Yes, yes, thought Joseph, and he was moved almost beyond bearing, and again he was frightened that he could be moved and involved in anything which did not immediately pertain to him. Then he felt an unfamiliar exultation, for it seemed to him that if a small nation could still find a voice to express its gallantry and its inextinguishable faith before might then he, Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh, was unthreatened so long as he did not surrender. Like Poland, he too could face God and shout defiance. Now he forgot the girl sleeping above him and was swept away on the great tidal wave of sound, immersed like a helpless swimmer in pounding billows and sudden crests of light. He heard thunder, then the grave voice of reverence, then sweetness and tenderness, then something which tugged at him like an immeasurable sorrow, forgotten but now awakening. He did not hear the surges of applause between the selections; he just waited for the noise to subside and the music to soar out again, himself dazed, drugged with emotion, in a turmoil of voiceless feeling. He had never heard a nocturne before but now he saw moonlight on the black silk of still water, and stars trailing radiance in their passage. To him this was not music at all. It was a supernal holiness which he struggled to deny, because he feared it, but its beauty held him even as he fought it. Now the pianos swept into the Largo, op. 28, no. 20, and the solemn majesty was almost more than he could endure. Then it was intermission. Mr. Montrose nudged his elbow as the gas chandeliers began to fill the auditorium with illumination. Mr. Montrose then rose and full of murmured regrets he gently edged his way past Joseph and others in their seats and walked slowly and with a musing expression up the aisle, producing a cheroot as he did so. Joseph waited a few moments until others in the row rose also and edged into the aisle and he followed them in the renewed hubbub of laughter, greetings and happy chatter. A young lady or two looked at him with half-smiles, as if expecting recognition, for they saw he had distinction and height, but he only slightly bowed as he had seen Mr. Montrose do and went up the aisle at a casual pace. But everything appeared unreal to him, disturbed, moved from its place, and without reality, and again he was frightened. The coachman and the carriage were waiting outside even as the audience spilled in swirling rainbow colors onto the stones for a cooling breath of fresh air. Mr. Montrose was nowhere in sight. Joseph went as inconspicuously as possible to the carriage, and the coachman closed the door behind him. As he expected, Mr. Montrose was already there. Mr. Montrose said, "I prefer just the piano, and not the embellishments we heard tonight from the other instruments. It makes for a little gaudiness, a little too much emphasis. Still, the pianists are very gifted and were not submerged in the concertos as I was afraid they would be. Chopin has enough intrinsic power to dominate even fretwork and demolish it." Joseph said, "I never knew it was possible," and Mr. Montrose nodded, not condescendingly but with understanding kindness. He said, "I think you would like Beethoven, or, better still, if I judge you right, Wagner." The streets were not so crowded now. The carriage began to clatter and clop its way through narrower streets and darker ones, and the houses became smaller and dilapidated with little yellowish glimmers at the windows, and there was a noxious smell and a hollow emptiness and fewer and fewer people. Eventually even these dwindled and what few men there were seemed to skulk and the buildings were blind and the lamplight became feebler and there was an odor which haunted Joseph but which he could not immediately recognize. Finally it came to him. It was the odor of the sea, and Joseph clearly saw an ashen winter morning of snow and wind and black docks and oily water, and felt again the almost forgotten dread and despair and hopelessness. Mr. Montrose reached across Joseph and locked the carriage door without a comment. At last Joseph could hear the ocean, itself, and he could see distant flickering lanterns moving restlessly, and long deserted streets and bleak and faceless warehouses all about him. The wheels and the horse's hoofs raised noisy echoes in this dark silence and desertion. Mr. Montrose reached under his coat, loosened the flap on his holster, and, seeing this, Joseph also did so. He felt the sudden tightening of his abdominal muscles, the sudden bristling of the hair on the back of his neck, a sudden light cool sweat, and his breath came faster and lighter. He was vexed to see that Mr. Montrose had not quickened at all and that he was completely calm and that he continued to smoke placidly. I may be dead soon, thought Joseph, and so may he, but he appears not to care. Yet, he enjoys every day he lives. Finally, at the end of this street Joseph could see the black glitter of water and a forest of masts and dully lit piers and wharfs, and he could smell tar and hemp and wet canvas and fish and sodden wood and the stench of the sewers of the city emptying into the sea, and then, on a whiff of wind, strange exotic smells like spice, like ginger or pepper. He saw prowling watchmen with lanterns, great huge brutes of rough men, moving everywhere, and well-armed. The sky was as black as the water, and a cold white moon stared down on the land and the water and sent icy splinters of sharp light over the slow ripples and slower waves. As the carriage rumbled forward several watchmen approached, holding lanterns high, and scowling, but when Mr. Montrose leaned forward so they could see him they touched their caps and retreated. The warehouses appeared to lean closer over the narrow street. The cobbles glistened as if malodorous melted fat had been poured over them, and the wheels of the carriage occasionally slithered.
