The groans and hisses from the doorway fouled the room.

“We can muss any time,” Vinnie shouted over them, “but how often can Young America and a Black Republican cross wits?”

Vinnie could see the idea take hold of Reilly. He was the makings of a rough and tumble politician, and as proud of the quip on his tongue as he was of his knuckles. Vinnie glanced at his own friends. They were sitting as stiff as Indians in Congress.

“Aren’t you Irish yourself, captain?” Reilly said then.

“I am. I was born in Dublin.”

Reilly wiggled the tip of his nose with his thumb in the way of a prizefighter. “What a promisin’ start in life to come to such a sad end.”

“Touché!” Vinnie cried. “Am I on?”

“You’re on,” said Reilly.

And the idea caught fire then with his friends.

“You can take him, George!”

“We can allus muss.”

“Go it, Congressman!”

“Congressman,” said Vinnie. “Are you running?”

“No, I’m too young.”

“But not too tender.”

“Not in the head leastaways,” said Reilly with a grin. “Now I’ll tell you what we’re goin’ to argue: what in the name of God is an Irishman doin’ a Black Republican.”

The Reilly partisans howled with glee.

Vinnie met Reilly’s eyes. As blue as his own they were, and the two men were of a height. There was almost as little of the brogue in Reilly’s speech as there was in his own, and yet the color of it ran into both when native strength was needed. Vinnie extended his hand to his antagonist and said: “Resolved: no Irishman who is an Irishman has the right to join the Republican Party.”

“I couldn’t put it better myself,” said Reilly, shaking hands. “And now I’ll tell you where we’ll debate.” And this he added under his breath to Vinnie: “In case the boys don’t like the scorin’.” Aloud he named the place: “In the Hibernian Hall, we’ll bust open the Democrat meetin’ and finish it for them.”

Unaware of that arrangement, Miss Tucker at that moment brought another lamp into the dining room. “Now there’s a vote of no confidence!” Vinnie cried. “She doesn’t think we’ll shed any light at all.”

“That’s what comes of reachin’ her age without havin’ struck a match,” said Reilly, and he dug his forefinger into Vinnie’s ribs.

Vinnie howled with the rest and he in self-pity. Did ever a man so confidently engage himself to less advantage? This will teach you humility, my boyo! With no more sleep in a week than he could use in a night, and with more spirits in a night than he could digest in a week, he was about to argue a point of which he had lingering doubts himself. There was but one thing to say for the situation: it was better than a clout on the head, and better by far than a tavern brawl.

He and Reilly led the way into the night while Alex settled his bill. Someone picked up the lamp and put a coin into the hand of Mistress Tucker.

“See here,” she called after him, “that lamp’s worth more than a shilling.”

“Then put it on the rich man’s bill.”

“And what’ll I do with the shilling?”

“I’ll be round for its worth in the dark, never mind. Just remember the man who gave it to you.”

“B
UT THE REALLY MARVELOUS
thing, Father, we could all have been in a most tremendous brawl.”

“And would that have been so marvelous?” Mr. Taylor asked dryly.

“No sir. The marvelous thing was the way Dunne avoided it.”

“His lifetime in the most expensive schools in the country and he needs to say a thing twice to convey his meaning.”

“Perhaps you should have sent him to school abroad after all, John,” Mrs. Taylor said.

“No, by the living God! But I shall make representation.”

Vinnie wondered to whom he would make it. He had heard him say the same thing under other circumstances.

“More tea, Mr. Dunne?” Mrs. Taylor asked. Vinnie gave her his cup. “He does not underestimate your accomplishment, and I surely am pleased that Alex avoided a row—as the Phipps and Mathesons will be, I know, for their boys.”

“I expect I was solicitous first of my own reputation, Mrs. Taylor,” Vinnie said. His heartbeat quickened for his having said the words, but as long as he had been visiting in her house there had been in her attitude toward him a benign sort of condescension—something which implied that however clever he might be, his purpose in being at all was to reflect glory on her son—which he was only now able to define and respond to.

“Of course,” she said, meeting his eyes, “but one’s reputation is so often in the keeping of his friends, don’t you think?”

Vinnie said yes although he did not altogether agree.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dunne.” She turned her attention to her husband. “Whatever is it, John?”

Mr. Taylor was talking loudly as was his habit when he needed time to think. Mrs. Taylor was still a beautiful woman, somewhat younger than her husband and much wealthier in her own right. This was likely the reason she seemed pained whenever money was mentioned. Vinnie had remarked on this to Alex who was often in pain for lack of funds, and in debt to Vinnie for a not inconsiderable amount. Vinnie had no genuine expectation of collecting the debt, although he made a careful record of each addition to it in Alex’s presence. His inheritance from Mr. Finn was sufficient, wisely invested, to bring him an income of two thousand dollars a year. And if he sold the Emporium…but that was a responsibility to face up to on his return to New York.

