Chapter 43
After his uncle's funeral, and his and Kevin's return to Harvard, Rory was taken by a profound depression which he had never known before. He had heard of "black Irish moods" but had thought them only invented by the poetic Irish to explain the melancholy experienced at times by all men. He could not shake off his depression, though he attempted to find the cause. Even Marjorie, with her mocking jokes and ardent love, could not alleviate it much. Rory found himself studying the newspapers and trying to "read between the lines." But everything seemed tranquil in an America of rising prosperity and hope, despite the screaming politicians and that segment of the press known as "yellow." America rejoiced in her freedom. She was the Mecca of a whole envious world. She was at once naive, ebullient, happy, rich, expanding, innocent, gay, and emotional, caring more for news of the British Royal Family than for the speeches of her President. Americans adored William Jennings Bryan and laughed happily at cartoons lampooning him. Their opinions are like froth, thought Rory. Their emotions are equally turbulent and shallow. Yet under that froth there appeared to be a serene and tranquil current, flowing steadily to Utopia and its golden towers, where every man would own his own "cot," to quote a newspaper, his own land and his own destiny. Rory had still been in Europe when, on January 25, 1898, the little American battleship, Maine, entered Havana Harbor to the alleged joy of both the Spanish government and the Cuban insurrectos. Everyone pretended that this had happened by invitation of the government, though it was not for a considerable time that it became known it was at a secret request of the American Consul General, for reasons never quite divulged. The Spanish commander of the port personally visited the battleship, accompanied by cases of rare Spanish sherry as a gift, and he invited the officer-crew to a bullfight. The President of the United States said that the visit of the Maine to Cuba was "simply an act of international courtesy." But Joseph had told Rory that the "friendly act" was to protect American citizens resident in Cuba, "or perhaps to use them for certain reasons." It was also to protect American property if the interior revolution reached Havana. Joseph did not expound on the "certain reasons" for the presence of the Maine. But Rory began to watch the newspapers. Sometimes he derided himself. He was looking for bogeymen, for traitors under beds, for conspirators. Feeling the power and pulse of America now that he was home it seemed amusingly incredible to him that any conspiracy of anonymous men meeting in St. Petersburg, London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Vienna, or anywhere else, could truly gain an international ascendancy over his country, and destroy her for their own ambitions. Was it possible that his father had actually taken them seriously? Of course, they were powerful, for they were financiers and could manipulate the currencies of Europe-but how could they possibly manipulate America's currency, and her politics and her government? Even the "robber barons" of America were too American to permit such a thing. Rory had heard them laugh in New York at "our European trolls." It had been the laughter of strong and humorous men, men who appeared at national celebrations of the Fourth of July, to give fervent speeches on patriotism and "the glory of our beloved and invulnerable and peaceful country." There were, as they often remarked, "two oceans girding and guarding our shores from foreign ambition and foreign attack." The Monroe Doctrine was a revered document, third only in the esteem of Americans after the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. It was impregnable. Wars? Confiscatory taxation? Inflation? National "emergencies"? They were as remote from America as Arcturus. They were European aberrations, a disease of old and decadent countries, and would never invade the healthy tissues of the American body politic, for all its innocent flamboyance and noise and fireworks and denunciations and excitements and roaring emotions, and other irrationalities. Kevin was a freshman at Harvard, and he and Rory often met in little quiet restaurants in Boston. Kevin was young, but he was as tall if not taller than his brother, and he was a "black Irish bear," as his mother often said. But there was something about Kevin which was not juvenile or collegiate, something steadfast, immovable, and rational, without emotional overtones or rashness. Kevin was not a "talker." It had long been Rory's opinion that Kevin knew more about Ann Marie's "accident" than he would ever tell, and nothing could force him to tell. When Kevin appeared his presence was not just the presence of another very young man, awkward, uncertain, gawky or defensive. He was simply there, and he was felt almost tangibly. Between the two brothers was a deep and unspoken love and trust, yet it was rare when they confided in each other and had never, as yet, been totally frank. "Baring one's soul" was just not the Armagh way of life, and it would not have occurred to Rory to disobey Joseph and ask Kevin his opinion of what his brother had seen and heard in London, and in New York. If anything, Rory was even more secretive than his brother, who had a reputation for it. If either had encountered a grave trouble they would have gone to the other for assistance, without offering any explanation at all, nor being expected to offer such accounting. They had their father's innate dignity and his