“I needed something less convulsive than an upside-down horseback adventure every night of my life,” said Maud. “I crave tranquillity.”
“We seem to crave that as we wind down,” said Quinn.
“Winding down has nothing to do with it,” said Maud in miffed tones. “I’m winding neither down nor up. The problem was boredom and physical torture. I’m sure my body has suffered more than Mazeppa’s.”
“She was a tapestry of black and blue,” said Gordon.
“A tapestry,” said Quinn.
“I had to wear long sleeves and high collars,” said Maud.
“What a shame,” said Quinn.
“It was punishment without sin,” said Gordon.
“I hope you were well paid,” said Quinn.
“I loathe money,” said Maud.
“My romance with money is enough for both of us,” said Gordon. “That’s why I took her over.”
“I hardly think I’ve been taken over,” said Maud.
“You shall be,” Gordon said with a smile.
Maud then decided not to practice her reading and said nothing for the rest of the ride.
When he entered the bazaar Quinn experienced a rush of black wisdom and felt himself moving toward the crags of a new nightmare. This was irrational and he knew it. Tension rose in his throat and chest. He followed Gordon’s lead, walking beside Maud, threading himself through handsomely dressed crowds, breathing in the bright and busy oddness of this peculiar building: a sudden upthrust built in two weeks and designed in the shape of a double Grecian cross.
They walked beneath the elevated orchestra stand, from where a waltz by Strauss energized the evening. Arches festooned with flowers and evergreens led Quinn’s eye to booths celebrating England, Ireland, Russia, Schenectady, Troy, Saratoga. Hundreds of flaming gas jets imposed brilliance on the bodies below, which exuded in their finery a light and power that for Quinn paralleled the luminous battlefield dead. Irrational. Quinn knew it.
“It’s a veritable palace of Aladdin,” said Gordon. “And all these fair ladies, why, they seem like the nymphs and graces of mythology.”
“By and large, dumpy and frowzy,” said Maud, who explained that one of the graces was really doing public penance by working here since her husband was in jail for selling horseshoes to the rebel army.
Gordon ignored Maud’s remark and led the way to the Curiosity Shop, explaining that they would see Myles Standish’s pistol, carried by Myles on the Mayflower and purchased by Lyman Fitzgibbon after his genealogist discovered a link between Myles and the Fitzgibbons.
“It’s merely on loan from Father,” said Gordon. “Not for sale, by a long shot. A curiosity of history, as they say.”
Quinn looked at the pistol, wondered how many savage breasts its power had pierced, then moved along to the writing bureau owned by George Washington, upon which George had signed Major André’s death warrant. He saw Madison’s cane, Lafayette’s pistol, Grant’s autograph, and the Bastille model (made from the Bastille’s own stone) that Lafayette had presented to George Washington. Such lovely revolutions. Such a grand Civil War. We must not forget how they are done. He noted a pair of leather shoes that had been made for Union troops by prisoners at the Albany penitentiary. Five hundred and six prisoners were busy making the shoes. Half of their number were Negroes.
Then Quinn saw and quickly found focus on handwritten words in a locked cabinet, under glass, difficult to read: “. . gradual abolishment of slavery within their respective limits. . the effort to colonize persons of African descent. . upon this continent. . all persons held as slaves within any state, or designated part of a state. . shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free. .”
Quinn read the related sign explaining that one might, for one dollar, purchase a ticket and perhaps win, and thereby own forever, this document donated by the President to the Albany Bazaar, and described as the
ORIGINAL DRAFT
of the
PRESIDENT’S FIRST
EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION
dated September 22,1862
Whereupon Quinn fumbled in his pocket for a dollar and purchased a ticket from one of the nymphs.
Maud took Quinn’s arm and said, “I must show you something at the Saratoga booth,” and Gordon, noting this, followed in their wake. Crossing the transept Quinn sensed an easing of his tension at the touch of Maud the cynosure. Then he saw Will Canaday standing by the Irish booth and he felt a surge of joy at the convergence of the two people he valued most in this life, and he moved Maud toward the Irish booth. When Will saw them he grasped Maud’s hand and kissed her cheek; then he embraced Quinn, neither of them speaking.
“You didn’t say you were coming home,” Will finally said.
“I wasn’t sure until I actually got on the train,” said Quinn.
Six years had passed since Quinn last saw Will, who was more stooped than Quinn had ever seen him, and walking with a limp. He had always carried a handsome walking stick but now a stout cane supported his steps.
“What happened to your leg?” Quinn asked.
“Aaah, they knocked me around one night and shattered a bone.”
“Who did?”
“A few of the boyos. I didn’t know them.”
“The Society?”
“It could have been. I’ve all sorts of new enemies as well, and they didn’t identify themselves.”
Will’s reputation for being the scourge of the city had not abated since Quinn left Albany in 1858 to test out New York and expose his soul to other than clement weather. He left with an invitation from Will to write anything he pleased, and so he had, until he hired on at Greeley’s Tribune. Even then, Will reprinted all that he recognized as coming from Quinn’s pen.
“And yourself,” said Will. “Are you well?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Quinn.
“I’ll introduce you here tonight. You’ll say something about the war, I understand.”
“I don’t think so,” said Quinn. “I have nothing to say.”
“Then no one else on earth does, either. It can be brief. Everybody here knows your name.”
“I’m not up to it, Will.”
“You’ll do it. People need the war’s reality.”
“They do? You can’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“I’m the wrong choice. I wouldn’t know reality if it knocked me down. And it did.”
“Just a few minutes will do,” said Will. “And how are you, Maudie? You look thunderously beautiful.”
“I wanted to show Daniel the Saratoga booth, and our old friend.”
“Oh yes,” said Will, “our friend.” He looked at his pocket watch. “We’ll be ready for your reading in about five minutes. Are you doing the Keats?”
“Yes, and I may also do Scott,” said Maud.
“Scott is always a pleasure.”
“Perhaps ‘Lochinvar.’ ”
“Splendid,” said Will, and he winked at Maud.
Will left them then, and Quinn saw what had been shielded from view by Will’s presence: a photograph of General McClellan framed in marble, and beside that a huge morocco-bound Bible donated to the booth by Mr. R. Dwyer, superintendent of the County Idiot Asylum. Quinn moved closer to a large framed photo of a military unit and saw it was the Irish brigade, led by Bart Connors from Wexford. Quinn had ridden with them for two days and told a bit of their story: wild men all, daredevil heroes their superiors thrust into lost or impossible causes. Using a steady supply of replacements off the boat, the brigade recapitulated the fate of ancient Celtic warriors: they went forth to battle but they always fell.
At the Saratoga booth Quinn found the usual antiques and art objects, as well as photographs and sketches of the great hotels, the ballrooms, the long porches, the ladies in promenade, the parks, the springs, the pines. What was new to him was a sketch of jockeys on racehorses, and an excited throng rising in the grandstand of the new racecourse that was opening this week.