Captains and The Kings by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A

fixed hardness of the young face, and the freckles that seemed to protrude on the white cheeks, and the mouth that was as firm as stone, and as implacable. Joseph reached him and stood before him. "Well, and you must tell me," he said, and his voice was the voice of a man who can endure. "And is it my Dad?" '"Yes," said the priest. He patted Scan's cheek and piteously smiled. "It's a good boyeen, this," he said. "He will not cry while Joey and I speak together." He fumbled in the pocket of his frayed habit and brought forth an apple and held it high, and Scan looked at it with wonderment, his mouth opening. The priest put it with a flourish in Scan's hands, and the little fingers stroked it with awe, and puzzlement, for he had never seen an apple before. "It is good, Scan," said Father O'Leary. "Eat it slowly. It is sweeter than honey." Scan stared at him and then at Joseph, and clutched the fruit as if in fear that his brother would take it from him. The priest said, "I bought it on the wharf, for Scan." His old voice strived for lightness, and pride. "Fifty cents, and that would be two shillings, I am thinking, for it is not the season and it was in gilt paper." He showed Joseph the paper but the boy said nothing. The priest stood up, and then he staggered with weakness and he bowed his head as he caught at the edge of the upper bunk to steady himself. Only yesterday Joseph would have helped him, but now he held himself away, and stiffly, as if he feared he would shatter and this was no time to shatter. "Come," said the priest, and led the way down the deck to the end near the door where they could have a small privacy. Once there Joseph said in a rough voice, "You did not see my Dad." "No," said the priest. He lifted his head and his dim eyes were filled with tears. Joseph considered him without pity or emotion. "You saw my Uncle Jack," said Joseph. "It was him I saw, on the wharf." "Yes," said Father O'Leary. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He studied the floor. Then he reached into his pocket again and brought out a crumpled green bill. "Two dollars, almost half a pound," said the priest. "It is all your uncle could spare." He pushed the money into Joseph's hand. Joseph leaned against the door and folded his arms across his bony chest. He surveyed the priest with what the old man knew for cold hate and revulsion. "And my Dad?" he said at last, when the priest did not speak. The priest's mouth shook, and he squeezed his eyes together. "You will be remembering, Joey," he said in a very low voice, "that your mother, before she was taken, and after she had received, looked beyond us and cried out to your Dad, as if he were there, and she smiled and died with a smile of joy, recognizing him." He paused. The coughers had begun again, drearily. Joseph did not move. "You are telling me, I think, that my father is dead, too?"

The priest spread out his hands humbly, but could not meet the boy's stare. "I believe she saw his soul, and he was waiting for her," he whispered. "It was a joyful reunion, and you must not grieve. They are safe with God." Now he looked at Joseph and what he saw made him wince. "It was two months ago, Joey. He died of the lung fever." I must not think, yet, thought Joseph. I must hear and know it all. "I believe he came for her, with the Mercy of God," said the priest. Joseph's white mouth twitched, but it did not lose its fixed sternness. "And my uncle, Father?" The priest hesitated. "He has married, Joey." "And he has no room for us." "Joey. You must understand. He is a poor man. The two dollars he sent you is a sacrifice. This is not a land of gold at all, at all. It is a land of bitter labor, and the worker is driven like cattle. It is all your uncle can do for you." Joseph chewed his underlip and the priest wondered at his impassiveness. The lad was young, and an orphan, and he was unmoved. Joseph said, "Then I need not spend the fifteen dollars to come back to New York from Philadelphia.