Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

Fool, he murmured. Bloody fool. Just a dream. Only a dream.

WOLFF CHECKED INTO the Algonquin on West 44th Street, a quiet room at the rear of the hotel with discreet access to the fire escape, comfortable enough for a few days, too expensive for Christensen. They’d crossed from the Jersey City side together but parted at the ferry terminal. Father Nicholson was staying at a Manhattan church house, Christensen in Harlem with ‘a friend’ who, to judge by his sly smile, he was expecting to pay in his usual way. Ever mindful of Casement’s holy cause, the priest had undertaken to arrange a meeting with Irish leaders at once. But for a few hours Wolff was free to stride along Broadway, relishing the June heat and his own company, craning up at the office buildings with an engineer’s eye. From blinding midday sunshine into shade, a canyon street of skyscrapers alive with the noise of the motor car, monumental, brash, full of inexhaustible optimism. Let the old world tear itself apart, the new century belonged to America. His spirits had lifted as the Rotterdam passed through the Narrows, Liberty on the port side, Manhattan dead ahead, teetering at the edge of the bay like a sailor’s sweetheart in high heels, changed beyond recognition since his last visit — or was that the impression the new Woolworth Building made on the skyline? Like sloughing necrotic skin — Christensen, his palm always open, the priest with his righteous prattle, Violet, the Bureau, all the refuse of the teeming shore he’d left, and if it was only an illusion — after all, wasn’t he here with his own poison? — well, for as long as it lasted it was welcome.

At Wanamaker’s he bought some light shirts and was measured for a summer suit, then he visited a barber for a haircut and a shave, to emerge an hour later with a new face, a new name, no longer Mr de Witt with his short Dutch ‘ v ’ but an American with a long city ‘ w ’. By then there was a late-afternoon breeze on Broadway and a fresh urgency in the step of office workers that anticipated the end of the working day. Wolff took a cab to the corner with Chambers Street and walked at the same businesslike pace across the park to the post office. In its cool hall he wrote a short note to a Mr Spencer in London, queued at the counter, paid for the postage and watched it drop into the bag. A little further along Broadway, he visited the Western Union office and sent another by messenger to Mr Ponting at the Yacht Club.

By the time he got back to the Algonquin it was half past five and Christensen was fidgeting impatiently in the lobby. Where had Mr de Witt been? They must hurry, it was arranged for that evening: the priest was going to meet them at 51 Chambers Street — ask for Justice Cohalan. He was on edge in the cab, keen to ingratiate himself, complimenting Wolff on his clean shave. ‘You know, there’s a lot I can do here,’ he added plaintively. ‘I know New York… I could help you, help in your… work.’ Perhaps they could meet later, a meal or a drink, he knew a bar where there were — and he leant across to whisper behind his hand — girls. His breath smelt of beer and fish. Wolff sighed. Ah, Adler, you know you don’t have anything to offer here but your silence and you’re in too deep for that to be worth more than a few dollars. It was always difficult saying ‘goodbye’ to the Adlers. ‘I don’t want to go back to Berlin,’ he explained as the cab came to a halt, ‘not yet… Tell them that, won’t you…’

‘Why don’t you tell them yourself?’

Number 51 Chambers Street was a new limestone skyscraper in the beaux arts style, paid for by interest earned on the savings of two generations of Irish emigrants. Above the vast banking hall where tellers behind bronze grilles counted thousands in and out every day, were several floors belonging to Holy Mother Church. With her special dispensation, Justice Cohalan occupied rooms on the tenth. ‘He’s a passionate fellow for a lawyer,’ Casement had said; ‘a fine man, knows everyone, and close to Devoy.’ Veteran republican, friend of Parnell, jailbird and journalist, gun runner, foreign legionnaire, implacable enemy of the British for more than half a century: ‘Devoy is Irish America,’ Casement said; ‘he’s the one you must explain things to.’ They were Roger’s delegation, the collective voice of his reason: priest, prostitute, spy. Comic and yet strangely appropriate, each of them represented something particular of the man. The part that the spy had rehearsed promenading the Rotterdam was loyal friend and businessman.

Father Nicholson greeted them in the lobby. ‘It’s most of the executive of Clan na Gael,’ he said, hunting round anxiously for an ashtray. ‘I’ve given Sir Roger’s letter to Mr Devoy already.’ He filled the elevator with incense and sweat. There were a dozen of them round a boardroom table, heavy, middle aged or elderly, distinctly Irish in the self-conscious way of the American exile, all of them men but for a young woman in her early twenties who was there to take the minutes and was pretty enough to draw Wolff’s eye. From the head of the table, Justice Cohalan spoke a few cool words of welcome and indicated that they should take the empty chairs at the bottom. How was Sir Roger faring? he asked, broad shoulders wriggling uncomfortably; they had read his letter with concern. Concern was written deeply in his remarkably long face. He was a tough-looking man who might have made his living with a pick and a shovel. Wolff’s gaze wandered round the table as the priest spoke of Casement’s hopes for the brigade, of its spirit, of its new green uniform, of the need for more young Irishmen to fight alongside ‘our brothers’. Nicholson spoke with passion — more perhaps than he managed on a Sunday — and they listened with the respect they would offer any priest, but with no warmth. There was a long silence when he finished, only the scratching of the secretary’s pen.

‘He doesn’t seem himself, you know…’ Cohalan observed at last. ‘Disappointed, angry even, at least that’s what I read in his letters.’

Nicholson said he thought Casement was in good spirits. But short of money, Christensen chipped in. Sir Roger wasn’t able to stay at the best hotels and didn’t eat like a gentleman.

‘Like a gentleman, you say?’ John Devoy leant forward, turning his shaggy grey head to stare menacingly down the table at them.

‘He has expenses,’ Christensen ventured nervously. ‘The grand circles he must be in… some costs… clothes…’

Devoy snorted sceptically.

‘…clothes…’ Christensen repeated, nonplussed.

The priest came to his rescue. ‘He lives very modestly, Mr Devoy, but he must put our case to the German leaders, their Chancellor and high command.’

‘Father, we’ve sent him six and a half thousand dollars — he’s no reason to complain,’ replied Devoy, softly spoken, distinctly Irish, too old to mince his words.

Cohalan patted his arm. ‘He’s out there dealing with these fellas on his own, John, it’s a tricky business; they’ve larger fish to fry than us… You’ve been very quiet, Mr de Witt. What do you say? You’re here to speak on Roger’s behalf, aren’t you?’

‘Before he does, I’d like to know who he is,’ Devoy remarked, and there was a murmur of assent round the table.

Wolff reached lazily into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, took one out and rolled it lightly between his fingers. ‘I’m a private man, Mr Devoy. Roger Casement trusts me because he knows me.’

‘He says in his letter you fought the British in South Africa with MacBride.’

‘That’s right, Mr Cohalan…’ Snap. His lighter burst into flame; ‘…but that’s no sort of bona fide, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m here to present Roger’s view, to answer the questions I can — my past is none of your business.’ He paused again to remove a strand of tobacco from his lip; ‘if you don’t respect Roger’s choice I have no business here—’