contempt for emotionalism of any sort. "Like a damned woman whimpering into her pillow," Joseph would say of any man he knew who could not control his feelings, or desired to display them. "Or taking off your trousers and underdrawers in public. Have they no self-respect? They want everyone to quiver with sympathy for them, and love them, for God's sake!" This was the attitude of the Armagh brothers also, who had pride if no "sensibilities," as Bernadette called it. Kevin was a good student if an uninspired one. He worked hard, as Rory had never had to work, yet he was as retentive as Rory. He sweated and labored over his books. His papers were adequately prepared, if pedestrian. Rocklike, bulky, strong, he was admired on the track and in the field. No one knew what Kevin thought though Rory came the nearest to guessing. Kevin was pragmatic. Kevin was realistic. Kevin was never haunted by bogeymen or nightmares. Kevin was forthright and blunt, and no sweet sayer, and he often had manners which were stigmatized as rude or boorish. It was just that Kevin had no time for fools or for the little niceties and frivolities. "What are you saving your time for, then?" Rory had once rallied him. "For me," Kevin had replied, at fifteen. On taking thought, later, Rory acknowledged that that was an eminently sensible remark. There were absolutely no affectations in Kevin, no pretensions, no hypocrisies. He had had many more fistfights in his life at eighteen than Rory ever had had, and he had fought efficiently and without passion and without rancor. "He is like my Grandda," Joseph had once remarked. "There was no stopping that black Irish bull when he had set his mind on something." The trouble was that no one, as yet, knew exactly if Kevin had set his mind on anything, not even Rory, though it was expected that he would go on to law school and then into politics, as his father had decreed. Kevin was no conversationalist. Whatever he thought was his own, and his mind was not to be invaded. His dark eyes were keen but not lively, sharp but not sparkling, and never seemed to smile. His large blunt head sat firmly on his short neck and wide shoulders, and he looked at the world not boldly but with an entire lack of wariness. If he sometimes asked a question, and the person became evasive, he immediately changed the subject. Whether or not that hinted at a lack of interest in others no one ever knew, except Rory, who knew it for an amazing sensitivity which Kevin kept hidden, and a deep respect for the privacy of others. Rory and Kevin met for dinner at a grubby little Boston restaurant on February 10th. Both were inclined to frugality and to complain of their father's parsimony, and Rory was careful with the remainder of the money Joseph had given him. "Count your pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves," Joseph would say, and his sons agreed with him, for all their complaints. The restaurant was really a saloon, or a pub, as Joseph would have called it, and the beer was excellent and so were the roast beef sandwiches, pickled pigs' feet, ham, pork sausages, potato salad, rye bread, tongue, and baked beans. Here healthy young men from the colleges, who had penny- pinching fathers of great wealth, could drink and dine heartily and smoke or even spit on the sawdust-covered floors, and tell their lewd jokes and roar joyous
ly at each other, and boast of their sexual successes, mostly fictitious. The young ladies of Boston were often offensively unattainable, and the brothels-most of them owned by The Armagh Enterprises-were expensive. It was a favorite spot for both Rory and Kevin, and they could sit far back in semi-shadow and talk at a greasy wooden table, and rarely be accosted. It was known that their father owned the saloon, as he did many others in Boston, and there was an aura, therefore, about the two brothers which they would have protested had they guessed. Didn't they have to pay as much as anyone else? Did Pa let them have credit? No. Their only distinction was that the Irish bartenders insulted them more than they did others, and loudly called them "shanty Irish," and pretended to ignore them. Rory gave Kevin the news of that part of the family still in Europe, for the death of their uncle had prevented confidences before. They did not speak of Scan. Had he been murdered by robbers or an offended husband they would have talked of him. But now he had been consigned to the discreet Limbo of the Armaghs, and so did not exist any longer except in their gloomy memories. A tinny piano-Scan had once played and sang here long ago-covered their intermittent conversation. Rory, the voluble, did not find Kevin's short remarks and long silences oppressive. There was an empathy flowing between them which needed few words. Kevin had guessed at once, tonight, that Rory was preoccupied-a rare thing for him-and even somber, and he waited for either Rory to speak or not to speak. The big dim gaslights flickered in their dirty globes and it was cold and dank in the saloon, but the beer was good and both the young men had fully filled their stomachs. The portrait of the naked lady over the bar seemed exceptionally ruddy and exceptionally fat, and beamed at the diners and drinkers below her in a most benevolent mood. Rory bent his handsome red-gold head over his beer mug and seemed to be tracing with his eyes the lacy patterns on the sides. He said, "I was only away for a little while but it seemed months. What a hole London is! But it's got a feeling of power which we don't have even in New York or Washington-a feeling of