OSWALD IN NEW YORK
Oswald awakes early upon his first morning in New York. The significance
of present surroundings dawns upon his mind. He is in the metropolis of
that country about which so much had been written, told, and dreamed.
What vistas of destiny since that protest and affirmation received the
sword's decisive arbitrament! With what sense of opportune occasion
these two kindred nations are surely drawing toward that "modus
vivendi," tentatively flexible, yet more potential, responsive, and
insistent than treaty covenants, "triple alliances," or proscribed
"spheres of influence."
But how capricious fate's fast-loose antics with individual destiny!
Not with complacent retrospect and cleared prospective does this
intensely impressionable Englishman stand at the threshold of a new
world's view.
That complex web remains intact, the dead lifts unavailing hands,
justice is laggard, while the name of Langdon shrinks from pending
odium.
Springing up, he soon descends to the hotel office. After breakfast he
writes that promised letter. Not knowing anything of Sir Donald
Randolph's present address or plans, Oswald writes him at Paris.
Being very curious as to the Lanier affair, and to avoid delay, he
addresses copies to Calcutta and to Sir Donald's Northfield station. The
letter is brief, announcing his safe arrival at New York, intention to
remain until some report comes from Sir Donald, and explaining that
similar copies will be mailed to each of places named. He would mail and
receive all letters at the general postoffice. No reference is made to
the Laniers, as he knows Sir Donald will not need such reminder.
That day Oswald remained at the hotel. The notes of a trained orchestra
charmed his musical sense, while sight of superbly clad, richly
bejeweled hotel guests was interesting diversion.
Next morning he dined at a restaurant near the corner of Thirty-third
Street and Broadway. Taking an elevated Sixth Avenue car, he rides to
Park Place, thence walking to the postoffice and mailing his three
letters. This important move now made, he is ready for sight-seeing.
Standing by the statue of that young patriot whose life was so freely
offered upon Freedom's altar, Oswald marveled at such unselfish
infatuation as found voice in words:
"I regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."
Crossing to other side of Broadway, he narrowly escapes collision with
an electric car. From the irritated conductor comes:
"Well, chump, you are just off of grass!"
This cheerful compliment is followed by another, more pointedly
suggestive, from a wag who calls out:
"Indade yez a bloody jude from owld Loondin, but yez betther moind yer
own way, or the polace will copper yez shoor!"
For a few moments the "modus vivendi" is much strained, but Oswald
quickly recovers his self-control, and slowly strolls down street,
pausing at St. Paul's Chapel.
Having read the chiseled memorial of that American officer who fell in
attack upon Quebec, Oswald passes on, turning at Trinity Church into
Wall Street.
When at the corner of Nassau, he stands for a few moments in front of
the Sub-Treasury Building, looking up at the statue of America's first
executive.
This heroic figure is fitting impersonation of successful revolt against
oppressive exactions.
Oswald's sense of antithesis pictures in somber background that doomed
spy hurried to his fate, and another swinging, strangling shape
expiating through hangman's device the proven crime of "high treason."
Such diversions are not conducive to cheerful reverie. His spirits droop
lower under the clammy handicap. Memory of those greetings from petulant
conductor and guying wag again intrudes.
Oswald is nearly opposite the Custom-House when just before him that
newsboy shrieks:
"All about the murder of a young girl! Body found in the river! Police
on track of the murderer!"
Tragic memories of those eventful years, augmented by petty, suggestive,
yet meaningless recent affronts, shaded by somber-hued reveries, congest
about the center of Oswald's sensitive consciousness at the parrot-like
yell of a child.
Thought that past concealments and identity known, he now is closely
trailed by New York police for the crime of Paul Lanier rouses Oswald's
fighting temper to fierce heat.
There is no doubt that under such momentary emotional pressure this
guiltless fugitive then would have incurred homicidal accounting by
resisting to the death any attempted arrest.
Little Jack's fright at that awful stare was natural.
The scared newsboy again resumes his stereotyped yell at corner of
Nassau and Wall Streets.
