Chapter 54
Joseph had carefully refrained from appearing with his son anywhere. Some newspapers might mutter about "The Armagh Enterprises, many of whose activities are reputedly nefarious," but they could never come out bluntly and say, "Joseph Armagh travels with his son and finances
his public appearances everywhere." No one doubted the truth, but as Joseph appeared uninterested in his resplendent son's journeys all over the country, made no telling comments - which could be adversely misquoted, gave no interviews and only smiled briefly at reporters who sometimes waylaid him, and talked publicly with no one, he could not be openly accused and pointed out and denounced. Only once did he say to a Philadelphia group of reporters: "My son, Rory? Oh, he's a born politician. I find politics dull myself, now. If our Party wishes to nominate him- after all, I believe he made a good record as congressman and senator- that is entirely in the hands of the delegates next year. No, I don't at this time plan to attend the convention. No, gentlemen, thank you. I have nothing more to say." They did not believe him, and he did not care. At least, they could not quote him. This did not prevent a number of influential newspapers from implying that millions of dollars were being spent on the senator in an effort to influence the primaries and the delegates the next year. They had suddenly become bold and contemptuous, and not with good-natured lampooning such as calling Rory "The Golden Boy" as they once had done. Lately editorials had lost their usual American humor and had turned to rough derision and vicious cartoons. Joseph was not in the least surprised even when papers who had written favorably of Rory were now expressing "serious doubts," as they called it, and some were definitely hostile. "The Circle" had begun to work. The attacks on Rory, and his father, would increase in intensity until the nominations. On the other hand various newspapers became warmer in their admiration for Rory. Two can play at this game, thought Joseph. Still, it was not something to ignore, and Joseph prepared to take action, and began to plan. The bastards had not yet taken over America completely, though time was running out. He decided that Claudia was not to accompany Rory to Boston. She was entirely too exotic for Boston ladies, after all. It was not that she was too stylish, too elaborate, or too obviously sophisticated. It was that she was too charming, though she was incapable of summoning up that charm at will. It flashed out like an enthrallment, when least expected, and dazed women as well as men. Boston ladies were a different breed. "Thank God for small mercies, then," said Rory piously to Timothy and winked. Timothy smiled at him warningly. "No high jinks this time, boyo," he said. "We will be demure and serious as all hell in Boston, and high-minded, subdued, modulated, intellectual if you feel pushed, historical always, and above everything else, the Proper Little Gentleman." "You don't have to tell me," said Rory. "Didn't I live for years among them, at Harvard, and-and in Pa's offices? I'll convince the Brahmins that I do, indeed, wash behind my ears and can sip sherry as elegantly as they can-God damn it-and my boots can be as discreetly polished. But don't forget the Irish there, Tim. A few little airs, 'The Wearing of the Green.' No, too brash, too much like Old Syrup, who dances an Irish jig on any table at the snap of a finger. How old is the old bugger now, anyway? He's got 'Kathleen Mavourneen' for his song, and I favored that for myself. How about 'Killarney?' No. Something light and haunting-" "Like 'The Band Played On?'" "Shut up, Tim. This is serious. How about The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls'?"; ' "A Harp for a Harp," said Timothy. Rory laughed, his deep ringing laugh, and Timothy would always remember it, for it was musical and manly and without affectation. "Now, that's it," said Rory. "Have posters made, strictly for the Irish section. 'A Harp for a Harp.' It's good, Tim, really good." He sang a few bars, and for some reason Timothy's bright skeptical eyes became a little dim. "The harp that once thro' Tara's Halls *The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were dead-" Rory said, "Talk about the Israelites weeping in Babylonian captivity. Every Irishman always weeps for Ireland, and his 'exile,' but damned few ever go back, do they? But it does the heart good to mourn. All warm and sad and moist inside. The Jews and the Irish are the most sentimental people in the world, but you can't fool either of them. I've found that out about sentimental people. Yes, 'a Harp for a Harp.'" "Well, just remember, even in Boston, that you are an American," said Timothy. Rory gave him a sharp quick look and his face became heavy and firm, as if the muscles had tightened under it. "Do you think for a minute that I ever forget?" he asked. Timothy was surprised, not just by Rory's expression and his question, but by something that was intangible but real, almost grim, about Rory now. The band went ahead to Boston. The proper, and satisfactory, audience was summoned to the train on which Rory rode-not his father's private coach. Men, women, and children had been given small American flags. It I was a hot August morning, glittering and pleasant, for there was a slight i cooling breeze. The band clashed and trumpeted and drummed: "The * Stars and Stripes Forever!" The greeters cheered. There were hundreds of I Irish faces there. Timothy gave a signal and the band became soft and I haunting as it played "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls." Only half the Irish greeters had ever heard that mournful and moving song, but the music was familiar to their ancient spirits and some openly wept, and some who knew the song sang it in quivering voices. And Rory stood on the steps of the train, waving his derby hat, his glorious red-gold head aureoled by the morning sun, his handsome face glowing and smiling. Timothy had seen him in that posture, with that very air and smile, on scores of occasions during the past months, yet for some reason Rory's appearance this morning was never to be dimmed in his memory. Had there been a special quality about Rory, then, a special brightening? Timothy would never be able to answer his own question. They went to a fine almost new hotel near the Boston Common. Rory had spent many years at the university near Boston. He had spent weeks every year, until he was a congressman, in his father's office in that city. Yet, since Marjorie had deserted him the city had become strange and unfamiliar to him, a photograph of a reality he had once known and now half-forgotten and which he regarded with indifference. He stood at one of the windows in his suite and looked down at the trees on the Common. They were subtly turning yellow and russet, even so soon, in a glare of sunlight, and they moved and twisted on themselves, and it was, to Rory, a spot he had never known and in which he was not particularly interested.