Chill humidity made everything drip as if rain had just halted. The carriage turned on the docks, past clusters of great and small vessels, some with their sails raised, some with empty masts, and all the ships heaved and bobbed and splashed, and feeble lanterns gleamed from wet decks. There was an air of desertion everywhere. Then Joseph saw, beyond the harbor, out at sea, shifting light and dim shadowy forms of large vessels. "Federal patrols," said Mr. Montrose, as if commenting on nothing significant. An occasional ship spewed black smoke and the smell of burning coal on the air, and at intervals vessels moved away from piers in a quiet that was sinister. Yet Joseph became aware, in spite of the quiet, that here was an intense busyness and commerce, both of war and peace. The carriage stopped. Joseph saw the bow of a large clipper, and, in the lantern light which fought the darkness on the deck, the name Isabel. The sails were already up. Joseph heard, rather than saw, the activity of many men aboard, for figures could hardly be discerned. They were loading huge cartons and crates from this wharf, which was covered rather than open, and larger than other wharfs they had passed. The grating and squealing of iron-wheeled vehicles seemed suddenly very imminent on the dock. The open doors of the wharf were immense, and were capable of admitting two large teams of horses and their wagons side by side. Dollies and great carts could be seen inside, being heaped with the material to be loaded. Mr. Montrose nodded with satisfaction. "They have worked fast. Another half an hour, and we will be ready." He was about to get out of the carriage when he saw a military patrol smartly moving on the dock. A young officer approached the carriage and saluted. Mr. Montrose smiled at him genially, and opened the window and showed him the copy of the clearance which Colonel Braithwaite had given him, the original of which was in the hands of the captain on board. "We are going on the clipper to Boston," he said. "Is it a good night for sailing, Captain?" The captain was obviously a lieutenant, and he saluted again. "A good night, sir," he said. "Are you, and this gentleman, the only passengers?" "Indeed, yes. Our first journey to Boston. I am afraid it is going to be rigorous." One soldier held up a lantern to scrutinize Joseph. "But," said Mr. Montrose, "as representatives of Barbour & Bouchard, we must do our duty to aid in the war, must we not?" The young man saluted again, and he moved off with his troop. Mr. Montrose and Joseph left the carriage and now Joseph could hear the booming and echoes of the activity on the wharf, the banging and shrieking of protesting wheels, and the figures of stevedores working rapidly. The wharf inside was nearly empty now except for a few enormous crates at least eight feet high and almost as broad. A wide ramp led up to the lower decks of the clipper, which was dancing lightly on the water. The wharf was lit by many lanterns hanging from the high ceiling or set on waiting crates and boxes. No one challenged or appeared to notice the two men who entered through the door. Joseph was conscious of sharp cold and the intensification of many smells, most of them unpleasant. Flags fluttered from the masts of the Isabel. Water slapped, heard even above the activity on the wharf and the decks.