Oswald had turned back, intending to procure a paper and learn about
this reported murder. Returning to Trinity Church, he sees the boy,
farther down on opposite side of Broadway, waiting pay for copy then so
tenaciously gripped by that careful old financier, who had insisted upon
assurance of positive "rigor mortis" as condition precedent to purchase.
Oswald starts across in direct line to where these are standing. At
sight of Oswald, little Jack, speedily waiving payment, cuts across
Broadway, down Exchange Alley, where he jostles reveries of that
brass-buttoned official, and, through official duress, pilots him back
to the street. Here Michael Patrick O'Brien hastily fits Jack's
description of Oswald to that dazed old man, whom he pompously arrests
and valiantly escorts toward "Old Slip" police station.
At a distance of a few rods, Oswald had watched the whole proceeding,
and followed, curious to learn cause of the arrest.
Sight of that "willanous-lookin' rascal" still trailing him causes Jack
to sidle over Broadway, and ignoring Michael's loud command, disappear
at the next crossing.
Oswald concluded that there must be some mistake about this arrest. The
man's conduct had appeared void of all criminal intent. The boy seemed
to shun Oswald himself, through some unaccountable aversion. Probably
the policeman's zeal had caused a serious blunder. The little fellow's
strange scare, with hasty, ill-advised official action, resulted in
arrest and possible detention of this harmless old gentleman.
Oswald paused to reflect. Why should he concern himself, in a strange
land, about such an affair? This mistake soon would be righted. For
Oswald to show any interest or make inquiries, might lead to
complications. What if he should be required to testify? His real name,
former home, and antecedents might be asked. These must be given or he
would be committed for contempt. Better not to meddle with this matter.
Oswald boards a Broadway car and gets off at Thirty-third Street. Going
to his room, he ponders over the incidents of that morning absence.
Recollections of his conduct are not pleasant. The experiences were
annoying, but only his own action seems blameworthy. In some way he was
responsible for the circumstances leading to arrest of that feeble old
man, yet made no explanation or protest. What an initiative in a new
world was such selfish, unfeeling discretion! Why hope for exalted aid
in his own troubles, while shirking opportunity to help the helpless?
Oswald left the hotel, returning to corner of Wall Street and Broadway.
Inquiring of a shop-keeper, "Where are persons arrested in this
neighborhood taken by the police?" he receives the answer:
"To police precinct station No. 2."
Going there, Oswald asks about an old man, that morning arrested on
Broadway, near Trinity Church.
No such prisoner had been brought to that station.
He learns there will be a session of police court that afternoon at the
new Criminal Court Building. The prisoner will be there for arraignment.
Oswald takes the elevated train to Franklin Street, goes over to this
building, and awaits opening of that afternoon's session.
Looking about the court-room, he sees that same innocent-appearing old
chap, still expostulating with his stern captor, who soothes him with
the assurance:
"Yez will warble a different chune at Sing Sing!"
Oswald decides to await the court's action in this case before making
any explanations. Possibly no interference may be necessary. He
observes that the newsboy is not present.
For over two hours Oswald listens to the proceedings of this tribunal.
The docket is cleared of many trivial cases, and more serious matters
are sent to the Special or General Sessions.
All this seems strangely offhand and informal, but he reasons that such,
being of daily occurrence, sentimental scruples are in natural abeyance.
Michael Patrick O'Brien is signaled by a court official, steps proudly
forward, and makes an explanation of his morning's prowess.
With skeptical smile the magistrate looks at that felonious, would-be
kidnaper of a juvenile innocent, and asks for the boy.
Michael explains little Jack's sprinting performance, adding:
"It was ivident, yer honner, that the skeert child feart that owld
vilyun more than the noime of the law."
Just then an officer who had been on duty near the South Ferry stepped
forward and cleared the situation.
"This old man is a peaceful, respected resident, living a little way
from Battery Park. He has grown sons and daughters in the city. With a
score of grandchildren making bedlam at his home, it is not likely he
would steal a newsboy."
