Chapter 9
The train for Titusville had not yet arrived when Joseph's train reached the little town of Wheatfield. So, with others, he left his train, pulled his cap down lower on his forehead and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible as he entered the hot little depot, which was well lighted and crowded to its walls. Joseph had never seen such a bewildering gathering of men as he saw now, to his astonishment. There were men in silk and tall beaver hats, rich greatcoats and florid waistcoats and splendidly pinned cravats and fawn pantaloons, men fat and red and sweating of face and with flowing hair and sideburns and exquisitely trimmed beards and mustaches, and carrying Malacca canes with gold or carved silver heads and with fat fingers loaded with sparkling rings and with watch chains embellished with jeweled charms, and conversing with each other with jovial laughter and hoarse joking voices, their avid eyes glittering over strangers. They all smoked thick cigars or cheroots and they smelled of bay rum or racier perfumes, and their boots shone daintily. A considerable number of their faces were pock-marked, but they exuded excitement and confidence and money. Among them milled workmen in cloth caps and patched coats and blue shirts stained with sweat and oil and dirt, and ebullient men in shirtsleeves and with loud hectoring voices demanding and commanding, their fat legs moving constantly. There were also the quiet and deadly men in subdued but rich clothing along the walls, watching all newcomers closely, their rings shining, their shirts ruffled and fluted, their cravats and pantaloons and waistcoats elegant. These were the hunters and gamblers. Posters imploring enlistments covered the dirty stained walls of the little depot and in one corner stood a young lieutenant in blue with his forage cap smartly over his forehead, a little table before him and two soldiers soliciting the younger men to join "the patriotic service of your choice." Several youths jested with them lewdly; the young lieutenant sweated in the hot rank air but he remained composed and serious though his aides grinned and spat. His eyes glowed with the fervor of the dedicated soldier, and it was obvious that he was a graduate of West Point and not a mere enlisted man. His shoulder patch read, the army of the united states. He was proud of it. All the narrow benches were occupied, though men, as if overcome with impatience, would rise and join the milling crowd, their seats immediately confiscated. The uproar was appalling with the constant crescendos of masculine voices arguing, wheedling, boasting, promising, and raucous. Spittoons were ignored. The floor was almost covered with blackish-brown slime. The stench and the heat overpowered Joseph and he kept near the door in spite of the jostling he received. Men raced out onto the wooden platform with papers in their hands, or carpetbags, cursing the tardy train to Titusville, then raced back inside, their eyes goggling as they sought out friends they had just abandoned. Another smell rose above the smell of bay rum and chewing tobacco and smoke and sweat, the smell of money-lust and greed, and it was insistent. The lamps overhead stank and flamed brightly; a wind blew in cinders and hot dust and chaff. Somewhere a telegraph chattered like an insane woman. Men shouldered others aside, were cursed or clapped on the back. There was an odor of raw whiskey as men tilted bottles to their mouths. The depot was like an enormous monkey house, seething with heat and movement and restivcness and vehement roars and impassioned shouts and great belly-laughter and good-humored imprecations. The old stationmaster crouched like an animal trainer behind his counter, his mouth working silently, his spectacles glimmering, as he tried to placate constant besiegers who demanded an explanation for the delay. He shrugged, he shook his head, he threw up his hands, and looked about him helplessly. Men fell over luggage on the dirty floor, cursed, laughed or kicked aside the portmanteaus and bags. The young Army lieutenant, momentarily discouraged, surveyed the dazing movement in genteel bafflement, for it was apparent that he was a gentleman among men who were certainly not gentlemen. He had been taught good-will by his mother and his mentors, and he struggled to maintain it, keeping a reserved but friendly half- smile fixed on his boyish mustached face. But his expression was becoming haunted. The flag at his right hung limply in the suffocating and noxious air. The two windows of the depot were open but no cool breeze entered. After a little Joseph could endure it no longer and he went out on the platform and looked down the tracks which were silvered by the moonlight. Here, at least, there was the cleaner smell of steel and cinders and dust and warmed wood and rock. The lights of Wheatfield glimmered dimly in the distance. The moon rode in a black sky seemingly without stars. Occasionally the platform vibrated as clots of men exploded from the depot to look down the tracks also, to speak to each other in loud excited voices, to joke, to brag, and then to rush back inside as if something of stupendous import was going on in there. At last Joseph became aware that someone had been standing silently beside him for several minutes and would not move away. He ignored the presence, continuing to stare glumly down the tracks. He was very tired after his long day, and he knew he would have a miserable ride to Titusville, and he was becoming afraid that if he were not vigilant there would be no room on the train for him. He was thirsty. He had seen a pail of water on a bench and