Suddenly a tall young man approached them and Joseph's first thought
-from his reading of sea stories-was that here was truly a pirate in the great tradition, a true brigand and murderous adventurer. He was not more than thirty-seven, tall and lean and as lithe as a panther, and he walked with the same grace and economy of movement as did Mr. Montrose. He was obviously the captain, from his uniform and his cap, and he had a narrow dark face, so dark that Joseph at first thought he was either Negro or Indian, and black shining eyes as predatory as an animal's, a great nose and an almost lipless mouth. He had a controlled but reckless air, and he looked at Mr. Montrose with smiling affection and removed his cap. His black hair was thick and curling and unkempt, and he extended a dark thin hand to the other man and he shook Mr. Montrose's hand warmly. He hesitated only a moment, then he put his hands on Mr. Montrose's shoulders in an embracing gesture. In spite of his somewhat casual uniform and his intimation of enormous strength-very daunting
-he was obviously a man of breeding as well as deviltry and courage. "I have news for you!" he exclaimed. Then added, as he saw Joseph, "Mr. Montrose. Great news." "Excellent, Edmund," said Mr. Montrose. He turned to Joseph. "Edmund, this is my new associate, Joseph Francis. Mr. Francis, Captain Oglethorpe." Joseph had detected, in the captain's slow speech, the same soft accents he had heard in the voice of Mr. Montrose. The captain bowed ceremoniously. "Happy to have you aboard, Mr. Francis." He gave his hand to Joseph, and his eyes vividly ran over Joseph's face and body like the flash of a knife in lightning. Then Joseph knew that here was a man at least as dangerous as Mr. Montrose and as ruthless if not more so, and he guessed that killing was not beyond him. Yet he had such a gay dark appearance, such a zest, that Joseph was intrigued as well as wary, and he knew that his first impression had been correct. Captain Oglethorpe was, in soul at any rate, a pirate and a brigand, utterly without mercy when necessary, and totally without fear. He carried no weapons, as if his own power were enough for him. Joseph saw that his eyes were restless and mirthful and very intelligent and piercing, and that nothing was unobserved by him. After his brief and in someway frightening survey of Joseph, he turned to Mr. Montrose and nodded. "I dismissed the extra men fifteen minutes ago," he said. "They were good workers. These remaining are our regular crew. We will leave on the hour, with no delay." He looked with smiling satisfaction-it seemed he was almost always smiling-at the scurrying men. His large white teeth I glittered in his dusky face. "No trouble at all, Edmund?" asked Mr. Montrose. "None." Joseph noticed that he did not speak to Mr. Montrose with the word "sir." He spoke to the other man as an equal. "The clearance from :our friend came here promptly four hours ago." Mr. Montrose inclined his head. He stood on the littered wharf, out of It place here in his elegance. "Mr. Francis, Edmund, has expressed some : suspicions of our friend, whom he had not seen before." "Oh?" said the captain. He turned again to Joseph and again scrutinized him. He said, "May I ask why, sir?" Joseph said, "I don't know why. There was something about him which made me suspicious. I may have been wrong." The captain considered. He accepted one of Mr. Montrose's cheroots it it with a lucifer, his lively face somewhat thoughtful. He said, "I I: like first impressions. They are usually true. Still, we have the clearances. I There has been only one inspection, crate number thirty-one. It required I special tools to open. I invited the military inspector to open others, but he declined. We then went on board for a little refreshment." He turned again to Joseph. "Was there anything in particular, sir, which I alarmed you about our friend?" "His lack of courtesy to me, a stranger, an employee of Mr. Healey." The captain raised thick black eyebrows, which met above his nose, and Iglanced at Mr. Montrose, who nodded. "I never dismiss a man's intuitions," said the captain. He looked at the huge remaining crates. "It may le best to move at once, before midnight." "Is that possible?" "I will see. I will go on board again and watch the loading. My men are orking very fast but perhaps I can induce them to work even faster." le paused. "Will you and Mr. Francis go to your quarters now, Mr. Monte? They are comfortable, as you know." "If you are going aboard again, Edmund, Mr. Francis and I will remain :re until the last crate is loaded. I prefer to be easy in my mind. Too, I tiould like Mr. Francis to become familiar with our-operations." The captain smiled, as always, saluted and walked with his easy and Riding rapidity to the end of the wharf and then up the ramp to deck. Joseph, peculiarly sensitive to cold since his childhood, shivered, the wind rushing in from sea and dock was becoming bitter this early ispring evening. But Mr. Montrose smoked pleasantly and watched the men. looked with interest at the monolithic remaining boxes and crates, annon," he said. "This is a new invention of Barbour & Bouchard, far superior to conventional cannon.