The old man looked both relieved and vexed. This unexpected intervention
would help him out of trouble, but he preferred not being recognized in
such a role. At the station he had refused to tell his name or
residence.
With a smile, the judge said:
"Turn your kidnapper loose!"
Escorted by the crestfallen Michael, he left, returning to the station
for money and watch.
The last words Oswald heard from this diplomatic representative of New
York man-catchers were:
"Indade yez in luck to have inflooenz! It was me own resarve that yez
did not git the limits! If iver Oi nades a rickomindashun, yer noime
will head the soobscripshun!"
Oswald learned that in the vicinity of this arrest, Broadway was the
dividing line between police precincts Nos. 1 and 2. Having been
arrested on the east side of Broadway, the old man was taken to precinct
station No. 1, or "Old Slip."
Michael Patrick O'Brien was not a member of the regularly appointed city
police force. He was a special, this being his initial exploit.
Oswald viewed numerous objects of interest while awaiting that letter
from Sir Donald Randolph. Though aware that through uncertainty of Sir
Donald's stay at any particular place there might be prolonged delay,
he feels sure that when his letter is received, answer will be prompt.
Often is felt unutterable loneliness. There is nothing like immense
crowds of strangers in a strange land to make individual segregation
absolute.
At times only that image-something, somehow, from somewhere, reflected
into recesses of his consciousness, avails against childish fretting and
petulant protest. From outer or inner depths, occasionally come
suggestive glimpses and assuring voices.
The first Sabbath after his arrival in New York Oswald attended church.
Not since that Northfield visit had this son of a clergyman heard a
sermon or prayer.
The familiar ritual of the Episcopal Church is not used, yet responsive
chords vibrate to some mystic touch. The church is plain and music
faulty. In pulpit utterances there is nothing strikingly trite or
profound. The preacher has none of oratorical gifts. Oswald cannot
account for his own interest. While those imperfectly sharped and
flatted notes are sounding, he wonders if that peculiarly adjusted,
harmonious Sense, quickening at scream of seagull or roar of ravenous
beast, would not miss these poorly pitched tones more than Gabriel's
highest or Creation's ever-echoing oratorio.
Listening to doctrinal directions as to ceremonial observances radically
differing from other beliefs, Oswald thinks of the big-hearted Father,
tenderly amused at zeal of His children in their many ways of seeking
that coveted smile.
Despite these surroundings, the morning's moods had been so comfortable
that in the evening Oswald attended services at one of New York's
prominent churches, where he listened to grand music by a skillful
choir, and a scholarly sermon from an able preacher.
But the emotional key ranged capriciously.
A good-looking assistant, in dictatorial tones, told the world's Helper
what was expected. The choir sang well a hymn, the burden of which was
expressed in oft-repeated phrase:
"Save Thy servant who trusteth in Thee."
Oswald found himself wondering if there ever were any real need for such
prayer. Loss of one such trusting, faithful soul would drape the stars
in blackest bunting.
After the reading of scriptural selections, a slim, consumptive-looking
youth, with a sympathetic, long-range voice, exquisitely sang a solo,
the most effective part of which was:
"O Israel, He redeemeth thee."
From recollections of Bible accounts, Oswald thought Israel required
frequent redemption, though that apostrophized by the impressive
exclamation was neither exclusively nor peculiarly Semitic.
The preacher's theme was "Overcoming the World."
Though the subject was ably and eloquently treated, that listener found
his ideas ranging at various angles to those of the speaker. It seemed
so characteristic of venerable manhood to dwell on old heroes whose
exploits impressed youthful fancy, so hard to canonize any person whom
we had met and understood.
In commenting upon great deeds of famous men, the nearest approach to
present times was the preacher's reference to George Washington.
During the week Oswald had been reading about conspicuous actors in the
American Civil War, and still more recent history of the Republic.
Martial dreams had been renewed. While those ancient notables were being
paraded before that congregation, others more recent posed upon Oswald's
"boards."
Tall, lank ghost, thy patient, kindly brow marred by assassin's lead!