empire, of puissance, as the old boys used to call it. A kind of-throbbing-all over. But the 'merry men of England' have long gone, thanks to Cromwell and Victoria, and the Cavalier spirit is dead. If it ever existed." Kevin waited. Rory glanced up at him swiftly with those apparently candid eyes of his. He said, "I heard something about us sending a battleship to Havana, while I was in London. Hear about it, yourself?" "Sure," said Kevin. "We're getting ready to take over Cuba. And other loot." Rory was enormously startled and taken aback. His brother had spoken so casually, as of a self-evident reality. His strong voice had been dispassionate and even indifferent. "For God's sake, why?" Kevin shrugged his heavy bull-like shoulders. "Guess we want a war." "Why?" Rory almost shouted. He was still shaken. Kevin shrugged again. "Who knows? I suppose we are on our way." "To what?" "To being like other countries." What the hell does that mean?" "Come on, Rory. You know. Empire. And something else, too." Rory's chest tightened. "What do you mean by 'something else'?" Kevin frowned, and his big dark face became lowering. "How could I know, or you, or anybody else? Except Pa, perhaps. You just get a smell of it. A sort of feeling, fog, in the air. I've been studying some-things." "What?" "Hey, you are shouting. I've been reading about the Morgans, the Regans, the Fisks, the Goulds, the Vanderbilts-all the rest. Running back and forth to their houses in London and Paris and Vienna and on the Riviera. Lot of activity lately. It's reported in the newspapers-galas, weddings, fiestas, international society. The thing is I don't believe it. They always did it, but this time I don't believe it's so damned innocent." Rory was stupefied. Kevin gave him a glowering smile. "Didn't you meet some of them in London?" Rory nodded, unable to speak. "And they were all marrying their daughters off to European nobility, and such," said Kevin. "Selling the girls like heifers. Well. But it's something else, too, more important. I have a prof, or I should say I did have one. They let him out in January. He talked about the international bankers one period. Just a little. But I knew; it all snapped into place, what I've been reading in the papers. I don't know why he was kicked out. Or maybe I do." A deep coldness settled in Rory's interior. Suddenly his brother no longer looked impassive and young, but worldly and weightily disgusted, and more adult than himself, who was six years older. "Who do you think has been stirring up those insurrectos in Cuba?" asked Kevin. "They live better than American farmers in the backwoods live. Who made those poor peasants suddenly conscious that they were 'oppressed'? It isn't race or religion that divides them from the Spaniards; they are the same people, with a little mixture of Indian, probably. Who's kicking up shit in Cuba now?" "Who?" "Us, of course. For some damned reason or other. Do you think thecane-cutters in Cuba are now suddenly all fired up about 'liberty' and 'the fl rights of man'? Why, they can't even read, for Christ's sake. All the poor devils want is peace and guitars and romance and girls and wine and dancing. Food's almost for the asking, and they don't need houses like ours, and heat. But all at once they are talking about 'liberation.' You're the heir, Rory. Now you tell me why?" But I can't, thought Rory. He was chilled inside and out, and shivered. He said at last, "What do you mean, I am the heir?" Kevin smiled darkly. "You are the older son. You are almost out of law school. You'll be the first in politics. You've just come back from Europe. Pa sent for you. I'm not going to ask you why and expect you to tell me the truth. You said it was something about Ann Marie, and I didn't believe it for a minute, for she wasn't in England. Rory, I may be only eighteen, but there's no milk on my chin. Pa never told me much, if anything, but I can almost read his mind. You just have to listen, not with your ears, but with another sense- Oh, hell, I can't explain it, can't prove it. It's just there." He drank some beer. "I read everything Mark Hanna says to the newspapers. And everything the President says. They hint. Maybe that's all they dare to do. Incidentally, I don't like our grinning Teddy Bear, Roosevelt, Assistant Navy Secretary. I just read that he ordered Commodore Dewey to get ready to attack Manila, eight thousand miles from here." "Hey, Irish, gonna sit there all night, and not drinking?" a bartender shouted at them. "Think we run this pub on talk?" "Shut up, Barney," said Kevin, waving his hand. "But send us more beer." His hand was massive, like a hod-carrier's, and his young face was suddenly massive too. " 'My country,'" he said, " 'may she always be right. But my country, right or wrong.'" He stared at Rory and now the dark iris of his eyes was surrounded by a glistening whiteness. "So long as she is my country, and not somebody else's." Rory's lips felt without muscle or strength. "Who else's could she be, Kevin?" Once again that heavy shrug. "Well, they are talking about a World Court in The Hague just now, aren't they? Or maybe Pa didn't mention it. Maybe you forgot to read the newspapers about it. Maybe the English newspapers didn't think it was important. Or something." Now he smiled widely and cynically at Rory and his big wolflike teeth, as white as snow, flashed in the gaslight. "I'm just Little Brother. I don't know a thing. Let's drink up this slop and get out of here. I've got an early class tomorrow." On the night of February 5th the battleship Maine was blown up