The oldest and most privileged of the city’s old-guard clubs was located at 1301 Walnut Street. It was the club to which the most elite members of Philadelphia society belonged, and by education and social standing, John Jackson would have been considered a shoo-in for membership.
But on this day, shortly after he lost his job with the Pennsylvania Freight Brokerage, he was sitting in the outer sanctum of the club. He had been denied any deeper penetration into the building because that was reserved for members only, and he was not yet a member. He had every intention of rectifying that, however, and had applied for membership, having acquired all the necessary sponsors and recommendations. He was now waiting for the results.
He was reading a newspaper, but all the while keeping an eye on the door that led into the inner sanctum, looking for Morgan Phillips, who was his sponsor.
The expression on Phillips’s face told John all he needed to know.
“I’m sorry, John,” Phillips said by way of beginning. “But I have put your name in for membership three times. I’m afraid the rules of the Philadelphia Club are quite specific. You have been blackballed three times. You are not eligible to have your name submitted again.”
There was no specific reason given for John’s being blackballed. But John knew that it was not necessary for any reason to be given. It was sufficient reason for him to be denied entry in the club if even one person made the arbitrary decision that he didn’t want John to be a member.
“I’m so sorry, John,” Phillips said, apologizing again.
John went directly from the Philadelphia Club to Ye Olde Ale House, where, despite its name, one could also buy whiskey. And that’s what John did, bought several whiskeys. It didn’t take him too long to get drunk, and the drunker he got, the more generous a tipper he became. As a result he had at least three of the ladies at the bar hanging on his every word.
“Fired! I was fired from a job any moron could do, but I can’t do it anymore because I was fired,” John said.
“Honey, any man who would fire you is a fool,” one of the young women said.
“Yeah, he musht be a fool,” John said, slurring the words. “The very idea not lettin’ me join their club. Well I din’t want to be in their damn club in the firsht place. All it is, is a bunch of old stuffed shirts sittin’ around a fireplace talkin’ real quiet so’s the devil doesn’t find out where they are ’n come get ’em.”
“Join their club? Honey, I thought we were talking about you gettin’ fired,” one of the girls said.
“My own father.”
“Your own father fired you?” the first girl asked.
“Or wouldn’t let you in the club?” a second girl asked.
“No. He’s an Episcopal priest,” John said, filling his glass and tossing it down, neat.
John was two days sober when he stepped up onto the wide, columned porch, and pulled the cord than hung alongside the door. He could hear the bell reverberating through the house. The home belonged to Swayne Manning, and it was one of the largest and most stately mansions in Chester Hill, one of Philadelphia’s most elegant neighborhoods.
The butler answered the doorbell.
“Hello, Morris,” John said as he started to step inside.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Morris said, moving to block John. “But I have been asked to prevent you from entering.”
“What? Morris, what are you talking about? What do you mean I can’t come in? Is Lucinda here?”
“Miss Lucinda is not receiving, sir.”
“Why not? Morris, is something wrong? Is she ill? Has she been in an accident? If so, I must see her.”
“No, sir, nothing like that, I’m glad to say. She asks that I give you this letter.”
Morris handed an envelope to John, who recognized at once the very small, but exceptionally neat penmanship of Lucinda Manning. He recognized it because she had sent many letters to him during the war.
“May I come in to read it?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid not.”
“Morris, you know damn well that if I really wanted to come in that there is no way you can stop me.”
“Yes, sir, I am well aware of that, Mr. Jackson. But it is my hope that you will be gentleman enough not to force your way in where you are not wanted.”
“I’m not wanted? Is that what the letter says?”
“I have no way of knowing what the letter says, sir. But, as I say, I have been asked to deny you entrance.”
“Yeah,” John said. “All right.” He turned away from the door, then drove off. He was at least a mile away when he stopped, then opened the letter.
Dear John,
This is a difficult letter for me to write, but I have been thinking of it for the entire year since you returned from the war. You have asked me many times when I would consent to marry you. Here is my answer.
I will never marry you. I know it is something that we had planned on, and though we were going to get married as soon as you graduated from college, it was you who suggested that we put it off until after the war. Of course at the time, neither of us realized how long the war would be.
I waited for you throughout the long war, I was faithful to you, and I maintained a correspondence. But I think now that you were right in suggesting that we wait, because the John Jackson who returned from the war is not the John Jackson I fell in love with.
I think it would be best, John, if we not see each other again. I wish you all the best.
Fondly,
Lucinda
Old Main Building
“Yes, the way you are describing John Jackson is certainly indicative of someone with traumatic shock,” Professor Armbruster said. “I imagine that losing his job, and his fiancée, could well drive him to come west to lose himself in the mountains.”
“Yes, but he didn’t come west right away,” Smoke said. “It was another four years before he showed up in the Rockies.”
“What did he do during those years? Did he stay in Pennsylvania?”
“No,” Smoke answered. He chuckled. “He joined the French Foreign Legion.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris, France—April 1867
It was a brisk day in mid-April and John stopped out front, and looked at the sign on the outside of the building.
OFFICE DE RECRUTEMENT MILITAIRE
DE LA
LÉGION ÉTRANGÈRE FRANÇAISE
He was met just inside the door by someone in the uniform of a noncommissioned officer.
“Bist du gekommen, um die Französisch Fremdenlegion?”
“I beg your pardon?” John replied.
“Oh, you are English. I thought you were German.”
“I am American.”
“American, you say? And you have come to join the Foreign Legion?”
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
John debated over whether or not to give him his right name, then decided that he may as well.
“John Jackson.”
“Your name is Jean Jourdain,” the noncommissioned officer said.
“John Jackson,” John said, speaking his name a bit louder, thinking perhaps the sergeant hadn’t heard him.
“Non. Here, we will give you a new name. Your new name is Jean Jourdain.”