a chained tin cup attached to it but he shuddered at the thought of drinking from it. Light spilled through the window nearby onto the platform. Joseph kept just to the rim. "Got a lucifer, mister?" the presence asked at last in a very young voice. Joseph did not turn. "No," he said in his usual short fashion when approached by strangers. A small fear came to him. Had he been followed after all? It was this fear and not mere curiosity which made him cautiously move his head a little and glance sideways through the corner of his eyes. But what he saw reassured him. The presence was smaller than he, and infinitely more shabby, even ragged, and it was only a boy about fifteen years old, a boy without a cap or hat or coat, and very thin. He had a starveling appearance but not one of degradation nor had he spoken with the sniveling importunity such as the very poor affected. His whole appearance and manner were astonishingly lively, even gay and lighthearted, as if he were perpetually happy and interested and cheerful. Joseph, accustomed to the bland anonymity of the Anglo-Saxon appearance in Winfield, was surprised at the elfish face which hardly rose to his shoulder, a dark face, almost brown, the great black eyes gleaming through thickets of girlishly long lashes silken and glimmering, and the electric mop of vital black curls and the prominent "hooked" nose. The undisciplined and obviously uncombed hair spilled over the low brown forehead, over the cars and rioted over the scrawny nape and straggled in vibrant tendrils against the thin flat cheeks. A pointed chin with a dimple, and a smiling red mouth, added reckless gaiety to the impudent face, and white teeth shone eagerly between moist lips. "I don't even have a cheroot or a stub," said the boy, with actual glee. "I just wanted to talk." His voice was light, almost as light as a girl's, and faintly and exotically accented. He laughed at himself. But when he saw Joseph's truculent expression and his cold, half-averted ironic eyes, he stopped laughing though he continued to smile hopefully.
"I just wanted to talk," he repeated. "I just don't want to talk," said Joseph, and turned aside and studied the rails again. There was a little silence. Then the boy said, "My name's Haroun. You goin' to Titusville, too?" Joseph's mouth tightened. He debated a lie. But this strange boy might be on the same train and he would appear foolish or a suspicious runaway or a criminal in flight. So he nodded his head. "Me, too," said Haroun. Joseph permitted himself to glance swiftly at that remarkable young face again. The boy was encouraged. He gave Joseph a very large smile. "You can make lots of money in Titusville," he said. "If you've got a mind to, and I don't have nothin' else to put my mind to so I am goin' to make money!" He laughed joyously and Joseph, to his own amazement, felt his face move into a smile. "I can say that, too," he said, and was again amazed at himself. "All I got in this world is six bits," said Haroun. "All I make is two dollars a week in the blacksmith shop, and a bed in the hayloft and some bread and bacon in the mornin'. It wasn't bad, though. Learnt how to shoe horses and that's a good trade, yes sir, and you can always make a livin' at it. I'd'a saved money from that two dollars but I had my old granny to take care of, and she was sick and there was medicine, and then she died. God rest her soul," added Haroun with no melancholy in his voice but only affection. "Took care of me after my people died, here in Wheatfield, when I was a little shaver, washin' clothes for the quality folk when she could get work. Anyway, she died, and she's buried in potter's field, but I think like this: Where does it matter where you're buried? You're dead, ain't you? And your soul's gone off someplace but I don't believe up in any heaven as my granny told it to me. Anyway, after I bought my ticket today I've got six bits until I can find work in Titusville, or maybe Corland." The recital was so artless yet so explicit and so full of confidence and inner surety that Joseph was reluctantly intrigued. Here was one who totally loved life and believed in it and found it blithe, and even Joseph in his youth could recognize the soul which was not only indomitable but lighthearted. Haroun permitted himself, without resentment or uneasiness, to be inspected thoroughly by Joseph's small eyes which were like bright blue stone between the auburn lashes. He even seemed amused. Joseph said, "How far do you think you can go on six bits?" Haroun listened acutely to his voice. "Hey, you're a foreigner, too, like me, ain't you?" He stuck out his small brown hand frankly and Joseph found himself taking it. It was like hard warm wood in his fingers. "Where you from?" Joseph hesitated. His associates at work in Winfield had known him as a Scotsman. Now he said, "Ireland. A long time ago. And you?" The boy answered, shrugging eloquently. "Don't know where it is, but I heard it was Lebanon. A funny place, near Egypt or maybe it was China. One of them places. What does it matter where you're born?" Joseph, the proud, looked at him coldly then decided that one so ignorant deserved no rebuke but only indifference. He was about to turn finally away and into the depot to escape the boy when Haroun said, "Hey, I'll share my six bits with you if you want to." Joseph was freshly amazed. He looked over his shoulder and halted and said, "Why should you do that? You don't even know me." Haroun grinned whitely and the great black eyes laughed. "It'd be Christian, wouldn't it?" and his voice rippled with mischief. "I'm not a Christian," said Joseph. "Are you?" "Greek Orthodox. That's what my folks were, from Lebanon. That's where I was baptised. Haroun Zieff. I was only a year old when they come here, to Wheatfield. My Pa was a weaver, but he and my Ma got sick here and died, and so there was just me and granny." Joseph considered him again, half-turning. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asked. "Do you tell every stranger your whole history? It's dangerous, that it is." Haroun stopped smiling, and though a deep dimple appeared in each cheek his antic face became grave. He, now, studied Joseph. His full red lips pursed a little and his long eyelashes flickered. Then he said, "Why? Why's it dangerous? Who'd hurt me?" "Best to keep your own counsel," said Joseph. "The less people know about you the less harm they can do you." "You talk like an old man," said Haroun, kindly and with no rancor. "You can't sit around all the time and wait for someone to knife you, can you?" "No. Just be prepared, that's all." Joseph could not help smiling a little. Haroun shook his head violently and all his curls fluttered over his head. "I'd hate to live like that," he said. Then he laughed. "Maybe nobody ever hurt me bad because I didn't have anything they wanted." One of the young soldiers sauntered out on the platform, taking off his forage cap to wipe his wet forehead. He saw Joseph and Haroun and brightened. He said, "You men want to join up? Looks like we're going to have a war." "No, sir," said Haroun with much politeness, but Joseph showed only contempt. "Pay's good," said the soldier mendaciously. "No, sir," repeated Haroun. The soldier peered at him with suspicion, at the dark face and the mass of black curls. "If you're a foreigner, you can get to be a 'Merican citizen quick," he suggested after he had decided that Haroun, though obviously dark, was not a Negro. "I'm already American," said Haroun. "My granny made me one, couple of years ago, and I went to American schools, too, in this here town, Wheatfield." The soldier was doubtful. Haroun's appearance made him namelessly uneasy. He turned to Joseph who had listened to this exchange with harsh amusement. Joseph's face and manner appeased the soldier. "How about you, sir?" "I'm not interested in wars," said Joseph. The young soldier flushed deeply. "This country's not good enough for you to fight for, is that so?" Joseph had not fought since he had been a young lad in Ireland, but the memory of combat made his fists clench in his pockets and the hair at the back of his head bristle. "See here," he said, keeping his voice quiet, "I'm not looking for a quarrel. Please let us alone." "Another foreigner!" said the soldier with disgust. "Whole country's getting overrun with 'em! The hell with you," and he went back into the depot. Haroun looked after him, shaking his head merrily. "Only doin' his duty," he said. "No call to make him mad. D'you think there'll be a war?" "Who knows?" said Joseph. "Why should it matter to us?" Haroun stopped smiling again, and his young face was suddenly enigmatic. "Don't anything matter to you?" he asked. Joseph was startled at the pcrceptiveness of one so young and he retreated in himself. "Why do you ask that?" he said. "That's impertinent, I'm thinking." "Now, I didn't mean anything," said Haroun, spreading out his hands in a gesture Joseph had never seen before. "You just don't seem to care, that's all." "You are quite right. I don't care," said Joseph. A group of bellowing men erupted onto the platform and they glared up the tracks and cursed futilely. They were very drunk. "Won't get in 'til noon, now!" one bawled. "And got a derrick to deliver 'fore that! Ought to sue the railroad!" They returned in a sweaty rout to the depot. Joseph followed them with his eyes. He said, as if to himself, "Who are all these people?" "Why, they're prospectors-oil," said Haroun. "They're going to Titusville to stake out a claim or buy land around there and start to drill. That's what you're going there to work for, ain't you?" "Yes." Joseph looked at Haroun fully for the first time. "Do you know anything about it?" "Well, I heard a lot. There's not much work in Wheatfield, with the Panic, and people don't even keep their horses shod right, and I'd like to make more than two dollars a week," said Haroun, cheerful again. "I aim to be a millionaire, like even-body else who goes to Titusville. I'm going to drive one of them wagons with nitroglycerin, and when I get a stake I'm going to buy a drill myself or go into partnership with somebody, and take options on the land. You can do that, if you can't buy the land, and be sure nobody around Titusville or even Corland is selling out his land right now! You take options, and if you strike oil then you give the owner of the land royalties. I heard all about it in Wheatfield. Lots of men going there now, to work in the oil fields. Some of the men in the depot already struck it rich, real rich, and they're here to buy more machinery cheap, and hire help. I'm already hired," he added, with pride. "Seven dollars a week and board to work in the fields, but I'm going to drive the hot wagons. That's what they call 'em." "They let a young lad like you drive those wagons?" Haroun stood up as tall as he could, which was not very tall. The top of his head reached only to Joseph's nostrils. "I am almost fifteen," he said, very impressively. He is not even as tall as Scan, thought Joseph. "I been workin' since I was nine, but I've had five years of schoolin' and can do my letters and figures right well. I'm no greenhorn." Now, to Joseph's surprise, the black eyes were wise and shrewd as well as straight in their regard, but they were not hard or malicious. There