Mighty warrior shade, bearing upon thy tense, heroic face traces of
Mount McGregor's pain! Thou from Atlanta march! Thou from Winchester
ride! Thou from Mentor Mecca, thy glazing orbs lighting with boyhood's
longing for ocean's trackless wave! And ye mighty hosts of marching and
countermarching nineteenth-century worthies, witness bear to worth of
your most thrilling times!
Still that sermon was very well prepared, and doubtless met the
preacher's critical approval.
It ought not to be expected that this able divine gauge his expressed
thoughts by fancies of an erratic youth under abnormal, emotional
pressure.
Gazing at some of those richly attired communicants as in elegant
carriages they were driven homeward, Oswald wondered if it were easy or
hard for such to "overcome the world."
Though shunning the forming of any intimate friendships, Oswald longed
for that sympathy which comes from human contact. Watching the exchanges
of mutual good-will between many, he envied their freedom from his own
restraints. At times even effusive flutterings of social butterflies
seemed rational compared with such hampering reserve and forced
discretion.
Oswald was an omnivorous reader, but never could restrain his interest
to set pace of the author's art. In this haste many little touches of
sentiment were overlooked, but strong points were quickly grasped and
held by a tenacious memory. His waking hours were occupied mostly in
sight-seeing and in this rapid process of book and paper assimilation.
As in his perusal of American military exploits, which revived boyish
fancies tempered by maturing thought, so sentiments appealing to lapsed
memories and living pictures that suggested even profiles or silhouettes
of once familiar views took on new significance and transfigured tints.
The second Sunday after Oswald's arrival in New York he attended morning
services at St. Thomas' Church, and afterward strolled over to Central
Park. He is seated near the statue of Alexander Hamilton. While
pondering over the tragic fate of this "great secretary," Oswald failed
to notice an elegantly dressed gentleman who in passing stared
inquiringly. Looking up, he sees a familiar face smiling in questioning
surprise. Claude Leslie grasps Oswald's extended hand, and with many an
ejaculated "Well!" leads him to the carriage.
During Oswald's reverie, Claude, in passing, caught a view of that
handsome face which so often lighted with its fine expressions in
Himalaya camp. The carriage stops, and Claude returns to confirm his
impression. With offhand cordiality, Claude takes charge of this
interesting friend.
Though Oswald feels some embarrassment and a little doubt as to the
outcome, he can but rejoice at such welcome change. Fortunately Claude
is alone in the carriage. Explanations need not be heard by others.
Besides, Claude had shown respect for Oswald's reserve.
During their ride through the park they chat pleasantly about former
experiences. Claude asks where his friend is stopping, and suggests that
when convenient he would like to show him the sights. However, he will
not intrude on Oswald's time, except when agreeable.
"I have all the time there is, but you may have your own plans."
That evening Oswald accepted an invitation to dine at his friend's
elegant apartments. There were no other guests.
Claude learns that Oswald will not object to limited acquaintance with
congenial people, and likes seeing objects of local interest.
They mingled quite freely with prominent male residents, and met not a
few popular local celebrities of the gentler sex.
Though having no hint as to the nature of Oswald's troubles, Claude was
most considerate. When shielding his friend from possible
embarrassments, there was such apparent offhand frankness that for the
time Oswald forgot former stresses. Even Claude's silences or evasive
replies to questions about his friend's past life seemed casual
inadvertence or preoccupation.
Claude Leslie had easy entree to both business and social circles.
Oswald attributed gracious greetings and cordial welcomes to Claude's
tact.
Doubtless he owed much to this source, but his own chastened manners,
refined, brilliant conversation, suggestiveness of romantic interest,
and good looks, were the most potent factors.
Among male acquaintances then formed were some prominent in business and
politics. Oswald met young men who were social favorites in exclusive
circles. Some of these soon afterward won robust renown at Las Guasimas
and upon the slopes of San Juan.
Oswald's pensive reserve made him an interesting enigma to social
belles. Claude jokingly remarked:
"It is evident that this Englishman is not seeking matrimonial alliance
with any 'Gotham' heiress."