"Like old times, eh?" said Timothy, watching him. "Not particularly," Rory replied. He drummed with his fingers on the windowsill. He had been in good lively spirits, for he had inherited his mother's buoyancy. Yet all at once the sunlight beyond him appeared to lessen and the trees to turn cold and drab. He shook his head as if to shake a film from his eyes. He and Timothy were alone in his bedroom, but in the rooms adjoining there were the loud and excited and burly voices of politicians, vehemently disputing, some shouting, some laughing. The smoke would be thick in there, and the whiskey and gin illimitable. They had been waiting for Rory for hours, and soon he would have to go into those rooms and meet them in a hullabaloo of greetings, back-slappings, finger-jabbings, shouts, yells, cheers, rude questions, ruder jokes. Most of them were Irish, and they were in a happy mood. The door of Rory's room had a separate entrance from the hall, and he knew that stationed without there were two of his armed bodyguards, quiet watchful men who knew their duty. They irritated Rory. He was too sanguine by nature to fear danger, or objectively to accept its possibility. If an assassin went gunning for a man, that assassin got his man, even a President, and he, Rory Armagh, had not yet even been nominated by his Party. Sure and the Committee for Foreign Studies had declared their preference for Woodrow Wilson, and Rory knew that they would not stop at discreet violence if necessary. But they would first wait for the convention, wouldn't they? By that time he hoped to have had many primary victories. Then there would be time for armed bodyguards, in the event he was nominated. His changeful nature now turned melancholy. Without looking at Timothy he said, "I have the funniest feeling that I not only will never be President of this country but will not even be nominated." "What's the matter with you?" demanded Timothy, startled. "Of course you will. Your Pa is putting out millions upon millions, and he's sure enough. Don't even start thinking of failure. That's fatal. Once you think you might be licked, you will surely be licked. And no Armagh ever gets licked, does he?" "No. He gets killed," said Rory, thinking of his uncle, Sean, and his brother. Timothy stood up abruptly, and his square pleasant face, tanned by the Western sun, had actually paled. "God damn it, Rory," he said in a low tone. "What's the matter with you?" Rory himself was startled at the somberness in Timothy's voice, and he swung from the window and began to laugh. But Timothy did not laugh. He was staring at the young man whom he had tutored as a child, and\ whom he loved as a son, and his broad features were working. "What a hell of a thing to say!" he added. "What? What did I say? Oh, about Sean and Kevin. And about the nomination. Well, I can have my doubts, can't I?" But Timothy did not answer. He went, however, to the door and tested it. It was locked. He unlocked it and glanced out. The bodyguard came alertly to attention. Rory watched this with amusement, his hands in his pockets. He negligently leaned against the window. Timothy shut and locked the door. "Maybe you think I should have a nursemaid, too," he^ said. He had never seemed so elegant, so alive, so vital and masculine. But Timothy said, "You're not sleeping in this room alone. I'm going to share it with you." Rory burst out laughing. From far downstairs came the strains of "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls." The men in the ad-j joining rooms began to sing, emotionally, passionately, and very loudly. Rory shook his head, his amusement growing. His mood had changed again from that nameless Irish melancholy to gaiety. "Get me a drink, will j you, Tim, but don't let any of that mob in here yet. I want my lunch first. ' Never trust a politician on an empty stomach." Timothy, in silence, opened an inside door and instantly everything was flooded in a tide of roaring, singing, laughter, shouts, and a flood of smoke. ' Rory had a quick glimpse of churning and sweating men beyond, milling [ about, waving glasses, smoking huge cigars, and it seemed to him that \ every man was obese and every man had a hot red face with starting eyes. : It was these men, the ward heelers, the petty politicians, the chairmen of I counties, the exigent rascals, who decided who would be nominated and who would not, and not State Chairmen or National Chairmen, for all their airs and urbane smiles and plottings. Well, why not? thought Rory comfortably. Democracy in action. Long may she wave. She may stink at times, and stink mightily, but she's the best we have and probably will always be the best. Someone knocked on the outside door and Rory instinctively went towards it. He would have unlocked and opened it had not Timothy re-entered the big sunlit room, with its massive rich furniture. Timothy bellowed at him, and Rory stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Timothy put down