was a deep maturity in them, and an awareness without wariness, a pride without mistrust. All at once, to his own confusion, Joseph felt a thick warmth in his throat and the sort of tenderness he experienced when he saw Scan. Then he was frightened at this humiliating assault on his emotions by a mere unimportant stranger, and alarm made him want to retreat. Suddenly there was a howling and clanging and ringing and grinding on the rails, a clamoring like an outbreak of furious metallic madness. A huge and blinding white eye roared out of the darkness around the bend and the rails trembled and so did the platform. Joseph could hear the rattling of coaches, the hiss of escaping steam as brakes were applied, and there was the train to Titusville screaming towards the depot, the squat black engine dwarfed by the gigantic smokestack which was retching smoke and fire into the night. The engineer, in his striped cap, vigorously pulled the whistle, and the unbearable sound pierced Joseph's ears and he put up his hands to protect them. Now the platform was boiling with masses of men, all shouting and blaspheming and struggling and carrying bags. Haroun pulled Joseph by the arm. "Get over here," he shrieked over the noise. "Second coach stops right there, and you'd better move smart." He left Joseph for a moment for the side of the door where he had deposited a small cloth bundle and rejoined the older boy immediately with the air of a protector and a guide and a man of the world. He had darted like a cricket, and for a moment or two Joseph thought that he had resembled one, and Joseph saw the small thinness of bare wrists, and bare frail ankles above broken boots. Again he felt that weak degrading twinge which he could not understand. The strong adult men exploded in masses towards the coaches and the two thin youths were no matches for their strength. The men thrust them aside and boiled into the coaches, kicking and pushing Joseph and Haroun in the process and banging them with their heavy luggage, and cursing them as they struggled to board the train. Joseph found Haroun clinging desperately to his arm and he restrained the angry impulse to shake him off. Once Haroun fell to his knees, punched in the back by a swearing brute of a man, and Joseph felt instinctively for his truncheon. Then he knew that neither he nor Haroun would be able to board except by extreme and punitive measures, so he pulled out his truncheon and literally beat his way through the masses, his young arm flailing. Some of the men fell back, howling, and Joseph pulled his companion through the narrow passage between heavy bodies and helped Haroun to climb the narrow steep steps. The train was already snorting for departure. The coaches were loaded now with seated and bawling and laughing men, and the aisles were crowded and smotheringly hot. There was no place in the coaches for Joseph and Haroun, though men continued to push by them to try to enter the coaches and then clot about the open doors, which could not be shut. Joseph was panting. He muttered, "God damn them." The sleeves of his greatcoat were torn. He had lost his cap and his russet hair spilled all over his head and nape and cheeks, and he was wet with sweat. Haroun was sallow with pain. But he tried to smile. His breath was heavy and painful and he was holding his thin back in the region of his kidneys, where he had been punched. "Lucky we got this far," he said, "thanks to you. What's your name?" "Joe," said Joseph. The train started with a lurch. The two boys fell against the rear wall of the coach ahead. They were marooned on the sliding platform between the coach ahead and the one behind. An attempt had been made to overcome the danger to those standing on the platform, a new invention over the coupling and its pin: two moving plates of metal which met occasionally then slid back with the movement of the train. The plates were slippery, and Joseph had to cling to the handhold of the coach ahead. Haroun leaned against the rear of the coach behind, his face running with cold sweat, his breath loud and wheezing and irregular, his feet holding to the moving plate under them. But he still smiled with admiration at Joseph. "You got us aboard," he said. "Never thought we'd make it." "We may be sorry we did," Joseph grunted. "We'll have to stand out here all the way to Titusville, I am thinking." Then Haroun uttered a desolate cry. "My bag! I dropped my bag. Now I got no clothes!" Joseph said nothing. He clung to the iron handhold of the open coach ahead. He must shake off this importunate boy who had apparently decided to adopt him. He would only hamper and make demands and intrude his friendship and so weaken him, Joseph. He looked into the coach, but there was no longer even standing room. Heat and stench poured from it, and the effluvia from the one latrine at the end. The men were all smoking. The lantern light was misty and swaying, and the noise was intolerable. Joseph saw clouded heads wreathed in smoke; smoke billowed along the greasy ceiling. lie saw broad shoulders bending and moving and swaying in unison and always he heard the roar and tumult of voices. The coach following was no better. But despite the discomfort the men were hilarious and rowdy and Joseph knew now that there was no greater excitement and joy and cheer than that surrounding the hope of money and the possession of money. "My bag," wailed Haroun. Wild with impatience Joseph looked down at the dangerously sliding plates, and the narrow opening between them as they slid. "You shouldn't have dropped it," he said. The passage was open to the night and wind and soot and cinders and smoke