Bold Sons of Erin by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters Read Free Book Online

Even old man Heckscher doesn’t understand. He thinks small. And that goes for Johns, too. And for Evans, your wife’s uncle. It’s all about consolidation, about concentrations now. The age of the small operator, of the family shop, is over. They’ve got the right idea up in Luzerne County, but we’re going to overtake them. Wait and see. Give me ten years, and you’ll see a changed landscape for business. Economies of scale, the efficiency of the monopoly.” His expression grew rich as a cream sauce. “We have great years ahead of us. Great decades. If anything’s holding this county back, it’s nothing but damned obstinacy.” He fingered his watch a final time—and now he paused to mark the fleeing time. “This war’s destroying the old ways of doing business, that’s the one good thing I’ll say of it. Whatever else may happen, American industry can never turn back now . . .”
    He looked at me again, as if he had just remembered my existence. “As an upstanding citizen of this county, you should want to be part of it. All that money your wife’s minting with her dressmaking business—I hear she’s taken on a third seamstress—at least put that much in the Reading. We can all grow rich together.” He stared at me intently. “If we’re not afraid to do what must be done.”
    I nodded, but only to pass the time and not in true agreement. “I did not know you were associated with the Reading Railroad,” I told Mr. Gowen.
    He smiled. “I will be.”

THREE

    AS I LEFT MR. GOWEN’S OFFICE AND CROSSED CHURCH Alley, I spotted Mr. Heckscher once again, entering the Pennsylvania Hall Hotel with his foreign companion. Doubtless, they had their midday meal in mind, for bells across the town pealed twelve o’clock, and mine own thoughts had turned from death to sustenance.
    I would have liked to take my meal at home, but there is sorry. The stove would be cold, with nothing in the pot. For my Mary Myfanwy was at her dressmaking establishment, hard at work as if she were a man.
    Now, I believe a woman must have her freedoms—we are not the Musselman captors of our brides—and proud I was of my darling’s commercial success. It kept her busy while I served our Cause. But a wife belongs at home when her husband needs her.
    I will not deceive you. The first tensions of our married life had arisen between us. Sometimes I think the world has gone topsy-turvy. Our modern age runs like a wild horse, and war whips the beast to a fury. The days grow disordered, men mock the good, and liberties are taken without asking. At times, I fear the deepest bonds will break.
    A brazier-boy sold chestnuts on the corner where I would have turned my steps, had my wife been at home. I bought a portion of the fruits, wrapped in a paper cone. They warmed my hand against the bite of the day. With age, I have grown tolike the meat of the chestnut, pungent and bittersweet. It confounds the tongue pleasantly, and the texture reminds me of certain foods of India, where I left my youth behind and more besides.
    I had a muchness to ponder as I walked amid the horse smells and the rush of delivery boys. And my thoughts were not only of the insubordination of our modern ladies. I wondered at Mr. Gowen’s ill-matched concerns. He sought to shield the Irish from outsiders, yet argued that all virtues lay with capital. Twas clear enough he wanted no part of digging up the grave with the murdered girl. But he would play his part, indeed, or I would go directly to Judge Parry, who was a man impatient of all nonsense.
    I peeled a chestnut, laid it warm on my tongue, and wondered if young Mr. Gowen knew his own mind.
    Nor could I forget that murdered girl, whose fate seemed to concern no one but me. The sudden recollection of her rottenness was near enough to put me off my chestnuts. She had not seemed a gypsy or a beggar, as Mr. Gowen suggested she might have been. Of course, I cannot claim a thorough inspection. But something was rotten in