In explanation of his friend's occasional preoccupied, listless
irresponsiveness, Claude said:
"Perhaps there is a continuing infatuation across the Atlantic."
One day Claude proposed that Oswald, as his guest, accompany him on a
sight-seeing tour of the Western States. This was just what would have
most pleased Oswald but for that expected letter from Sir Donald
Randolph.
He every day looked for a reply. Oswald could not think of then leaving
on a prolonged trip.
Expressing gratitude for the invitation, he declined, assigning his
daily expectation of important news from England.
Claude excused Oswald, adding, in pleasant banter:
"I hope congratulations soon will be in order, but bring her to New
York!"
To this Oswald responded with a sadly suggestive smile.
Next day, at the Grand Central Station, these friends parted.
Oswald greatly missed Claude Leslie's congenial society and contagious
enthusiasm. That expressive face became familiar to general-delivery
mail-clerks, who could tell the non-arrival of expected letter, yet
carefully looked, for his better assurance.
In this extremity Oswald seeks the society of an Italian guide, who as
protege of Claude Leslie often piloted these friends through parts of
"darker" New York.
From the first Oswald felt an interest in Marco Salvini. This grew with
each meeting. Though much pleased, the guide often responded with looks
of blank wonder. Claude Leslie had noted this capricious favor, but
regarded it as an out-growth from Oswald's peculiar temperament,
influenced by self-inflicted social reserve. But these marked attentions
soon suggested to Claude a cause more significant. The guide's likeness
to that bandit who died in Himalaya camp was most striking. It seemed
that this sentimental Englishman yet felt compunction for that fatal
shot.
After Claude's departure, Oswald's fancy again reverts to this Italian.
Going to neighborhood of "Five-Points," he calls at proper number, but
gets no information, except that Marco Salvini has been away two days.
In front of "Five-Points House of Industry" he pauses to reflect.
A new sensation of dizziness is felt. Oswald braces against the brick
wall, facing "Five-Points Mission." The bewildering faintness is brief,
yet he still stands in reverie. In recent years much had been done for
this formerly depraved neighborhood. His thoughts cross the sea to an
embowered spot, near a beautiful lake, where one timidly and in
faltering accents had announced her solemn consecration to like humble
yet exalted ministry. In striking contrast appears a chafing, petulant
suitor, privately protesting against such infatuation and indignantly
railing at spiritual advisers. The sacrifice now seems more rational,
and the advice kindly considerate. Was that modestly brilliant, sweetly
fascinating girl engaged in her chosen mission?
Oswald recalls Claude Leslie's accounts of charitable deeds and gifts by
benevolent persons in support of this beneficent work among the poor.
How worthy of emulation the helpful ministries and charities of one
Gotham heiress, proceeds of whose inherited millions are finding
distribution in these and kindred lines!
Passing along Park Street to Mott intersection, Oswald meets the priest
who officiates at the church near there.
That guide had spoken of this man, and Oswald thinks here is a possible
chance to learn present whereabouts of Marco Salvini.
He is shocked to hear that two days before this Italian had been nearly
crushed to death by a car collision, and is now at St. Vincent's.
Oswald loses no time in delay. Going promptly to the hospital, he is
admitted to proper ward. Upon assurance of his friendship for the
injured man, he is permitted to remain. For a week he watches, eating
and sleeping little.
Oswald becomes ill, and is soon delirious. For a long time his strong
will had braced against the insidious disease. The fever laid sure hold
on that athletic frame, and its course was relentless.
Two days after Oswald was stricken, Marco Salvini died.
The continuous attentions of this quiet stranger at that Italian's cot
had attracted the notice and won the regard of those in charge.
From this patient there were neither confidences nor complaints. During
earlier deliriums utterances seemed held in check by that coercive will,
but as the disease wasted vital energies speech became strikingly
suggestive.
With some disregard to order of their occurrence, many tragic happenings
were reenacted during these delirious states.
Oswald is again at Northfield, along the lake, and upon the Thames. They
are now on the road from Calcutta.