Mr. Taylor was expounding on how much money he had already spent on Alex, and Mrs. Taylor looked very pained. “Really John, I don’t think it’s a matter to settle this afternoon. The girls must rest…” The girls, Anne and Therese, were much occupied at the moment on the terrace steps with Phipps and Matheson. “… And perhaps the boys would like to go bathing?”

All four young gentlemen groaned at once. They had made a perilous entry into the Newport waters that afternoon; Alex, thinking to make a short cut, had scraped bottom on a reef at full sail.

“Alex, I’m warning you,” his mother said then, assuming that something frightful had happened, “you will not sail that boat from here to New York.”

“Posh, posh, posh,” said Mr. Taylor.

“My hair is gray with the concern that boat has given me. He’s my only son, John.”

“If you had another, would you drown this one? This is where he gets his lazy grammar. Right in this house.” Mr. Taylor got up and buttoned his riding coat. “Well, I must ride out and find my girl.”

“You send your girl home immediately,” Mrs. Taylor said, “or she will not go to the ball.”

It was only then that Vinnie realized Priscilla was now of an age to go to a ball. She had been abroad at school for two years.

“I don’t see what you lads want to go to Europe for,” Taylor said to Phipps and Matheson. “There can’t be anything there to surpass this.”

Vinnie wondered if there was beauty to match this one view anywhere—a long vista of green grass and beyond it the ocean, blue, deep clean blue, with small white crests. This cottage—and such were the mansions called—was more intimate than so much space might suggest. It came of the presence of many people, Vinnie thought. Not to have many people would have been immoral. How often he thought in terms of morality when wealth was an issue! He had not expected to like Newport and found it vaguely disturbing that he was enchanted with it. But then, he had only been here for tea!

“And will you be going to Europe also, Mr. Dunne?” Mrs. Taylor said.

“No,” Vinnie said. “I don’t feel that I can afford it at the present.”

“That would make a fish sneeze,” said Alex, who wanted very much to go.

“Perhaps Mr. Dunne is not speaking of money,” she ventured.

“As a matter of fact I’m not,” said Vinnie. “Not altogether. I’m two years older than Alex, and I feel I must be quicker about settling down.”

“A gypsy would be quicker than Alex at that,” said Mr. Taylor. “Would you like to ride out with me, Dunne?”

“Yes, sir, I should.”

“But when will you two select your costumes?”

Mr. Taylor picked up his riding crop. “I’m wearing mine, dear wife. And if you don’t cease carping on it, I shall bring my horse.”

The town of Newport was much to Vinnie’s liking, the neat houses of the tradesmen and their shops hunched along the shore. The seaport had a bitter history of British occupation during the Revolution, and cherished its scars. No wonder it could now take with an easy grace its summer occupation by the American aristocracy. Vinnie marveled to himself as they rode—the exquisite gardens, each of which might have honored an entire town in spacious grandeur. There were trees the like of which he had never seen—quaint, twisted-limbed and silver-barked, sighing endlessly in the wind.

Mr. Taylor’s riding did not permit of conversation except with his horse to which he talked constantly, explaining the road they would take, the reason for taking it, its condition, sand, dust, or stone. He was not a very good rider, Vinnie thought, the reason no doubt he sought to ingratiate himself with the steed. On they rode, passing an occasional phaeton in which the ladies sat beneath their parasols, until the way was no longer passable to vehicles, to where the rock and scrubby trees were native as time and weather. Mr. Taylor reined in his horse. “I’ll ride on a piece, Dunne, if you’d like to stop and look.”

“I would,” Vinnie said. He dismounted and led the horse as far toward the edge of the cliff as she would go. He stroked her head, and she went a few steps further, and Vinnie could look down at the shoals beneath. A solitary gull circled a reef and then sat down upon it, a reef that would vanish with the rising tide, a hidden shoal. How many hidden shoals, and likely best unknown, unseen. Who would venture at all upon the sea seeing its hazards only? Fear comes with knowing. Fear comes with living? So is it the young have fewer fears? No. Fear comes with dying. When a man looks only to his fears for guidance, that man is dying. For how many centuries had the sea beat against these walls, and how many boats sent crashing among the shoals, and then washed out again in bits and tatters, flesh and fleshly acquisitions. He lifted his hand and looked at it: flesh. Alive it dared smite continents, number stars. Dead, it could not mark its own grave. What a world of wonder was his mind, what a feasting ground for nonsense! Then came the worm of conscience to the picnic. He should have called on Delia during this hour and met that distinguished gentleman, her father, possessor of Southern charm and human chattel. And Nancy. “Masta’ Vincent, I happy like home,” she had answered his last inquiry, and home he had realized then was not Mr. Finn’s house for all the years she had spent there. Home was slavery’s capital, South Carolina, where she had been born in bondage. She wanted only to belong—to someone, somewhere irrevocably—as who in God’s world did not?