in Havana Harbor. Over two hundred American officers and crew were killed. No one ever discovered who or what had caused this disaster, but it was enough for the enthusiastic warmongers throughout the country, and their bought press to demand war. No one was quite certain who was the "enemy," but after a little thought it was decided it was Spain. Later it was decided that a submarine mine, applied outside the ship, might be the cause, or again, it was argued, its munitions magazine had been exploded inside. Who was guilty? No one ever knew. Assistant Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt vehemently shouted that he was "convinced" that the disaster in Havana Harbor was not an accident, but the rescued captain of the ship, Mr. Charles D. Sigsbee, urged patience and calm until an investigation was concluded. Mr. Roosevelt almost lost his mind with rage. In the meantime the Spanish government expressed its horror, and went into mourning for the American dead. The government in Madrid made conciliation offers over and over, in despair, in an attempt to avoid a war, but Assistant Secretary of the Navy Roosevelt screamed for "veng
eance." President McKinley was a prudent man, and not a warmonger. He begged the country to wait for the official investigation. "It is possible," he said, "that agents provocateurs are responsible for this, and not the Spanish government. I have heard whispers, and I have heard rumors-" By these words he signed his death warrant. Mr. Roosevelt was beside himself. He said of the President, "He has no more backbone than a chocolate eclair. Do you know what that white- livered cur up in the White House has done? He has prepared two messages, one for war and one for peace, and he doesn't know which one to send in!" So, they have moved, thought Rory Armagh, reading all this in the newspapers. It was not a nightmare after all. I was not frightening myself in the dark. What I heard in London was no gibberish of little plotters. It is the beginning of their Plan. In the meantime the President, despite Mr. Roosevelt and his friend, Captain Mahan, asked the American people to retain their senses and not be misled "by those who would lead us into a war which I have heard- though it may be only a rumor, a rumor-is the overture to a series of wars to entangle our country in foreign adventures. What the purpose is I do not entirely know; I can only surmise. Let us remember what George Washington implored us to do, to have peaceful relations with all countries but foreign entanglements with none." "White-livered cur!" shouted Mr. Roosevelt. The pressure on the President via the press and Mr. Roosevelt became insupportable. He pleaded over and over that as America was only just emerging into new prosperity she should mind her own business and be judicious and balanced. But it was hopeless. The hysterical and enthusiastic masses, led by vociferous editorials in the yellow press, demanded war against Spain, though none was quite certain why there should be such a war. So, despairing, faintly aware of the powerful forces against him from watching Europe and New York, he succumbed. On April 11, 1898, the ' President, broken-hearted, frightened, sent in his war message. On May 21 Commodore George Dewey steamed into Manila Bay, in command of j America's Asiatic Squadron, and sank all the Spanish warships that were ' there-eight thousand miles away. The Spanish government in Cuba, and the insurrectos themselves, were dumb with astonishment and incredulity. They heard that Mr. Roosevelt had joyously declared that the war was "in behalf of American interests." What those interests were no one was quite sure-except for the men in Washington and New York, in London and Berlin and Paris and Rome and Vienna and St. Petersburg. They called a quiet and exultant meeting, and shook hands, and said little or nothing at all. In June the American forces, singing, though they knew not why they sang, landed at Daiquiri, Cuba, with a loss of two men who had drowned. In July the miserable Spanish forces at San Juan Hill, Santiago, and at El Caney, were overwhelmed. On July 3 Admiral Cervera's Spanish fleet, commanded by disbelieving officers, tried to escape from Santiago and were destroyed by American warships, ordered there days before. The invading Americans, on July 17, captured Santiago, and the Spaniards surrendered, On July 26 the Spanish government in Madrid asked for the terms of surrender, and an armistice was signed in Paris on August 12. It was no sooner signed than the news arrived that American forces had taken Manila, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico in the Caribbean Sea-there had been no resistance at all. "How do you like the Journal's War?" cried the New York Journal with exultant delight, and the American people roared happily in answer. From London the American Ambassador congratulated his friend, Theodore Roosevelt, in an exuberant letter. "It has been a splendid little war!" he declared. America had acquired many overseas bases now. President McKinley was not pleased. He thought of Theodore Roosevelt and his friend, Captain Mahan, and he had many other thoughts. It was unfortunate that he put some of them on paper and sent them to alleged friends he had considered sympathetic. They found thoughtful resting places on faraway desks in various cities in Europe. Rory Armagh had lost interest long before the signing of the peace treaty in Paris. For his brother, Kevin, had died in the "splendid little war," killed in Santiago on board the American battleship, Texas, on July 28.