"What a dreary stretch! 'So foolish was I and ignorant!'"
The scene changes to Himalaya slope.
"Lie still, Karl! I will hit him hard!"
From another room come violin strains of "Ave Maria."
Opening his eyes with a start, they settle upon the crucifix pendent
from the neck of the sweet-faced nun.
"Poor fellow! I shot too straight!"
Again he gazes on that sacred symbol.
"'Thou that takest away--takest away--away the sin of the world'--his
sin, poor fellow! Mine too!"
Staring at his upturned palm lying on the spread, he exclaims:
"See that mark? It's blood! I shot too straight."
Higher rise the notes of the violin.
Rapturously those grand eyes turn toward the ceiling.
"Look! look! Wild flowers arch the mountains! See the graves, Karl! The
clouds drop wreaths!"
There is another quiet lapse, then the patient tosses feverishly. The
weeping nun says:
"He is making a hard fight!"
In startling response comes:
"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more,
The best and the last!'"
His view seems dazzled by the lights, and the good priest suggests that
his eyes be shaded.
"'I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore
and bade me creep past!'"
For a while Oswald seems quietly sleeping, then in confused accents
mutters, and starting up, calls out:
"'Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set
And blew; Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'"
These quotations fall upon the ears of priest and Sister of Charity with
awfully solemn accents. They feel in presence of double mystery of life
and death.
There is now naught to break the impressive silence but ticking of a
clock and distant rumble of the elevated trains. No word had been
uttered by this patient giving any clew to his religious training. The
friend at whose cot this stranger so faithfully watched was a professed
believer. Too, those fixed glances at the crucifix and solemn utterances
suggested belief in the "atoning merits." Priest and nun exchange
inquiring looks, then intently gaze at that quiet sleeper.
Oswald stirs, opens his eyes, tosses feebly, and in low tones says:
"A squall! They reef the sails! A typhoon!"
After brief pause he whispers audibly:
"Dark! So dark!" Then exclaims:
"The star! the star! Mother!"
Somewhere in pulsing zone, circling this vexed human state, there is
commotion. Rock-posing Barjona, think not to question this outgoing! At
sight of inverted spike-prints echoes not yet that morning crowing in
old Jerusalem?
Faster than light, swifter than sweep of angelic herald, quicker than
aught else than Infinite quickening at human prayer, speeds the mystery
of motherhood.
Gently ministering to most intricate throbbings of that suspended spirit
consciousness, as her own had dominated embryo pulsings pending
expectant miracle of birth, each disordered beat is soothed to rest. Who
may more than hint those voices, sounding not above the din of
life--whisperings to That, not always checked by vesturing clay nor
indexed by crude registers of flesh?
Oswald lay long in this still sleep. The fevered crisis past, he slowly
returns to conscious memory. There seems no curiosity as to future
plans. When there is but slight danger of relapse, the nun who had been
present at critical stage asks his name, and suggests that he may desire
his mail brought to the hospital. This seems proper. It soon arrives.
There is only one letter, but this bears a suggestive postmark. Its
contents electrify Oswald, who hardly can restrain his joy. His impulse
is to confide the good news to that kind-hearted sister who stands
smiling at this handsome patient. Oswald checks his feelings and
remarks:
"It is only good news from England, sister!"
The nun now learns that Oswald's home is near London, and that he has
been away for years.
The rigid reserve relaxes, and he talks freely, yet saying nothing about
causes for such absence. Recovery is now rapid. The letter arrived in
New York about three weeks before its delivery at the hospital.
Not knowing anything about Oswald's past life or name, there had been no
call for his mail.
As he would not be able to take the sea voyage for several days, a
letter is sent, addressed to Sir Donald Randolph, stating the reasons
for delay in receiving and answering, with expectation of being able to
start homeward within two weeks. This had been dictated to an obliging
nurse.
The now happy convalescent hardly can suppress within discreet bounds
his longing for speedy return. Within three weeks from this date Oswald
Langdon is aboard ship, booked for Southampton.