It is said they will kill twenty men to the others' five, and can bore through a yard-thick wall of brick as easily as a knife through bread. Better still, the balls shatter very prettily, and each fragment is as deadly as a bayonet, sharp as a razor. I believe they stole the patent from their British colleagues." "Is the Union receiving the same cannon?" asked Joseph. "Certainly, my dear Mr. Francis. That was a very naive question. Munitions makers are the most impartial of men, the most neutral, the most undiscriminating. Their business is profits, and you must have learned by this time that profits are what make civilization possible. Not to mention the arts and the sciences, and amenable politicians." He smiled at Joseph. "I am sure you have read of that German madman, Karl Marx, a bourgeois and an idealist-the bourgeoisie can afford to be idealists, not having to sweat for a living, they living on profits. Karl Marx is against profits, except for an elite elected by himself. As for others, he is violently against profits, alleging they are the source of exploitation and all human misery. I believe he is also against the industrial revolution, which freed men from the serfdom of powerful rural masters and the overweening aristocracy. But then, theorists like Karl Marx have tremendous respect for the aristocracy and inherited wealth. They are only against new wealth, out of industry. They, in their hearts, fear and despise the working class, no matter how they extol it, as does Karl Marx. The working class threatens such as Karl Marx, and when one is threatened one has a way of coming to terms with the threateners. It is very interesting. At any rate, Karl Marx would prohibit profits on anything. All would belong to the proletariat, he says. But in his heart he means the State, of which he and his kind would be the masters. What a tyranny that would be! He and the aristocracy, together! "But, I digress. Remove profits and you remove incentive, and barbarism results. It is human nature to work for rewards. Even animals do so. Men are not angels. They will not, unless they are saints or insane, work for anything but their own advantage, and that is sensible. Without rewards the work of the world would come to an end. It is as simple as that. We would be individually grubbing for roots and berries and hunting raw meat, as once we did eons ago. If I were a lawmaker I would insist that every idealist, every lofty bourgeois, work with his hands at a desperate living, in field and mine and factory, before he even wrote a word or uttered one in 'behalf of mankind.'" Joseph listened intently, now unaware of the activity about him and the emptying wharf. Much of what he had just heard appeared to him eminently logical, and he could not deny the truth of it. But he said, "There are, though, inequities." Mr. Montrose shook his head at him indulgently. "Mr. Francis, I never knew of a superior man, an intelligent man, who wanted for bread, and I say this despite the tales of artists in garrets and starveling geniuses. While they are indulging their art it surely would be sensible of them to work for a living also, at least for their daily sustenance." Joseph thought of his father who had refused to work as a millwright in England, and so had permitted his family to suffer destitution. He had spoken of "right" and "principle." But only men who have independent means can indulge themselves in such nonsense. Men, thought Joseph, like Karl Marx. He became aware that only two huge boxes remained, to his right, and that the wharf was empty but for himself and Mr. Montrose, and two workmen who were pushing dollies up the ramp. Mr. Montrose had wandered away. He was inspecting, with interest, the innocent proclamations on the crates, and their destination in Boston and in Philadelphia. He was hidden from the doors of the wharf, and smoking idly. Only Joseph was visible from the doors. The lanterns on the ship at the end of the wharf were dancing and hoarse faint calls came from the decks, at a consider- ' able distance. The wind was keener, and the smells of the harbor more insistent. Joseph shivered again. His and Mr. Montrose's leather cases stood aside, near one of the crates, shining brownly in the shifting light, their fine brass locks gleaming like gold, incongruous in that rude open space and on the dirty floor. He heard a sudden sharp sound of running feet outside, and then in the doorway appeared an Army lieutenant and three civilians, roughly dressed, with bestial faces. Mr. Montrose had heard also, and he thrust his head and half of his body beyond the boxes. Joseph saw that the lieutenant held a double-barreled pistol in his gloved hand, and that the civilians held rifles. Joseph became as still and as rigid as stone as he saw three weapons directed at him, and one at the shoulder of Mr. Montrose. Murder had brightened, as if by a superior light, the faces of the lieutenant and his thugs, and every feature shone with an evil radiance. The lieutenant, a young man with a fair complexion and with waves of golden hair under his cap, said in a very clear and quiet voice: "We don't want any trouble. Quick, if you please. Step back from those cases with your arms raised, Mr. Montrose. We want the money in those cases." His air was compact and businesslike and he showed no nervousness. "The money?" said Joseph, in a bewildered voice. "No nonsense, please," said the lieutenant in his disciplined accents. "Colonel Braithwaite wants it at once. Your rooms were searched after you left to dine. There was no money case left behind. If you please, sir"-and he stared at Joseph-"kindly kick those cases towards me. We are not jesting. If you do not obey you are dead men." He glanced swiftly at Mr. Montrose. He said, "Step back, Mr. Montrose, with your arms raised above your head.