the soda and whiskey and the glasses, drew a deep breath and said, "God damn you, Rory. Haven't you any sense? Did you think your father was playing settlers and Indians?" His face was pallid and enraged, He went to the door and roughly shouldered Rory aside, then shoved him against the wall. He was powerful, though Rory was a head taller than he. He shouted through the closed door: "Who is it?" One of the guards answered. "It's me, Malone, Mr. Dineen. Somebody sent a card up for the senator. Want me to push it under the door?" Timothy gave Rory an irate glance, for Rory had begun to laugh again. "Yes!" said Timothy. A slim envelope was slipped under the door and Timothy, grunting, bent down and retrieved it. Inside was a fine card, faintly creamy, and finely engraved. Timothy read, "General Curtis Clay- ton, Army of the United States." On the back there was written in precise wooden letters: "I beg that Senator Armagh grant me a few minutes of his time. Urgent." Rory plucked the card from Timothy's hand and read it aloud. "Well," he said. "The General, no less. What do you think he wants? Even the President's afraid of the old bastard." "Would you know him if you saw him, Rory?" "Of course I would. We've been at parties together, though never talked. I gather he thought me just a boy playing at being senator. But he liked Claudia all right, all right. Well, let him come up." Timothy put the chain on the door and cautiously opened it. He said to the bodyguards, "The senator will see General Clayton-for a few minutes." He nodded at the bellboy who was staring in awe at the obviously armed men near him. "The senator will graciously grant an audience to General Clayton- for a few minutes," Rory mocked. "Tim, that the most powerful old boy in Washington, outside of the President. When he farts bugles blow, drums rattle, armies come to attention, civilian authorities hide under tables, flags rush up poles. Even Teddy Bear runs for cover, as he wouldn't run from a charging elephant. The Cabinet quakes where he walks. He's got a Presence, Tim, a real Presence. An old warrior. And he hates civilians, especially senators who dispute his military budgets. Haven't you ever heard of him?" "Yes," said Timothy. "Now that you mention it. If he's an old warrior, as you say, why did he oppose the war with Spain?" Ron- thoughtfully bit a fingernail and raised his red brows. "Well, so he did! I'd forgotten. Teddy practically called him a traitor. Since then, though, he's put the fear of God in Teddy Bear. I don't know how. Anyone who can do that to Teddy deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor for extraordinary heroism under fire."' There was another knock on the door. Timothy opened it but left the chain on. He motioned to Rory, who could hardly keep from laughing out loud, and Rory peered through the slit. "Well, well, General!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed an honor!" General Clayton, not in uniform now, entered after Timothy had removed the chain. He watched Timothy replace the chain and then said in a grave voice, "An excellent idea, sir, an excellent idea." Then the general turned to Rory and ponderously took the younger man's hand and gave it a quick shake, military and precise. "Senator," he said briefly. Though in civilian clothes, the general could not have been mistaken for anyone but a man of discipline and order and assurance and strength. He was almost as tall as Rory, but powerful of build, if compact, and though he was in his late fifties self-control, self-restraint, made him appear much younger and very quietly vigorous. His face was absolutely rectangular, and so were his features, even the shape of his eye sockets. His hair was closely clipped, and brownish gray. He was a man of breeding, and his voice was deep and strong. Rory said, "General, my manager, Tim Dineen. Tim, General Curtis Clayton." Timothy and the soldier soberly shook hands. The general studied Timothy. He accepted Rory's offer of a drink, and he watched Rory pour it and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they ran over Rory's face and beautifully tailored suit and athletic body. He had not been mistaken, he thought. The Boy Senator was a man, suddenly a man. The general smiled again and gave Rory a small bow on accepting his glass. He sat down and ;ยป Timothy sat near him. There appeared to be a warm confidence between 'I them, a silent empathy. But Rory sat on the edge of a table and lightly swung an elegant leg and smiled sunnily. They all listened for a moment I to the increasing uproar next door. Rory said, "My boys. Pols all. They . aren't listening to each other, just to their own bawling. If they sound like \ bulls running after a cow in heat, it's just their way, General." \ "I'm well acquainted, perhaps too much so, with politicians," said the' general. "'Civilian control of the military,' as the Constitution says, and it's an excellent thing-most of the time. But now I wonder-"